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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clichd, il est film6 d partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite. et do haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagtammef suivants illustrent la mithode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 / ? "^^^-^i^i/' (\/^<^,-^^^^t-j *' "»' * ;ii'S DAUGHTER- V, -Oi av;i\)BI(>GiiAPHY. BT i 1. 8T. JOHN KOKEL. \.e ■■!* .*Si,>^ ■;■%• i,r9 ,'o." - ■ . Canticlb. -.■^*5S?V ■•• *:■•• "NEW YORK: PtJl -HBD FOR THE AuTHOR BT ■1 ^ ax THE UNITED STATES PUBLISHING COMPANY, 13 UN1VEU8ITY Place. 1876. C I "2- -7 •»■ H 3*v~-«->^^^ ''.«~j*^ .■^ ^'=^'-'t*.T™ Wve — Christ's own Memorial. The Mass 308 The Perpetual Sacrilice — Mystic Symbolism. CHAPTER LXI I. The Inquisition - 311 An Instrument of Despotism — Th"; .Spirit of the Age — Reformed Ini|uisitors — A prejvi- diced Historian — An unplilegmntic Outchman — darbling ICxtracts — An unpatriotic Spaniard — The Moors in Spain — The Pope and llic Kiuv; — Admissions of Opponents ■ — ^Thc English Ini|uisition — ^Tlie Pope interferes— A royal Machine — A Spftoisli State Church — Toleration not Sanction, atttm^mmaa X CONTENTS. CHAPTER LXIII. PAG8 I AM Born again — My new Life 326 My Christmas — " It was not all a Dream" — First Communion — My Home Devil. CHAPTER LXIV. ...,;..,-. Correcting the Incorrigible 329 A Treasure gone — Cure for a Spinster's Spleen — Confusion in the Convent — A Sleeping Witness. . i•0:.:..■^ , ■,. ;• .. ■ ..:.;., -y.-.t CHAPTER LXV. " S i A Truce with mv Arch-enemy 334 A Parley and a Treaty — ^Ine Enemy's Pity. . . , CHAPTER LXVI. Simplicity the Test of True Nobility — Jean Jacques to the Rescue 335 Good Breeding — Proud Humility — My Patience Tested — An old Story adapted — Jean Jacques' Mistake — I gain my Point. CHAPTER LXVH. - General Rollin's Idea of a "Retreat" — Madam Xavier's Anti- dote FOR Sorrow 341 A Hallowed Scen«' — ^The Abbaye aux Bois — The General Charges again — Reposing One's Hair— Farewell to St. Mand^. CHAPTER LXVIII. My Enemies vanquished — Pleasure palls — I envy the Lowly 346 Worldly Success — Conscience and Heart — Fond Memor> — ^^e iaid Beau-monde — ^The False World. CHAPTER LXIX. Mv Soul in Darkness — The Countess de Montalembert brings BACK THE Light 351 A new Departure — A new Teacher — ^Thc old and the new Regime. CHAPTER LXX. The Ladies of the Retreat — A Home oi' true Christian Charity. . 355 Another Sanctuary — ^I'he Peace of God. CHAPTER LXXL Madam Xavier braves the Spanish Commune — A wounded Heart refuses to be healed , 356 The heroic Nun — A lament. CHAPTER LXXII. A Sister of Charity in the Morning, a Woman of the World in the Afternoon 359 An «arly Visit — Lessun* to Misery— A Light to my Conscience. CONTENTS. XI CHAPTER LXXIII. PAG8 TiiE GiusTiNis —My Vow 362 An Eastern Question — A Policeman with a Heart — A Syrian Mother — The mode! Official —A mule Appeal — An irate Landlady — Evening Meditations — A bedroom Sanctuary —Faith in God — Children in the Abbey. CHAPTER LXXIV. Called to Task by Common Sense 371 My Client's Character — Faith in Bureaucracy — The Words of my Master — Advice thrown away. CHAPTER LXXV. . The Man who envied his Valet 376 I invoke the Viscount's Aid — An official Snubbing — Regrets — Regrets regretted. CHAPTER LXXVI. • '-•^' '^"— - v A hopeful Close of a bad Life 379 History of a Life — General Dix — ^An Ambassador's Sympathy— The Minister won over. .:';.•; CHAPTER Lxxvn. Church Mice — How they Nibble at their Neighbors' Characters — Is there any Hope for them ? 384 Flowers and Bread — A Lecture on Devotees — A Minister always " out " — ^The Minister's Merits — More Flowers of Piety — ^^i'he Humility of Charity — A Lay Preacher and Con- fessor — Self-satisfied Virtue — Preaching and Practice, CHAPTER LXXVHI. A Gleam of Hope 393 A Discovery — Confidence rewarded — I write to the Minister — ^The Answer. ' . CHAPTER LXXIX. $AD Memories nearly thwart my Mission of Charity — The Mar- quis de Moustier 397 " Only a Pauper "— " O ye Tears "—The Mother— At the Minister's- Pleading the Case — ^The Minister confesses— The Suit Won — A confidential Talk. CHAPTER LXXX. Espionage, a two-edged Sword — The Secret Police of Paris 405 The Prefect of Police— The Prefect's Valet— A " watchful " Servant— Braving « Spy— The Spy made useful — " Choice of Directors " — Self-reproach. CHAPTER LXXXI. Emza Amore 411 The English Girl's Grave— The hated Name— One of the " Fortunate "—A GraTe-dig^ ger's Sympathy. . IMHPt M III XU CONTENTS. CHAPTER LXXXII. ..'AGB The Triumph of a Mother's Faith 416 Sturdy llcggars — The Viscount avenged — Kaith and Gallantry — My " Director's " ap- proval. CHAPTER LXXXni. Remorse of renegade Nuns — The HEAKTLK.t.sNEss cf the Poor for THEIR fallen SiSTERS 419 Clinical Studies — Escaped Nuns — ^I'he "Virtues" of Paupers — Comparisons — Heail- sick. ■ , ' ' ' **' " , CHAPTER LXXXIV. The Dream — The Warning — Was it the Voice of God ? .......... 424 A Prayer and a Vision — A I-«tter arrives — A Warni'-'":— -Another Letter — A Frenchwoman on Divorce — ^The plea of the Children — Kind Words at parting — A I.etter which is a Sermon — M odesty. ' CHAPTER LXXXV. Defeated by a Woman, I have Recourse to God — Accibent to the Pepeire 434 "The cause of all Kvil" — Another .Sermon by post — My Friends are edified — Ovid, with a translation — " Good Society " — Beggars on Horseback. CHAPTER LXXXVI. Midnight Reflections before the Looking-glass 440 Wliy Donkeys eat 't'histles. CHAPTER LXXXVII. A Truce between Hu.sband and Wife 44P Democracy— Their Majesties and Gen. Dix. CHAPTER LXXXVni. Back in the Highlands — Aunt Huldah on Infai.libility — The much-coveted Spot my own 443 My old Home — My Brother — Was Noah a Catholic? — A Retrospect of Betsy Dot — I buy the little Cottage — French Men, American Women. CHAPTER. LXXXIX. Restitution and Retribution 449 Aunt Mercy— A Receipt in full. CHAPTER XC. The Sacrifice -. 450 0«r Lady of Victories — " I will, Ix>rd" — I keep my Word — Obedience and Sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. Montesquieu and the Jksui ts 454 A loiuit Confesiior — St. Augustine's Confessions. CONTENTh. XUl ■ ' CHAPTER XCII. • ' ■ PAr.<: Inconsistency of the Heart — I seek God's Will in His Word ..... 457 A wretched Triumph — Recollections of Prophecy — Consulting the Bible— My Director dis- approves. CHAPTER XCni. Death of the Count de Montalembert— My first " Retreat "--A SUPERNATURAL COMMAND 460 Sacred Death — An Inspiration — Mr. de Corcelles — ^The Archbishop of New Vork— "Of the same Opinion still." CHAPTER XCIV. Reason and Love— Peace to he found not in Man, but in God 466 The aching Hearts — Human Love — ^True Rest. /•• . ■ « CHAPTER XCV. ' My Doubts— God dispels them 469 Vacillation — A Bugbear from Montesquieu — One Friend at Home — Indecision — ^The Bible decides— The broken Harp. , . , '"." 't^' :'•' • CHAPTER XCVI. v..'/.' : ; /. Adieu, la France — My good little Angel 474 An Angel of Consolation — "Out of the Mouth of Babes" — "My Normandy " — "The good Shepherd " — A Vision veri.ied — Last Glimpse of France — Words from kind Hearts — Holy Words from a Statesman. ■ 3. ' '■'" '^ CHAPTER XCVn. ' ' " Escape from the Jesuits Impossible- Madam Hardey again 483 Manhattanville — A New York Jesuit — Encouragement — " Mother " Hardey. .V, /^ '-■ ■ CHAPTER XCVHI, . Il Faut trancher le mal — The "Sprats" 487 Small Fry — Unheeded Chastisements — Ichthyological Studies — ^The Same, Continued. CHAPTER XCIX. Aid fob the Victims of the Franco-Prussian War— Fernando Wood as a Prophet 491 Kind Words from France — A Frenchwoman on France — A Cry for Help — Claims oa our Gratitude— Father Hecker— The Cry heeded — Fernando Wood's Prophecies. CHAPTER C. Confirmation of my Mission to Build a Church 498 Doubts Dispelled — Silenced if not Convinced — ^Thanks from France— A Church to Sl Genevieve. CHAPTER CI. A Jksiht on tii k Tkmporai. Powku 501 ■l!^ I !• Xiv . CONTENTS. - CHAPTER CII S , *' The Good Country People " 50a A'House in the Country — " Rural Delights "—I engage a Rustic Swain— With Wife and two Children — And Mother, Cousin, Cow and Pig. '■ • ' CHAPTER CHI. A Meek Lamb, and a Lion-like Sh epherd 50'' Father Tandy — Paring the Lion's Claws— JHe Roars " Gently as a Dove." CHAPTER CIV. " ' " laferrlfere's last letter — discouraged — i am reassured by the Bible 509 The long-wished-for Letter — " Iniandum renovare Dolorem " — The Emperor — Anguish — A Day happily ended — " Our Father " — Submission to Fate. CHAPTER CV. '• ' An Exodus ....^. .*. .1'..... 516 Patience ceases to be a Virtue — ^A Microcosm in a Wagon. ' CHAPTER CVL Father Tandy's Story 519 A Chapter of Accidents — At Father Tandy's — Enmeshing the Lion — He tells a Story — ^The Moral of the .Story — It fails to convert me. CHAPTER CVII. Encouragement ai'd Despondency : The Bible bids me " not to fear" 524 I visit the Archbishop — His Grace is gracious — Success — Begging — New Strength — One true Friend. CHAPTER CVIIL My Driving Lesson 530 ~ A Race against Time — I put my Trust in Man — My confidence dashed. CHAPTER CIX. A false Light— a true Dream 533 A Friend in need — A sulphurous Light— A Dream — Father Kearney — Diverse Interpreta- tions. CHAPTER ex. Temptation — Saved by the Bible — My first General Confession. 539 Misgivings — God is a jealous Lover — A Novcna — ^Words of Mercy — ^Thdr Application — Confession of a Lifetime. CHAPTER CXL . The Efficacy of Prayer — Detachment of the Heart 545 The lame Girl's Prayer — The Crucifix — Words of Merry repeated — *' Give me thy Heart" i^ife and PAGR 50" lY THE 509 Anguish 1 Story )T TO h— One 516 519 5*4 erpreU- 530 533 Ch ION. cution 539 • ■ • • 545 Hu {ewt" • CONTENTS. V XV CHAPTER CXII. Hard Knocks— The Bible my Physician— " The Church-Mice " try to drive me from the house ov goo $49 My Director distrustful — Words of Comfort — Nibblings of Cliurch-Mice ' " ; ;. : CHAPTER cxni. •'The Board of Grace " sit on me — I am told to write a Book ... 551 Church-Mice in Council— Father Uapst— Adieu to Laferriire — I shrink from writing a Book — Easter Joys. CHAPTER CX V. ' * Shadows of the Past — Disappointment 557 Aunt Huldah and her Heirs— The Chapel and Altar-piece — The Archbishop declines — Fatl ing brother, and left him to that lot, which usuall}' bi-'falls those, who prefer pleasure to labor, and the gratification of their passions to the fulfilment of duty. His follies had been many, and his punishment was severe. The hour of retribution had come, and demandeil payment for a misspent life, and it found him ill prepared to accpiit himself of the debt. For his mind had always been set on what tlie world calls pleasure, on being free and untrammelled by the restraints of the laws of (iod and \vell-regulated society. He had no religious convictions, and therefore nothing to sustain him in this combat with misfortune and misery. He stood, or rather lay, thoroughly de- fenceless in their iron grasp. The woman, whom he called his wife, and with whom in an evil hour he had Hnked his destiny, was the instrument Providence had chosen to bring the misguided man to repentance. She was in her twenty-sixth year, and might once have been handsome ; but a life of misery and sin had already robbed her cheeks of their roses and her form of the graces of youth. She was short in stature, thick set, with oval features, dark-gray eyes, and long, brown hair. The reader can best judge of her character and disposition from her acts. <■ The eldest daughter, whom I will call Georgina, must then have been in her eighth year. Her large hazel eyes lighted up a face of Grecian mould and matchless beauty. She had a quick aptitude for acquiring knowledge, and at that early age would read story-books and the newspapers aloud to her mother. The expression of her face was cold and sad, and bespoke what she really was, the offspring of misfortune. Her nature was proud aiid wilful. She had never been treated like a child ; she had been fed upon praise from her mother's breast, and whatever she did or said was considered perfect. Every childish wish was gratified, ar^d her family treated her as though they were there only to do her horn- ,tage. Yet, notwithstanding such a pernicious course of early training, she was superior to most children of her years, and, even at that ten- der age, her actions were guided more by reflection, than by childish impulse. The younger daughter was just the opposite of her sister m looks, in character, and in disposition. She was in her sixth year ; and as she had never been known to keep still, everybody called her " Tick." She was very homel}' — so homely, that the boys in the streets would make fun of her, and her mother and sister would constantly tell her, TICK'S PORTRAIT. f that " she was the ugliest child they had ever seen." She had a round face, a bad complexion, a pug nose, and short hair, v/ith no head at all, — I mean no sense in her head, — or she had what the French would call une tete d reavers. She always acted from impulse, never from reflection ; with her there was never a moment's pause between the conception of an idea and its execution, when possible ; and from the rapidity of her acts and the serious consequences they would often entail, she had become the terror, t1ie dislike, and the butt of the household. She was by no means a fool ; she was always saying or doing some ex- traordinary tiling, and her life at that age was made up of being scolded, beaten, or laughed at. Her eyes were not large and beau- tiful, like those of her sifter ; but when she was excited they would sparkle like fire. Their color and expression always depended on Tick's emotions : they wer*? the only redeeming feature in that little, ugly fa- e. She was small, tl-in, and quick as a flash. She had long been accustomed to come head first down the steps, and the family said, that it was at the foot of a long flight of stairs, that Tick got her ill-shaped nose. Tick never looked tidy ; her face and hands were almost always dirty, and her hair was rarely combed. It made very little difference to her whether her hair was combed or her face washed or not, since, in any case, everybody who saw her for the first time would invariably exclaim : " What an ugly child!" while the first sight of her sister would elicit expressions of admiration for her beauty. * ' ; .' -^;','.r Georgina was Tick's half-sister ; Mr. St. John was not her father. He had adopted her, she went by his name, and called him father. The hves of the two sisters seemed to be distinct. Georgina was treated Uke a lady, but Tick like a household drudge, who could be kicked and cuffed about at the pleasure and wiiim of each. Tick's father was the only one, who never spoke unkindly to her; he never gave her a blow. Georgina was supposed to speak the truth always, Tick never. The mother loved her eldest daughter, yet Georgina feared hex mother's ill-temper ; for, when she was angry, she would abuse this daughter with harsh words and threatening looks; yet she never struck her but once, and then she was intoxicated. The mother and eldest daughter were more like friends, than parent and child j for the mother would impart to her all her secreta, DOMESTIC SCENES. I f i ! even the most delicate. Georgina can say with truth, that she nevei was a child. They would sit aud converse together for hours ; yet they seldom spoke to Tick, the mother never, unless it was to scold her or to give her an order. Hut Tick was an attentive listener to what they were saying, aud she would roll it over and over in her mind. The mother would ever talk against the father, and would make threats and declare, that she would be revenged, and (ieorgina would abuse him too. Mr. St. John loved Georgina better, than his own child; but she never returned his affection. It made Tick sad to hear them abuse her father ; for she loveil him, although she knew, that she only stood second in his heart. She was only too grateful for such love as he gave her ; it was the only ray of light, thnt feebly glimmered for her in that wretched home. Mr. St. John and his wife hated each other, and they were nearly always quarrelling. Neither ever went to church ; yet the mother would frequently go out during the week, no one ever knew where, nor when she would return. It would always enrage the husband to find his wife absent. Georgina would then try to soften him, and pretend, that she knew where her mother was, and would say every- thing she coujd to excuse her absence. The mother usually returned intoxicated, and a dreadful scene would onsue. The husband would load her with accusations, of which Tick did not understand the meaning. He would attempt to strike her ; but Georgina would go between them to defend her mother, and her presence and tears would always calm the infuriated husband. During those scenes Tick would get into a corner and kneel behind a chair, through the back of which she would peep, till all was over ; when she would say to her sister : " Why did you not let him strike her ? " Then her sister would reproach Tick for her heartless- ness towards her mother. But Tick could not feel the reproach ; for she never loved her mother. She had always feared her. Tick cannot re- member, that her mother ever kissed her ; and Tick can remember ever since she was three years old. But what could have been the secret of this mother's aversion for her child, which seemed to amount almost to hatred. She would beat her, as though she were gratifying some secret desire for vengeance. Was it because she was the child of her hated husband ? or did the devil, \nthout her knowing it, in- spire her to pour out her wrath upon the child, who would one day try to undo her work ? TICK'S COMPANIONS. Tick had a hard life of it ; yet she was always gay. F've minutes after being beaten, she could laugh as merrily, as though she had never been struck a blow in her life. She was always happy, when she was alone, either in the house or in the streets, or when her father was at home, which was very seldom. She had few companions ; and those were among the worst children, who ran the streets. No one liked her mother, and consecjuently the neighbors vould refuse to let their children go with her. .' • ' '• '- ' When at home alone, she would amuse herself by talking to her- self, to the chairs, the table-legs, to the pictures on the wall, to the footstool, and to the shovel and tongs, making believe that tiic tongs were a boy and the shovel a girl ; and she would name each object after the boys or girls she liked or hated most. On the former she would bestow caresses and good marks, and the latter she would beat with the poker. The furniture was thus frightfully marred, and sometimes broken, but no one ever knew how it was done, and the fault was generally laid to the servant. This was one of Tick's fa- vorite sports, and she began to form attachments for the objects in the room, as though they were living beings. They were the only companions, who never gave her pain, and always brought her joy. She loved dearly, too, to roam by herself through the streets, and talk aloud to herself without being noticed, or to sit on the crrbstone and swim her shoes in the gutter. Mr. St. John often threatened to abandon his wife, if she would not reform, and he would have done so long before, had it not been for his attachment to her child. The mother took advantage of this j for whenever he would threaten to leave her, she would always say : "But my child remains with me; " and the afflicted man would sub- mit to stay for Georgina's sake. He foresaw too well the inevitable doom, which awaited her if he abandoned her to the care of her mother. Tick inherited her father's qualities and disposition. It had always been a trait of the St. Johns to have a remarkable memory. Tick had inherited that quality in an eminent degree. She resembled her father in everything but his movements ; for he was slow and languid in his gait, whereas Tick's every motion was as quick as lightning. To be put out of the way, she had been sent to a public school be- fore she had completed her fourth year. Here nothing escaped htr, that she could take in with her eyes and ears ; but her restless nature 10 HARD KNOCKS. li' ii would not allow her to apply heri^^elf. She could repeat the alphabet ai fast as her sister, altliough she did not know one letter from the other. Georgina was a beautiful reader — and Tick would tease her until she read to her all about Polly Bodine's trial. Tick had heard every one talking about it, and she was much interested to know, if she should be hanged or not. For Tick her father used to buy play- things, but books for Georgina. Their mother, too, would some- times buy books and playthings for her elder daughter, but never anything for Tick. Finally about this time Tick became a sort of confirmed vagabond. When out of school she was always in the street. Her mother became ''very day more cruel to her, and Tick avoided her as much as she could. The cruel treatment she received never cowed Tick's spirit. Georgina seldom dared to strike her, for Tick would make a stout defence. She neither loved, hated, envied, nor imitated her sister, and in spite of all the hard knocks she received she always chose to be herself rather than anybody else. In spite of her mother's cruelty Tick pitied that mother, when she saw her afflicted and wretched and in tears ; she could have thrown her arms around her neck and kissed her, had she dared to. Her mother would often send the child for beer, and it was with a heavy heart that she brought it ; for she knew, that it was so much fuel for the drunken wrath, that was sure to burst on her own devoted head. Georgina would seldom go on this errand, but would on her knees implore her mother to do without it. The mother would sometimes yield, but would oftener become impatient and threaten. Georgina, too, dreaded her mother when intoxicated, and then she would stay near to Tick and talk with her. When Tick was six years old a little stranger came to gladden the father's heart, in the person of an infant son. F'rom Goerck street the family moved to a house out of which they were turned by the landlord on account of the mother's quarrels with the neighbors. Then they moved into a rear house, whose only yard was the wretched alley-way. They had not been there long, when, one day, the father came home jubilant, with the good news tliat his uncle, Sarnuel St. John, of New Haven, who had just died, had left him an annuity, and also a small one for each of his children; when they should come of age. The next day he .took Georgina, Tick, €uid lus son, who was then over a year old, and went to an A LEGACY. II office, where a gen !:leman handed him a book. He placed his right hand on it, a.nd swore, that the three children were his own. His love for Gcorgina caused him to take a fp-lse oath, and it was that false oatii that sealed his doom. His family had already shunned him for his vices, but now they sl:rank from him as a perjurer. His crime might have ever remained a secvet, had not the woman, for whose unfortunate child he had sacrificed his conscience, spitefully betrayed him. When Mr. St. John returned home, after taking this oath, he began to converse with his wife. The usual quarrel ensued. She rose from her seat, raised hei hand, and swore, that she would be re- venged. Her heart was filled with rage and hate. She loved her elder daughter, but her hate was stronger than her love. She had long thirsted for a full revenge frr all the real or imaginary wrongs she had treasured up against hi-r weak and erring husband. At last that long-wished-for hour had come. The next day found this woman in the same office, where her husband had stood the day before. She laid her hand on that little Bible, which he had dese- crated for her child, and there swore that her husband was a perjurer ; that only the two younger children were his, and that her eldest child was born before she knew him, who called himself its fatJier. This vol- untary declaration on the part of a woman, who claimed to be his wife, cast doubts even upon his marriage to her, which his pride could not permit him to remove, and the misguided man, who but a few hours before was revelling in bright hopes of a happy future for his children, and for the child he had taken to his heart, saw those hopes forever extinguished. He humbly acknowledged his fault, but declared, that, in forswearing himself, he had only yielded to the earnest solicitations of liis wife. His uncle had left a large fortune, providing annuities for the five brothers, his nephews, and their descendants, to the third generation. The estate was only finally to be divided, when the youngest of tlie last generation should have reached his majority. All this was devised in order, that the St. Johns K:'iorht remain for at least four generations without wanting for bread. Mr. St. John swore, that he was really married to the woman, who had so ruthlessly betrayed him. But he would not give her maiden name. As he had once taken a false oath, the executors refused to receive his two children as heirs, unless he should produce his marriage certificate, signed by responsible witnesses. This he refused to do ; for it must bear t/iat lii; \\ la MARIA MONK. Tvoman's name. No, never would he breathe the name of her, whom Providence, as a just punishment for his sins, had thrown across his path. And thus were his childn n not only deprived of future support and left to an inheritance of misery and danger, but they were brand- ed before the public with the shameful stigma of bastards. These new domestic griefs had not much power to depress the buoyant spirits of Tick. She could readily forget them all in the de- light of an occasional trip with her father across the water to Wil- liamsburg. She would stand at the back of the ferry-boat, as if riveted to the deck, watching the waves, and with no eyes for anything else. Tick was fond of building castles in theTtil,; She would sometimes tie her mother's apron on behind her, to form a train, and would make a paper crown and put it on her head ; and in that guise she would promenade up and down the room or the alley, imagining that she was in a palace, and that she was herself a queen or the lady-love of some prince ; and she would sigh to be big enough to wear long clothes, believing, that when that day came, she would be presented at court, and the courtiers would vie to do her homage. For her sister read aloud stories of kings and queens and courtiers and palaces, and her father, too, would tell what he had seen in England ; and she fancied, that it must be the acme of all happiness to go to court and revel in its pleasures. CHAPTER II. MARIA MONK.* One day Tick and her mother were alone, when two rough-look- ing men came in. The three entered into conversation. At last one of the men spoke out : " I know who you are, you are Maria Monk I " It was the first time Tick had ever heard that name. * Early in the year 1836 a book appeared entitled, •• Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk." The book was a tissue of calumnies against the inmates of the H6tel Dieu, or Black Nunnery, in Montreal. Maria Monk reprisented herself to be an escaped nun from that convent. The reader will learu more of her book in the course of this history. MISERY. 13 er, whom Lcross his e support re brand- ;)ress the 11 the de- r to Wil- if riveted hing else, jmetimes uld make he would that she y-love of k'ear long presented her sister palaces, and she :ourt and ugh-look- At last re Maria at name. OSURES OF ates of the [ herself to ler book in Many years have passed since then, but Tick has never forgotten the dread feeling, that came over her the first time that fatal name fell upon her ears. Then both the; men spoke up and said : " We know you are Maria Monk ; " but the mother denied it. The nex^ day a woman came in, and repeated the same thing. The woman insisted, that Tick's mother should permit her to look for certain marks, which, she said, that Maria Monk had on her body ; but Tick's mother refused to satisfy this person. Frequently, after that, people would come in and repeat those same words. After a while. Tick would hear her mother acknowlc e to one woman, that she was Maria Monk, and deny it to ano ; but at last she ceased to deny it to any one, and would tell everybody, that that was her name. There was something in that name which displeased Tick, yet she could not tell why. Although she was hardened in sin, and had not much fine feelings to boast of, and was considered the bully of the alley, yet she felt ashamed, that her mother's name should be Maria Monk. She could not have felt worse if it had been Polly Bodine. The neighbors became so troublesome at" last, by constantly coming in and bringing others to see Maria Monk, that the St. Johns were obliged to leave the neighborhood. They went into another tene- ment-house, whence they were soon ejected by the landlord because of Mrs. St. John's quarrels with her neighbors. The family had been getting more and more miserable ; and their home now was so wretched, that the father dreaded to come near it. Although Mr. St. John received the annuity left him by his uncle, yet it did not seem to better his condition ; for his family would live for a few days sumptuously, and like beggars the rest of the year. They had long since done without a servant. Georgina, who was in her tenth year, did all the indoor work, while Tick did all the errands. The only trouble about sending Tick on errands was, that they could never depend on her. If she met an organ-grinder, she felt, as though it looked mean and poor to pass him by without giv- ing him something, and the money, that was intended to buy a loaf of bread, would oftentimes be put into the outstretched paw of a jnonkey. The father used sometimes to give Georgina the money to provide for the family ; and she would have to conceal it from the mother, lest she should force her to give it to her for beer. Often- times the mother would go off; and the father would come home late and find the three little children sitting disconsolate around the mmmammmtm ■} ' ■ III It IB'' i )i 14 A NARROW ESCAPE. Stove, the youngest crying with hunger. The girls, too, were hungry, but they were long accustomed to that. One day the mother told Georgina to get the baby ready, and that they all should go down by the river for a walk. Georgina com- menced to do as she was told ; but suddenly she stopped, and seemed buried in thought. She felt, that something was wrong. It was a strange thing for her mother to do ; for she seldom took any of her children out with her. Georgina refused to go, or to get the children ready. A loud altercation took place between them. The next day there was a repetition of the same thing. The next morning Tick saw her father and sister in close conversation in the little hall. She listened, and heard Georgina hint her suspicions. The father was convinced, that her suspicions were too well founded ; for his wife had often threatened to drown her children. Tick heard her father say, that her mother intended to throw all her children into the river, and then jump in herself. Tick's heart was drawn towards her sister, as she remembered the scene of tlie previous day, when the mother had upbraided her, and she herself had joined in, and begged her to go and do as her mother wished. And she recalled her sister's quiet and firm attitude, and how she had said to Tick : " And you shall not go either ; " and Tick had felt like striking her for speaking to her with so much authority. In spite of her reckless head. Tick appreciated and admired the wisdom and fortitude of the girl, who, in fact, .was not three years older than herself She felt that it was time for her too to be a wo- man ; and accordingly she made up her mind to be serious and devote herself to her sister. The father left, and so did Tick. She went out and played in the streets all day, and never thought for a moment of what might be going on in the house. That evening she learned from the conversation of her father and sister, that the mother had sold all their furniture for the sum of three dollars. She was then out ; and, as she had money, they were expecting, or rather fearing, that she might come in at any moment drunk. The furniture was all in disorder ; some of it had already been carried away ; and the man was coming for the rest in the morning. Tick's h«art was desolate, because she missed the very pieces of fur- niture, that she most loved to talk to. The father was standing ; his little boy was looking up into his face, and held up his hands for his father to take him ; but the father was so intent on what he was say- ABANDONED. IS ing to Georgina, that he did not appear to notice either Tick or hei brother. " I shall leave her this very night," said he ; '* will you come with me ? " At those words Tick made a spring, and clasped her father's side, and cried out : " O father ! let us go before she comes back." Georgina was quite as ready to go as Tick ; for the last week's experience had frightened her so, that she was only too glad to get away from such a mother. Mr. St. John took his family to a neighbor's, who sympathized with him, knowing the dissolute habits of his wife. The next day, towards evening, he called for them. He took up his^ son on his arm, and they started out, Georgina on one side an*^' Tick on the other. Tick took hold of hei father's hand and began to skip, — her usual gait. They had hardly gw.ie a dozen steps before they were in front of a grog-shop. Tick casually looked into the grog-shop, as she skipped along. It was a hurried glance ; but long enough for her to see a woman, with drunken gestures, standing bareheaded in the middle of the floor, her back partly turned towards the street. It was her mother. That was the *ast cane I ever saw Maria Monk. CHAPTER III. TICK IN HER NEW HOME. — LONGS AT LAST FOR THE OLD ONE. y been orning. of fur- ig; his for his ^as say- Feelings of joy and sadness alternately flitted through me, as I skipped by my father's side. In spite of my giddiness I inquired of myself what would become of her. I asked my father twice, who would take care of her. He made no reply, but continued to talk with my sister. I did not love my mother ; but at the thought, that she had been abandoned without the smallest resource, I forgot my wrongs. If my father had only said, that he would take care of her, 1 could have given myself up fully to the joy of leaving her ; but pity prevented my being happy. Poor mother ! if she had known my heart at that moment, I am sure, that she would have repented of all her unkindness to me. I tried to get her out of riy mind ; but she was ever before me, just as I had seen her in that hurried glance. Yet I would not have gone back to her for worlds. mmt \ : » ^^-^^ ' I. i ■ ' i : l6 ROAMING. We stopped before a beautiful house near St. John's Park. Fathei said to us, that it was there we were to live. It was a boarding- house kept by a lady named Beecher. She received us kindly, but at once exclaimed: "Why, I never would have taken them for sisters ! " She kissed Georgina, took my brother on her knee, threw a glance at me, slightly frowned, and paid me no more at ten- ^ lion. My father requested her not to let us go into the street, lest ' we should meet our mother or some of her acquaintances; foi he was afraid, that she might give him trouble on Georgina's account; and he was determined to do everything to save her. I said to my sister several times : " I wonder how s/ie felt when she found herself abandoned." (We never called her mother.) Georgina would answer : "I don't know; it served her right ; but let as not speak of /ler." And in a few weeks all mention of her ceased between us. After a while my vagabond propensities came back in full force, and I longed to run in the streets. At length my father consented, that I might walk up and down a few blocks near the house. I stretched the permission by roaming about the streets and running in the park. But there I soon began to feel lonely ; for the nice children kept to themselves, and I felt above playing with vagrants, now that I wore fine clothes. But they must have had an instinct, which told them, that I was no better than they ; for they would look at me and make faces. I therefore soon avoided the park, and would pass my time strolling through the streets and getting free rides on the steps of omnibuses, at the expense of an occasional lashing from the whip of the driver. One day I resented vigorously my sister's attempt to make me wear her old clothes. Mrs. Beecher took sides with her, and em- phasized her view of the matter by throwing me on a bed and giving me a good beating. She left me, and I fell asleep. When I awoke I immediately wished myself back again in the old wretched home with my mother. For a mother can do many cruel things, which a child will readily forgive and forget ; while the tithe of such provo- cation from a stranger" may engender a spirit of hatred, which only a miracle of God's grace can overcome. We were soon put to board in the country, at Flatbush ; where my sister engrossed the company of girls of equal age and refinement with herself, leaving me to myself or to play with the boys. This SHOPPING. i|9 irk. Fathei a boarding- s kindly, but sn them for a her knee, more atten- e street, lest ices; foi he a's account ; was a new and delightful experience for the cramped spirit of a child, to whom the most familiar landscape hitherto had been the rear view of tenement-houses. 1 revelled day after day running in the mea- dows, chasing the butterflies, and gathering wild flowers ; and some- times our host ftould take us to the sea-shore, where my freed soul found new delights in the shells, the sands, and the waters. a^S •.,.•■.«;:«.::■'' ■;- ':ii:i "elt when she .) Georgina t let us not Lsed between n full force, r consented, le house. I and running for the nice ith vagrants, an instinct, r would look k, and would ree rides on lashing from :o make me ler, and em- d and giving en I awoke tched home hings, which such provo- which only a where my refinement boys. This CHAPTER IV. / : TICK GOES A SHOPPING. — SHE ASPIRES TO BE A RAGPICKER. — HER ASPIRATIONS KNOCKED IN THE HEAD. Shortly after our return to the city the quarrels between my sis- ter and myself became so frequent and so violent, that our father thought well to separate us, and placed me to board with a dress- maker. As the dressmaker was always busy, I was left to run the streets and do as I pleased. Sometimes I would pass days going from one shop to another, asking the prices of things, with, perhaps, only one cent in my pocket ; and, no matter what the price of an article might be, if I wanted it, I would try to coax the shopkeeper to give it to me for the amount of money I might have. At last two shop-women took such a dislike to me, that they would lie in wait for me, and, if I attempted to pass beyond the sills, of their shops, they would seize me and give me a good shaking. One day I had only a penny, and I wanted to buy half a yard of ribbon for my doll. I entered a fancy shop, and made a woman un- roll all the narrow ribbon she had at two cents a yard. When 1 had made my choice, I said I would take /lal/ a yard, at the same time handing her the penny. She took it, threw it out on the sidewalk, and told me to go after it and never dare to come into her shop again. The very same day I saw in a shop window a little bottle of perfumery, which I coveted very much. I eagerly inquired the price. It was twelve cents ; and I had only one. I begged the woman to give it to me for that. She sarcastically advised me to wait, till I had more to put with it. On my way home I met a rag- picker, and as .. had always been told, that all ragpickers were rich, i6 HOPES OF FORTUNE. I took it into my head that I should go at once to work, and make a fortune at ragpicking ; and that then I could buy what I pleased. By the time I got home, I found, that it was too late to begin that day, as it was nearly dusk. The next morning, after breakfast, while the dressmaker was clearing away the table, I went into the kitchen, took the market-basket and the poker, and started out. But I wandered through street after street, in the broiling sun, without f#)d • ing a rag, or so .^luch as a piece of paper. At last I was tired ; for 1 found the basket and poker a load in themselves ; and I wheeled about and started for home. I had nearly reached the house, when I met a ragpicker with a great lot of rags in a basket fastened to her back. I instantly accosted her and cried out : " Old woman, tel! me where you found all those rags ? I have been hunting through the streets ever since breakfast, and have not found one yet." The old wo- man passed on in contemptuous silence ; but I ran until I got directly in front of her, and said, this time rather coaxingly : " Oh, Mrs. Rag- picker, won't you p-1-e-a-s-e tell me where you found all those rags?" At that the ragpicker assumed an infuriated mien, particularly when her eyes fell on my basket and poker ; and, before I had a chance to divine what was coming, she struck me a blow on the head w ith her hook, and then, started otf on a half run. As I went into the house with my hand pressed upon my smarting head, I met the dressmaker. The moment she saw me with her market-basket and poker, she flew into a rage, seized .both of the articles, and exclaiming : " You little imp ! " began to beat me over the shoulders with the poker, telling me at the same time, in a screaming voice, how I had made her lose all the morning hunting through the house for her market-basket and poker. By such rude blows were dashed my first bright hopes of fortune ! My father and sister seldom came to see me ; and, if my sister tayed over an hour, our interview would always end in a quarrel. My father had often spoken to us of a beautiful country, — the land, where his aunt Huldah lived ; — and he would tell us how kind she I had ever been to him, never refusing him the aid he asked of her. One day he told us, that this aunt had proposed, if he would let her . have his little son, to bring him up and leave to him all she had. He was ever talking of that country, and promising to take us there ; and he would sometimes add, that it would be a very secure place, in which to hide us from oar mother. Georgina and myself, who DISAPPOINTMENT. 19 rarely agreed on any point, would beg him in unison to take us lo that country. He was always shifting us about, through constant dread of our mother. In the course of these migrations we found ourselves again at Flatbush ; when our father came for us one day, and told us, tliat he had decided to take us to Amenia, the country he loved so much, and where he had passed his happiest days. We returned to New York; where our father bought us several handsome suits of clothes, made of the richest and finest material ; so that any one, who saw us, as we started for Amenia, might have believed, that we were spoiled children of fortune. As the boat moved slowly away from the dock, I gladly bade New York good- by, little thinking how that journey was big with my destiny. We landed at Poughkeepsie ; and early the next morning we started for Aunt Huldah's -n South Amenia, Dutchess Co., N. Y. ; where we arrived about noon, after a drive of twenty-five miles. Our father told us never to mention our mother's name, and if any one should ever speak to us about her, to say, that she was dead, that slie had died long ago, and that we had forgotten her. CHAPTER V. MY AUNTS. — A STURDY METHODIST. — THE HIGHLANDS OF DUTCHESS. Aunt Huldah was near to her seventieth year. She had never been married, and had always regarded our father as her son. She received us all as affectionately, as if we were her children. Our father was noted for his fondness for children, and for making great sacrifices to aid any unfortunate child, that might cross his path. Years before the time I am describing, he had brought to Aunt Huldah a little orphan girl, wliom he prevailed upon her to adopt. This child had grown to be a woman, and had married, and resided about two miles from our aunt's house. My father decided to place me with her, to prevent the usual quarrels with my sister. He comted on this woman's gratitude, and thought she would be a n> ther to his child. But she had no sooner seen me fondling my i i 20 WINTER VIEWS. father, and seen my trunk unpacked, than she becanre envious and jealous, and began to complain, that my father had never bought het as many nice things. We had hardly been together a day before wo hated each other. She was a spoiled child. Aunt Huldah had always indulged her j and she was the person least fitted to have the care of a wilful little creature like myself. She was poor, miserly, lazy, and cruel. She treated ne as badly, as my mother had done ; even worse ; for she used to beat me with a cane, whereas my mother used only her hands. I went there in the autumn ; and I passed the long winter, suffering with hunger and cold, and longing for my father's return. The view from the house was bleak and desolate. For hours I would sit at the window, which looked out on that dreary landscape, hoping to see my father enter the gate ; and I would often ask the woman : when she thought he would come. This provoked her, and she would answer, that she hoped he would come soon, that she might let him know what an imp I was. • ^ ' •' ;• One day I went to see my sister. Aunt Huldah ran to the gate to receive me ; but before she could open it, 1 began to tell her how cruelly this woman treated me. Aunt Huldah, who was fond of her adopted daughter, took instantly a bitter dislike to me ; for she did not believe, that what I said could be true. In this opinion my sister confirmed her, by declaring that I had never been known to speak the truth. A few days afterwards Aunt Huldah sent for my torturer, and told her what 1 had said. She denied it all, and Aunt Huldah's bad opinion of me was irrevocably fixed. The woman came home, and, from that time her treatment of me was simply inhuman. I would often wonder what my father had ever seen in that land to love. At last summer came, and one bright morning brought my father. The woman complained of me, and would give me no opportunity to speak with him alone. When they had all retired, I arose and crept softly to my father's bed. He took me in his arms ; I nestled in his bosom, and began to weep. He whispered to me to " hush," for fear the woman might hear me. I soon fell asleep, and in the morning I told him all. He kissed me, but made no reply. The next day my father came with a Mr. Clark, one ot his cousina, SUMMER VIEWS. 2X and told me that he would take me where I would have a good home. It was a beautiful day in the middle of June, 1847. I sat on my father's knee as we drove along. We passed towards the south through a beautiful fertile valley, bordered on the east and west by ranges of hills known as the " Highlands of Dutchess." At the foot of the western slope tlows a narrow, limpid stream, which still retains its Indian name of the Weebatuc. We did not drive far, before .ve made an abrupt turn to the east, and, in a few moments, we were ascending a hill. It seemed to me, as if I had just seen the countty for the first time. I could not help exclaiming all along the way : " How beautiful ! " I had been in the country eight months, and had done nothing but weep and mourn by the side of that cruel woman. But now I was once more with my father. Every few moments I would throw my arms around his neck and make him promise me, that he would never take me back to that home again. I was happy, and everything around me seemed to smile and rejoice with me. As we ascended the hill, we could see birds of nearly every note and hue fluttering along the rustic fences, which lined the road ; and on either side were flocks of sheep grazing, while their lambs were skipping and playing in the noontide sun. When we reached the summit of this hill, a most beautiful landscape spread itself on every side, and a delicious little vale lay at our feet, with but one solitary humble dwelling, occupied by one of my father's cousins. In passing through this charming valley we halted for a few moments at the house, and we were soon surrounded by merry children, who fairly made the hills ring with their hearty welcome. We had still another long hill to climb, before we could reach my future home. The left of this steep was bordered by a long ledge of rocks, out of which sprung a lofty chestnut grove. On the right could be seen, for miles, the sur- rounding country ; and, as we advanced, the scenery appeared ever to grow more beautiful. A little further, and we came to an open level space, which was hemmed in by forests and hills. To the left stood a little white cottage, with rose-bushes at the door, and shaded by cherry-trees laden with fruit. It was there, that I was to finu' that " good home," which my father had promised me. I ran into the house, and was most kindly welcomed by its in- mates. It was neatly furnished, and everything breathed comfort and happiness. The family consisted of Mr. Giark and his wife, 1 I 32 THE NEIGHBORHOOD. and Aunt I-avinia, who was sister to my father's mother. Mr. and Mrs. Clark had passed the middle age, and were known throughout the country as Uncle Horace and Aunt Mercy. They owned a large farm, and were in comfortable circumstances. They made much ado over me, fondled and caressed me, and laughed at everything I said. They examined me from head to foot, and said, that I was the very image of the St. Johns ; that my face was the image of my father's mother's, and the expression of my countenance, my quick mode of sj)eaking, and a nervous movement of my head, when trying to bring out my thoughts, showed a most striking family likeness. The next day my father left for New York. He took my sister with him, but left my brother with Aunt Huldah. Our nearest neighbors were a poor family, whom I will designate as the Dot family. The wife was a weaver, and the husband a mason. My Uncle Orin's house was in sight of our cottage ; he was Uncle Horace's brother. I 'vas sent immediately to school. The school-house was situated down in the valley, about a mile and a quarter from my home, and very near Aunt Huldah's. Without any cause whatever I disliked my Aunt Mercy at first sight ; but she soon won me by her kind and tender devotion to me. It was the first time I had ever received a mother's care, and I at once changed and became one of the best children in the place. The Clarks were all high-toned and devout. Uncle Horace was a plain, honest, blunt-spoken man. He tried hard to live up to the golden rule, of doing unto others, as he would have them do to him. He was a firm believer in the doctrines of Christianity as expounded by John Wesley. He was devoted to his church, and thoroughly believed, that the Methodists a/one possessed the perfect knowledge of the way to salvation. He had strong prejudices against Catholics ; he was always abusing them ; his house was well supplied with books breathing hostility against them ; and he believed every absurd state- ment he had read concerning them. Had he got his knowledge of Christianity in the same manner, as he had that of Catholicity, namely, from its deadly enemies, he would have denounced Jesus Christ with equal vigor. But he had never read any infidel author, nor any can- did work on the history of the Catholic Church, nor would he allow any book or journal under his roof, that would speak in opposition to the teachings of Wesley. MY UNCLE'S VIEWS. 23 Whenever he could find no other epithet in the dictionary sufficient- ly strong to express his contempt of some dishonorable t)r vicious person, he would call him a Jesuit j and never yet did Jesuit cling with greater love to the memory of St. Ignatius, than did my uncle Horace to the memory of the founder of the Methodists ; for he ha3 there was vacation, and I was left to run in the woods, and do as I pleased. One day I was roving by myself, and I sat down to rest on a ledge of rocks which overlooked a broad landscape. v. ; , ' ' I was then in my tenth year, and had never had a strong attach- ment for anything or anybody but my father. I remember well this day ; I had been sitting for a long while, watching the shadows which one hill "v-iuld cast on another ; v^ondering at the blue h;ue that floated ar.v nd the hill-tops, enveloping them in a mysterious veil ; and admi: ng the varied shades of green, that draped the sur- rounding scene A sensation of ineffable sweetness came over me, J^.at thrilled m) bosom v/ith delight. I began to jump about, spring- ing from rock ^ > rock, catching hold of the drooping branches of the trees, and kip .ng their leaves, until I was out of breath. I then threw myself upon a rock and pressed my cheek against the moss, which I fondled with my hands. I began to weep, and then laughed merrily, that I should weep ; for I had never been so happy. I started up, and climbed the mountain ; and, when I had reached its top, I began to sing, with all my might, an Indian song, which my aunt had taught me. I soon ran down the steep again, my feet hardly touching the ground. I would try to fancy, that my mother was pursuing me ; — a favorite sport I had invented to while the time 26 A CHILD OF NATURE. J i i 1 ■ 1 1 1 j ! 1 m\ " »■ '; if when rambling alone. When I reached the level, I still ran with all my might, and jumped across a little brook, and began to pant for breath, as though I were really hunted down. I got so in earnest, that I felt my mother's hand seizing me. I sprang over the fences, and kept up the flight, until I reached the house ; where I met my aunt, who threw her arms about me ; and 1 wrapt myself in her skirts. I was so out of breath, that I could scarcely speak. The first words I uttered were : ** No one can come here and take me away, I hope ? " She kissed me and said : " No, no, my child, your father said, that you could always live with us ; we have no little girl, and you shall be ours." Nearly every day she would let me go. I would hardly leave the house, before my bosom would begin to glow, and I would pass the livelong day cUmbing over the rocks, swinging in the wild grape- vines, and gatnermg berries or woodland flowers. At twilight, after tea, I would go down the road to the chestnut grove, among the rocks by the hill-side, to hear the katydids sing. Sometimes my aunt would have to drag me to bed, when I would have sat up all night on the sill of the door, listening to the cricket, that sang under the stone step. Far in the woods I had discovered a small stream, which rippled down a hillside ; and near by was a ledge of rocks, which, when I spoke or sang, would echo back my words. There I would speak to nature, as I would have wished her to speak to me ; and then I would leap about for joy, as though she had replied ; never forgetting my aunt's injunction to watch the western hills, that I might hasten home when the sun touched their top. When it was time to go, I would call each tree and rock by the names, which I had given to them myself, and would bid them all good-by, with a promise to return. Sometimes I would take a book, and would teach them how to read, and would repeat to them so often old poetry and songs, that I learned all the verses myself. When I went into the woods I would take off my shoes and stock- ings and hide them in the fence, and I never wore my bonnet. The rocks, heated by the sun, often burnt my feet, and the sun scorched my 'face ; but my heart was so light, that I did not mind the pain. When the days were very hot, I would undress, and go into the brook, where it was shaded by a little hemlock grove. At othei times 1 would sit close to the stones, over which the water dashed MY FIRST LOVE. 27 and would reach out my Hands to play with the scream, and would bow down my head to kiss it as it flowdd. A childish weakness comes over me, and my tears begin to flow, as 1 try to write the tale of those once happy days. For that \vild and savage woodland was my first love ; I lose myself among those scenes, as I did years ago ; and it pains me now to leave them, as it did when, as a child, I looked over at the mountain, whose top the sun had touched, — the sign which told me to return, — and as then, so now, I linger to bid them a fond good-by. In the autumn my father returned. He remained but a few days ; and when the hour of parting came, I dreaded, as never before, to say good-by. • • ' -' • r. .• , I recommenced my roving in the woods. Months passed away; and yet my father did not return. Winter came, with its bleak winds and heavy snows : but I went to school in spite of ihem. Sometimes the snow would drift, and I have waded through it, wiien it was nearly as high as myself; I enjo)ed it hugely ; and when the snow would freeze and bear me, I would slide down the hills, until I reached the valley. I was just as happy playing on the ice and in the snow, as I had been in the summer, rambling in the woods. CHAPTER VI. DEATH Of MY FATHER. — I WORK FOR "GOOD MARKS " IN THE BOOK OF LIFE, Spring came; and one beautiful April morning I went to the post- I office. My happiness was too great when che clerk handed me a letter to my address. I did nothing but kiss it, and read my name on it. It was my first letter. I did not open it, nor feel any need to do so. II was sure, that it must be from my father. I ran with it, as fast as I jcould, towards the school-house ; near which I saw Aunt Huldah [standing at her barnyard gate. I rushed over to her, crying out as jloud as I could : " Look, look, Aunt Huldah, my father is coming , lere is the letter." She look the letter, and I went into the school- louse ; but in a few moments she came after me exclaiming, " Youi ^ MY LOSS AND ITS LESSON. 1 ■'i father is dead, your father is dead." She took me by the hand, led me to her house, and read me the letter. I threw myself on the floor, and wept, as though my heart would bicak. My anguish was increased by the fear, that my mother might come after me. My relations believed, that she was dead ; and 1 had never breathed her name. Ever since I had come to my uncle's house, I had always said my prayers before going to sleep. The night of the day, on which 1 had heard of my fathei-'s death, I began to weep at the thought, that I should never see him again on earth ; but I trusted that, if I were good, I should meet him in Heaven. Then I began to repent of all the wicked lies I had told, before I came to Amenia ; and, feel- ing, that he knew all now, it made me wretched to think, that he should know how bad I had been. I said the Lord's Prayer, and then burst into tears, saying : "O Lord, I ask you, as many times as there are grains of sand on the sea-shore, to forgive me for being so bad ; " and that prayer I continued to say for years afterwards. Sometimes I would change it by saying : " A million times as many as there are grains of sand on the sea-shore, and drops of water in the ocean." The next day after I had heard of my father's death, I answered my sister's letter. Part of my letter I composed myself, and a part of it was dictated. I recollect, that whenever I wrote my father's name, I would begin it with a capital letter, and would commence all other names with small letters. That was one way of showing to my father more honor and affection, than to any one else. For a long while 1 could not play, but would go out into the woods and weep, without speaking to any one, except my father, whom J imagined to be near me. , . ,, One day Uncle Horace told me, that every good action was recorded in the book of life, and so was every bad one ; and that, after death, we were all to be judged from the record of that book. I said to myself, that I would go to work and try to have more good marks, than bad ones. So I took up the New Testament and began to read. After I had read a chapter, I ran to ask my aunt if she believed, that Goc would give me a good mark for every chapter 1 read in the Bible. She said : " Certainly." I went back and began to read again ; and, aa I read, I felt a glow around my heart ; it was a feeling I had nevei experienced before, and, in spite of the thought of my (lather's deaths i GOOD MARKS. 'S said my in which 1 lUght, that , if I were Dent of all and, feel- k, that he rayer, and lany times i for being ifterwards. s as many ater in the answered and a part ny father's commence f showing ;e. into the my father, ,s recorded r death, we to myself, than bad ad. After that Goc the Bible, in ; and, aa had nevei er's death, I was consoled. I no longer wished him back ; and I was impressed with the assurance, that I should meet him in Heaven. I did not finish the chapter, before I went to my aunt again, and asked her if God would give me a good mark for every 7Jerse I might read. Again she said: "Yes." I went back, feeling happier than ever, took up the Bible, and felt such joy, that I skijiped about a few moments be- fore 1 commenced to read. I then hardly read three verses before 1 ran to my aunt again, and asked, if He would give me a good mark for every word I might read. She said, "Yes, yes." "Why," said I, " how good He is ! " and the warmth around my heart began to increase. I was so happy, that I could not sit still and read. So I read and walked the floor, until I was tired. I then went to a room where my aunt was busily engaged. She said impatiently : "If you bother me so, God will givc^ you a black mark." I instantly felt a sharp pain around my heart. For I would have denied myself any- thing at that moment, sooner than offend God. I told her, that I came only to look on, and not to talk. Then I said to myself: " You will not give me a black mark now, will you, God?" I continued reading the Bible with this same intention for several weeks ; and every time I felt the same glow around my heart. : CHAPTER VII. • ; \, "DEACON DOT." — MY CHILDHOOD'S RELIGION. ' ' * : My father had not been long dead, when one day, at a short distance from the house, I was gathering fruit. I was here accosted by our neighbor, Mr. " Dot," a man of fifty, and a leader in the Methodist church. He made advances and attempted familiarities too unworthy of his age and his professions. - . ' ^^ • .• ' 'm.^ nvc. These I instantly resented and began to weep. Then to soothe me, and to purchase my silence, he poured out the berries, he had jjathered, into my basket. In obedience to his injunctions, the very next day I told all the school children, and shortly afterward my aup.t Mercy.. She could hardly believe me ; yet she and my uncle thought proper to watch ; and they one day detected him in the act of at- tempting similar familiarities. 30 THE FEAR OF THE LORD. ! !(■ ' The man sobbed and begged for mercy, while my uncle and aunt, in no measured language, rated him for the strange discrepancy be- tween his practice and the religion he professed. For several days he had long talks with them in secret ; until, at last, they yielded to his entreaties, and promised not to expose him, and cautioned me to never let the secret escape my lips. This event awakened my uncle and aunt to the consciousness of the great responsibility they had assumed in undertaking to bring up a girl ; and, from that moment, they began to talk to me frequently about the hai)piness of the good and the torments of the sinful ; and, holding this man up to me as an example of wickedness, they tried to instil into my mind the truths of Christianity. Wlien they spoke to me of God, they always taught me to fear Him, and never talked to me of loving Him ;yet they would often refer to the love of God for u^ . In speaking of our Saviour they would always refer to His divinity, and but little to His sacred humanity. They dwelt upon the truth that Christ is God ; but this they seemed to understand, as if the human nature had been changed into the divine. They did not seem to appreciate, that if Christ is God, it is only because God became man, and is man. And least of all did they seem to realize, that the divine person, in uniting a human nature to the divine in unity of person, made His own the actions and sufferings of that human nature, the thoughts of that human mind, and the affections of that human heart. Under their teaching I learned the truth, that Christ is the C-eator, most powerful, omniscient, and Lord ; but I did not un erstand, that in Christ the eternal wisdom and love of His divine nature were translated by the divinity itself into the thoughts of a human mind and the affections of a human heart, so that on account of the unity oi person these thoughts and affections were the thoughts and affec- tions of a God; and while the divine nature in itself could not suffer nor labor, yet in His human nature God was truly sad and weary, and labored and suffered, and grieved and wept and died. I feared Christ as my judge, rather than loved Him as my Saviour. I felt, that it wculd be presumption in me to pity one so great and mighty ; that I had great need of His mercy, but that he could not need, and could hardly desire my compassion. Such were the ideas of God, which gave shape to the religion of V 9 i SELFISH PIETY. 31 my childhood. I do not mean to imply, that my teachers entirely ignored, much less that they denied, the humanity of Christ and all its logical consequences ; but in the Sunday-school, and in my uncle's house, such, as I have described, was the tendency of the teaching, or, at least, this was the way in which my infant mind sei/.ed the instruction. In their efforts to enlighten me in regard to the truths of the gos- ])el, they awakened no emotion of love in my breast for God. So long as I could keep His threats in my mind, I tried to obey Him ; but in this I was actuated by self-love ; for I feared hell only for its torments, and 1 longed for heaven only to join my father. I soon began to call on God for everything. When I went out to gather berries, I would call on Him to lead me where 1 would find the most fruit. Sometimes I would thank the Lord for every berry I gathered ; and it is a well-known fact, that I used to gather more fruit, than any other child in the country. I was renowned for it ; but I was selfish ; for I never told my secret, lest the other children should ask Him, and He would help them too. CHAPTER Vni. THE ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. We had been for months expecting a letter from my father's brothers. It came at last. It was from my uncle Milton, who said, that my father had died penniless ; that all his children were illegitimate ; and that they had no claims on the St. John family, who refused to eithei recognize or assist them. A few weeks after my uncle Milton had written, my uncle Chaun cey St. John and his wife made their country cousins a visit, and told them how my father had forsworn himself, to pass off Maria Monk's child as his own ; and that she was the mother of his two children. Although it was only months afterwards, that I learned all this, yet I began immediately to feel the evil effects of this visit on myself; for the family did not attempt to conceal their indignation against ray ( Vt I n III 32 THE SINS OF TH* tiNTS.' father But what mystified them was, tnat I should not have remem." bered my mother ; and, for a long while, they thought, that 1 must be some other woman's child. One day my aunt began to question me, and asked if I remem- bered my mother. I denied at first all rememDrance of her. She then told me what my uncle Chauncey had said. When I saw, that she knew so much, I told her all about my mother. " What ! " she exclaimed, " you, but a child, could be so deep, as to deceive us all in this way so long. Why did you just now deny, that you knew anything about your mother ?" I was on the point of telling her, that I had done so in obedience to my father; when she commenced to talk of the dreadful punishment, which awaits all liars, and said, that if my father had not sworn to a lie, we might have been respectable children ; for my uncle Chauncey had said, that it might be true, that he was married, but, as he had forsworn himself, the executors had refused to recognize his children as heirs, unless he should prove his marriage, which my father would not do. She told me, that my uncle Chauncey had repeatedly spoken of the strong re- semblance, which I bore to the St. Johns ; but, as my aunt had as- sured him, that I had forgotten my mother, and that she had died when I was very young ; they had felt sure that I was not one of the children, whose names had been registered and then crossed olif. I wept bitterly at my aunt's taunts, and begged her to forgive me. I promised, that I would never deceive her again ; I threw my arms around her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away, declaring that she would never believe another word I said. I had to bear it all, and I never told her, that my father had strictly forbidden both Georgina and myself ever to mention our mother's name. My brother could not remember her. Aunt Mercy tried hard to make me understand what an illegiti- mate child was, but she could only explain the word as a dictionary would have done. She knew only the name ; but the venom had never reached har ; she had never felt the sting. She told me, it is true, how the world turns its back on those whom Providence places under the ban by this name; but she did not tell me the heart-rend- ing sufferings to which the illegitimate child is heir. It is only those, who have lain beneath its pall, that can ever know the extent and constancy of the tortures covered by this ignominious title. Not only does the world shun them, but the very blood of their kindred NO NAME. 33 curdles against them, a.s a living reproach to their own unsullied name. Nor is I he measure of their miseries full in being bereft of fortune, honor, and affection. The interests of society require, that they shall not share that, which in one or two syllables conveys to the legitimate child so much of the history of its blood ; that, which €on- tains so much of warning or incitement; that, which strikes so many ender cords of the sweetest ties of kindred and affection — a nanje. The illegitimate child must have no name, or only one, that either tells a lie or says nothing. P'or it is a sort of theft practised on their kin- dred, if these children dare to take the name of their own father. Their kindred too often seem to find it easier to forgive the sin of the parent, than the pertinacity of the children in clinging to life. The world seems to consider the blunder of their existence as " worse than a crime," and punishes it accordingly. There is seldom any hand, however feeble, raised in defence of the illegitimate child. ' : .. :,. It certainly is but proper, that the secret sin of the parent should be concealed, as far as is consistent with justice and kindness to the innocent. But is it not characteristic of the pride and selfishness of the world, that, while it is so ready to condone the sin, it can be so hard and cruel to the child, who by its mere existence may be the unwilling, even unconscious, means of revealing it ? But why dwell on the hardness of remoter kindred, when this same pride and selfishness so turn awry the current of natural affection in the parents them- selves, who are often the first to abandon it ? The smiles and ca- resses of such a child become to them reproaches ; and, to drown re- morse in forgetfulness, they will abandon their offspring to the hands of strangers, and oftener to the still colder hands of public charity. Should such a child inherit only low and grovelling instincts from parents, who abandon it, and kindred, who oppress it ; its lot, in the worldly view, were even, then hardly so pitiful, as when nature en- kindles in its breast a spark of her sacred flame, to make it aspire to something higher and nobler. The world, or rather society, too in- different to give its hate, will give but grudgingly that fame, which is its highest incentive and reward, and that credit, which is due to moral energy and real worth. Even now I can hear the world's familiar words, — they have often grated on my heart, — " It is always so with illegitimate children. They are always more clever than others. Pity that it should be so ; 34 CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR. : but so it is." * Of course you couldn't be other than intelligent, m/ dear." Thus will society encourage the efforts of the illegitimate child, too often i)aralyzing its energies and stifling in their conception its generous resolves to persevere and overcome misfortune. If it does persevere, it will, find society but too ready, at the very hour of , triumph, to force upon its brow an ignominious crown, putting the sin and shame, in which it was conceived, above the honor of a life of toil and sacrifice. Well will it be for that child, if it will learn at the same time the true secret of misfortune's triumph from Him, the triumph of whose kingdom the world signalized by a reed sceptre, and a crown of thorns, and an inscription derisive of His royalty, as it did Him to death on a gibbet. It is His heart alone, and hearts modelled upon His, that can sympathize aright with these children of misfortune, who have been nourished on the bread of suffering from the very dawn of their existence. Yes, it is the Christian alone who can truly tell why hearts must first be hollowed out by the hand of af- fliction before they can receive that true light and that strength of will, which will ever bear them onward and upward. For it is always suffering, or rather the cross of Jesus Christ, which, in striking our hearts, brings forth their latent fires, and awakens to supernatural energy minds, that might have remained forever dormant, had they been bred only in the lap of luxury and pleasure. But, while the cross is blessed for the heroic souls, that bear it, yet will God not hold guiltless the heartless world, that crucifies them. In vain does the world attempt to exonerate -itself by scriptural phrases, which, it pretends, authorize its cruelty towards the illegiti- mate child. Invvain will it tell you, with the Bible in its hand, that they are the children of sin, and that it is the law of God's provi- dence, that they should suffer for the sins of their parents. Too well do we know, that God's providence permits all this, and reverently do we bow to His dispensations. But from that very legacy of hereditary woe itself, have they not all the greater claim upon Christian charity ? Do the holy Scriptures tell us to judge one another? Do they tell us to mete out to these children the punishment due to the sins of their parents ? Do they not strictly forbid us to judge one another, and command us to leave that to God ? It is willing instruments of his mercy, and not of His justice, that God seeks among men. Let these would be followers of God hum- "\ THE PLAINT OF NOBODY'S CHILD, 35 bly acknowledge their own unwoithiness and offer Him their grate fill thanks, that, in His mercy. He has spared them a similar misfor tune. By their charity to the less fortunate let them try to win for themselves His love, and His protection against the hour of temp- tation, when, if not assisted by His grace, they too might entail upon the innocent that inheritance of ^suft'ef ijig, which is inseparable from the lot of an illegitimate child. * - ''' - CHAPTER IX. nobody's child. From that, for me, fatal day my aunt conceived a dislike for me, which she never tried to conceal. She attempted to treat me with justice, but she never offered me one word of sympathy or affection. She felt, that I was bad, and that I deserved to suffer. But my worst enemy, that was lodged in my own breast, was aroused by such treatment. My wounded pride, made me reckless and obstinate ; and its exhibitions were sure ever to bring down upon me new humiliations and trials, as galling to my pride, as they were repulsive to my will. I would go into the woods, where I had passed so many happy hours in sportive dalliance with nature ; but, instead of songs and laughter and the merry words of childhood, those rocks and hillsides would echo back my wails of impotent rage, and my imprecations against God and those, whom I had learned to fear. I began to hate God, and would often reproach Him for permit- ting me to be an orphan, and poor, and the daughter of Maria Monk. I dreaded the very sight, too, of that home, where, but a few months before, 1 had been so happy, but within whose walls now I 'ound nothing but suffering. My aunt was sorely vexed to see me so dejected. She thought, that 1 assumed this air, to annoy her ; and by injurious words she would try to force me to be natural. But my answers would so exasperate her, that sometimes she would strike me, and nearly stun me with one blow. To punish my pride, she would force me to work, 1 m f^'f til il 36 THE WOLF AND THE LAMB. and do the most menial services about the house ; but she little understood all, that I was writhing under, and how I was goaded by the sense of shame. Even the school-children knew, that my mother was Maria Monk : they used to throw it in my face, and cal' me a bastard ; and as I therefore became just as bad at school, as I was at home, my conduct there made me generally disliked. As soon as I had become misfortune's mark, all my ways were scrutinized, and faults, which would have been easily overlooked, when my father lived, were exaggerated into crimes, the moment I became an object of charity. The children would keep away from me and tell me, that theit parents had forbidden them to associate with me. They would taunt me, and ask me, what was my name, and would tell me, that they knew it was not St. John ; that I was a girl without a name. Sometimes the school-children would whisper among themselves, and I would overhear my mother's name ; she would then appear before me in one of her most hideous forms, and I could see her again, as I had seen her in her drunkenness, when she would seize me, beat me, and curse me at every blow. When I would hear that name on the children's lips, it would humiliate me so, that I would have gladly gone back to her, and have borne all of Maria Monk's cruelty, rather than be known to any one else as Maria Monks daughter. CHAPTER X. .THE WOLF STRIPPED OF SHEEP's CLOTHING. — I MAKE A RESOLUTION. Mv greatest persecutor was Deacon " Dot." He never forgave me the wrong he had attempted to do me, and the exposure, which at the time had threatened him. My father and mother were spoken of ' } him in most abusive language, and he did everything to make their faults reflect on me. My aunt Mercy became indignant, and was imprudent enough to exclaim, in the presence of my aunt Caro- line (my uncle Orin's wife), that he had better beware, for she knew enough about him, to expel him from the church. One day my aunt Caroline asked me, if I could imagine what my aunt Mercy neant by speaking so of Brother Dot. RETRIBUTION. 37 I was fond of boasting, and I was rejoiced to tell her, that I knew all. But I refused to tull her what it was. She did everything to wrest the secret from me. I had always loved my aunt Caroline, and had once cut off my hair and given it to her, to make herself a wig, as she expressed a wish to have it. For weeks and weeks I resisted all her arts to make me tell the secret. She showered upon nie every kindness, until, in a moment cf weakness, I told her all. She immediately communicated it to tht leading members of the church, and in le.Js than a month it was the talk of the town. If I resisted her so long, it was not thav I dreaded the conse- quences to myself. I did not imagine, that the knowledge of what iiad occurred could injure me. But Uncle Horace and Aunt Mercy had both told me, at the time of the occurrence, how they would be compromised, if what had happened were made known, as it was their duty to expose the man to the church. The church took the matter up. Uncle Horace and Aunt Mercy were simimoned before a committee of the select members of the congregation. They made a true, simple statement of the facts, and Brother Dot was expelled. My uncle and aunt were censured for having concealed his fault, and my aunt Caroline was commended for having disclosed it. I was now thirteen years old, and no one stopped to think, that all this had happened when I was but ten years of age, in fact, a mere child ; and as every body disliked me, they all said, that I was already as corrupt and depraved as my mother. Everybody sympathized with the *' Brother," and not one voice was raised in my defence. It became at last almost impossible for me to go anywhere, without being insulted. A certain rich farmer and his family, who were among the most estimable members of the Methodist church, were the most vehe- ment in declaiming against the injustice and injury done to brother Dot, and the readiest to vent indignation on my defenceless head. I will here advance a few years in my story to complete this man and " brother's " history. Before three years had passed, Dot was openly accused of having ruined Ml'^s , the sister of the rich farmer, his friend and benefactor. The family prosecuted him. He was tried by a jury and found guilty, and would have been con- i*mned to the penitentiary. But he died the same night, that he was co^-^victed. It has been supposed by many, that he committed suicide. To retu n to my story, my life now became wretched in the ex- ,^S30W" mSL'smssmifM tc^atvacKOBSdina 38 SIGHING FOR LIBERTY. p ■ 1 trenie. No child would speak to me at school, except io insult me ; and the hoys would hoot at me, as I passed along, and would make the most indecent gestures accompanied with the vilest language. One day I begged my aunt to let me leave the place. Siie asked me where I would go, and said that no one, who had ever 'icard of me before, would take me, and that strangers would want to knov^ all about me. As for herself, she could not say anything in my favor ; so that she did not see any other place for me but the poor-huuse. If 1 chose to go ^here I might. I answered by saying, that 1 would run away at the iirst chance. ** Yes," she replied, " do it if you dare ; and the State will seize you as a vagrant, and bind you out to some family until you are eighteen." This frightened me, for I knew several orphan girls, who had been bound out by the State until they were eighteen ; and they were treated like slaves. " So," said I, " I cannot do as I please, until I am eighteen : I have five years more, therefore, and then I shall be free." I went away by myself, and, after shedding a flood of tears, I became somewhat resigned to my lot, and began to think how I could pass the time, until the five years had rolled round. Five years at that age seemed like an eternity. But hope filled my heart and. began to infuse into me an indomitable eneigy, which enabled me to resist and«to fight against my destiny. I made a resolution not to be sad, nor to care for any thing or anybody ; since I saw, that there was not one on earth, who cared for me. CHAPTER XI. THE TRIBULATIONS OF BETSY DOT. From that hour there was nothing bad, which it was in my power to do, and which could give me a moment's gratification, that I did not do ; and the more mischief there was in the thing, the more I enjoyed it. I did not care for the consequences. To experience a moment's pleasure, I would risk any punishment, I became as adroit as a Spartan thief; and the only sense of shame, I ever felt, for all my evil deeds, was when T did them so bunglingly, that I could be found out. Then I blushed at my want of caution, and would be more angry with myself than those who reproved me. SWEET REVENGE. 39 My aunt soon noticed a marked change in me, and was not long in discerning, that it was boldly for the worse. But this, instead of increasing her bad opinion of me, only gave her encouragement ; for she thought, that I was becoming less deceitful and less hypocritical. I'^rom that time I was more to be feared than despised ; and I soon became the terror of the neighbors, by reason of the mischievous tricks 1 would play upon them, to avenge the slightest offence. Mrs. Dot, the wife of the " deacon," one day made two charges against me, of both of which I was innocent. One was that, instead of going into the woods to gather berries, I had gathered them in her garden ; for she had seen little tracks in the ploughed ground. The other charge was, that I had stolen a piece of rag-carpet for my play-house ; for she had found it among the rocks. In return for the first injury, I never let an opportunity slip of gathering her fruit : and, to disguise my tracks, I would put on an old pair of men's boots. As to the other charge, it seemed to me, that no ordinary revenge was sufficient to repair my wounded honor. The idea of my stealing a piece of old rag-carpet was too much for my pride ; and I could hardly rest iii my perplexity to devise a punishment equal to the offence. • One morning I saw all the people go to a funeral, leaving nobody in the neighborhood but Aunt I.avinia and myself. I felt, that my hour had come. The *'Dot" family had a favorite cat, a tremen- dous animal, which they had educated, petted, and doted upon for years. My first exploit was to catch this cat, tie it up together with a big stone in a bag, and throw it into the pond. Then I determined to get into the house, and made a thorough survey of the premises. The weaving-room was on the first floor in the rear. In one of the side windows, close to the door, a pane of glass had been broken, and its place supplied by an old straw hat. As I found the window fastened, I pushed in the hat, thrust my arm through the place of the broken pane, pulled out a corn-cob, that was placed in the staple to fasten the door, and then went in. Betsy Dot's loom contained a piece of white flannel, which she was weaving for the Ketchums, the aristocrats of Dutchess ; and Mrs. Dot was taking all pains to make a beautiful piece of cloth, to secure their patronage. She had left everything in the room in perfect order. I spooled ii! 40 WOOF AND WARP. some yarn for the shuttle, and snarled all the other skeins I could find. I then began to weave, but with great difficulty ; for, on ac- count of the shortness of my arms, I had to push the shuttle from one side and pull it from the other. In ])ulling it through, I drew fhe thread tight, so as to make the edge of the piece as uneven as possible. I wove about the eighth of a yard ; and I could put my fingers into the holes, which I left by not fastening the thread, when it broke. Getting tired of weaving, I threw the shuttle across the room, where it fell behind a box ; and I turned everything in the room topsy- turvy. I then threaded a darning-needle with a long piece of yarn, at- tached the thread to the crown of the hat, stuck the needle into the sash by the broken pane, went out, and from the window fastened the door with the corn-cob, with the thread pulled up the hat and placed it just as I had found it, broke off the yarn and threw the needle into the pig-pen, and then went home and remained with my Aunt Lavinia the rest of the day. She begged me to go away and not worry her ; but I kept near by, and she could not get rid of me. The next morning, as I saw Betsy Dot coming, with head erect and quickened step, towards our house, I felt a weakness coming over my limbs, and sat down, trying to look unconcerned. The woman entered, and looking unutterable things, commenced : "Well, you have done it this time I This beats all the capers /ever heard of in my born days." She went on in this strain until my Aunt Mercy interrupted her, bidding her to tell what the child had done. They must see for themselves, she said, for no one could believe it on her word alone. And forthwith she told her story. ; In answer to my aunt's interrogations, I said : " Mrs. Dot is bound to get me into trouble. She accuses me of stealing first her berries and then her carpet ; and now she says I have been helping her to weave." At my mention of the word carpet, " Ah 1 " exclaimed Dame Dot, •* you vixen ! I know now what you did it for ; " and she began another rolley of objurgation far more forcible, than elegant. Aunt Lavinia, who was -ery much given to scolding me herself, would tal ; my part against any one else. She protested, that I had not left the house. '* I told her several times to go out," said she^ AN ALIBI. 41 " but it is well that she stayed wit i me, since people are so ready to invent charges against her." My Aunt Mercy remarked, that to leave the house open was to invite strangers in ; and it was just as likely, that somebody else should be the culprit. "That is the strangest thing of all," screamed Betsy, stamping her foot indignantly, " that I found every door and window fastened just as I had left them ; so that she must have come down the chimney or have false keys." My aunt then doubted the whole story ; and, as Aunt I,avinia had proved an alibi for me, I was honorably acquitted. CHAPTER XII. MY mother's tragic END. Mv sister and I had corresponded regularly ; but I had never led her to suspect how miserable I was. She used to send me news- papers ; sometimes the ^'' Home Journal" but constantly the '■'■Flag of Our Union," a journal entirely devoted to romances and trash. I had found a large number of books stored in a closet. They had been left by my cousin Lorin, a Methodist minister. I would take some of the papers and books into the woods ; and instead of gather- ing fruit, for which I was sent, I would read most of the time. Although in my fourteenth year, I would play school with the trees and the bushes ; and, while reading to them, I always took a note of the words I did not understand, and would look up their meaning in the dictionary, when I got home, and would explain them to the trees, when I returned to the woods. The novels had filled my head with romantic ideas, and I used to imagine myself some meek Cinderella, and a gallant knight falling in love with me and carrying me off. I was constantly cofjying much of what I had read, so as to learn how to spell. When my aunt would scold me for wasting so much paper, and would refuse to give me more, 1 would tear the blank leaves from all the books I could find ; and, after they were consumed, I would still continue to copy off whole pages on the margin of news- papers. One day my aunt caught me with a book on mythology, which I •ov^ w 42 MY SISTER AGAIN, ,1 . (4 ' i 1 1 1 ). 1: ■ ii had found in the closet. She asked me what I was reading, and snatched it out of my hand. I told her, that it was a very pious book, which spoke of nothing but gods. She took it from me, say- ing, that I was heathen enough, without learning their religion ; and I had better stick to my sewing, instead of filling my head with such trash. She condemned the book : that was a sufficient reason to make me like it ; and I studied it until I knew it by heart. One day I found my sister at the house. We had not seen each other, since my father died. After my father's death, she had passed through many vicissitudes, and at last learned a trade, and was then earning her living at the straw-hat business. 1 was delighted to see her, and we embraced as affectionately, as though we had always been the best of friends. She never would have known me, she said. My nose had become much less of a pug, and the whole outlines of my face had altered. Yet I was still very slight, short, and thin. I did not see her alone, till we went to bed. The first thing I did, was to put my arms around her, and ask her to tell me all about my father's death. She answered sharply : " Never mention his name to me ; for I hate him ; it was a good thing for both of us that he died. I don't see how you could love such a man !" 1 had never heard one word of the particulars of my father's death. I had longed for years to speak with my sister about him. Her answer broke the slender tie of affection, which our correspondence had caused to grow between us, and time has never reunited it. As soon as I recovered myself, — for I was choked with grief; — 1 ventured to say to her : " But how much he loved you ! and how good he was to you ! " She replied : " He loved me more, than he did his own children, and his dying words were : ' I know that my children will be well cared for, but what will become of Georg- ina?'" "Those were his dying words!" I exclaimed. "Yes," she replied, "he repeated them till he died." "But," said i, " how then can you hate him ? " She answered : " How can yoti love him ? " and she began to enumerate his faults ; faults, of which I knew nothing ; but I only wept the harder, and loved him more, when I found, that she had shed no tear for him. I spoke of his krndness to the poor. " Ah," said she, " that was the worst fault he had ; he would give away his last penny, and leave his children to Btarve." "THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR." 4$ I asked my sister about our mother ; where she was living, and if she was as bad as ever. She lost control over her temper, and answered angrily : " I don't believe, that you even take tiie trouble to read my letters ; for I wrote to you, over two years ago, that she was dead." I told her, that I had received a letter, in which she had merely said : " Your parents are both dead now ; " and that I thought she had written thus, to blind the country people, who might want to find my mother, in order to send me to her. I then made haste to soothe my sister by saying, that I was very glad, that our mother was dead. I felt, that, if she was glad at tny father's death, because he was bad, she must be more glad, that our mother was dead. But, as I said the words, she pushed her hand towards me, as though she^'ould strike me. " Yes," said she, "you are like everybody else ; you blame her for everything. She was not half as bad, as your father." " She was bad enough, anyhow ; " said I, "and, if she had beaten you, as she beat me, you would not love her much." " She hated you," she answered, " because you were St. John's child. She knew, that it would be found out, that I was not his child. She was afraid, that you might rise above me some day ; and, to avert that danger, she exposed your father's perjury. But," she continued, '* if you knew how our mother repented, before she died, of all, that she had done, you would not feel as you do towards he ' . c grieved her to death, to be separated from her children ; and the one thing, that prevented 4ier from killing herself, was the hope of seeing them once more. This separation drove her to distraction ; and she died msane on Blackwell's Island. After her death, your let- ter, in answer to mine informing you of your father's death, was found in her bosom ; and it was buried with her." When my sister told me this, I wept bitterly. In that moment I forgave my mother everything. I felt, in spite of her faults, the in tensest pity for her suffering ; for 1 too had suffered ; and, if she had been alive at that hour, I would have gone to her. My sister told me, that the money, which she had received from the sale of my father's pictures and clothing, she had divided with our mother ; that she used to give her a part of her wages, when she was only earning six shillings a week ; and that she had clung to her, as 'ong as she lived. My mother had often been arrested for intemperance ; and my sis n I' . i\ If 44 A MANIAC'S CELL. ter had always done everything possible for her, while in prison. The keepers would try to keep her away ; saying, that it was no place foi a girl like her to come to. But Georgina would beg so hard, to see her mother, that they would relent, and admit her, and the warden would treat our mother more kindly on her account. At last, when my mother was sent to Blackwell's Island, my sister would often prevail upon the boatmen to let her go over with the convicts ; and, when she got there, our mother would be always wait- ing for her ; and her first words would be : " Have you heard from the children? When shall I see them again ? " ■> • My sister told me, that our mother had repented of her bad life ; that she had made several efforts to reform, since my father had aban- doned her ; that no one would help her ; and that she drank to drown her thoughts. In her last imprisonment, as she could not get liquor, and could not banish thought, remorse and grief h:d driven her insane. If she had not been sent to the " Island," d'lt might have died of exposure and starvation. For no one would employ her, or offer her a night's lodging ; and hardly anyone would give her a mor- sel of bread. A thrill of horror shot through nie, at the dreadful recital of my mother's last days ; yet I could not but feel, that there was a retribu. tive justice in her tragic end. I understood not .then the nature of her chief offence ; and I thought, that she must have been punished for her cruel treatment of my father and myself. A remark to this effect, which escaped me, enraged my sister; and shvi began to heap blame upon my father. Besides, my mother's own mother had always been cruel to her, and had turned her into the street, when but a mere child. " What," I exclaimed, ** had she a dad mother too ? Then I pity ner." I wanted to say, but I dared not : " Why did she not treat lier own child better, having suffered so herself?" I tried to quiet my sister ; for she had become very excited, and said, that she wished, she had never come near me ; that she thought, by my letters, I must Iwive changed ; but she found me the same torment I had ever been, since I was born. Thus the conversation ended. It was not renewed, until sixteeu years later ; when my sister disclosed to me other facts, in regard to my mother, which I will reserve for their proper place. FORGIVENESS. '-^^-} 45 Maria Monk is now long dead. Her spirit passed away in a criminal maniac's cell. She was my mother, and I hated /ler. But another mother has since taught me, that I must love my erring parents, altliough their vicious lives bequeathed to me a triple orphanage in bereavement, shame, and misery. She has taught me not to judge my mother's soul, but to leave her to her God. His creatures know not that soul's temptations, nor the graces He may have bestowed on it, at the last hour. We know, that she had a cruel mother, and had been misfortune's prey, from her childhood. We know how she lived, and erred, and suffered, and died. But we do no/ know whether suffering did not wring from her wretched heart the tear of true repentance, which can cleanse and soften the hardest heart. We know, that God is ever good and merciful ; and we do no/ know, that Christ may not have taken pity on her tears, and descended in mercy to breathe upon that dying maniac's brow peace and pardon for her sinful soul. . .. ' .. i CHAPTER XHI. everybody's hand against me, and mine against everVbody. • My aunt soon discovered how much my sister disliked me ; and there sprang up a strong intimacy between them. My sister ex- changed stories with her, and gave her a long account of my early delinqencies. I had nearly driven my mother wild ; and there had never been any peace in the house while I was in it. I was just like my father ; and would probably turn out just as he had, if left to have my own way. My mother had always predicted, that I would come to some bad end. ^^^.^v*;-: ; v ^ . . , .. ^... ■■ I began to wish, that my sister had not come ; and I longed for her departure. After she left, my lot became harder, than before. My aunt was determined to conquer me ; and showed me no mercy. She often repeated to me, that my sister had rold her, that she must not pay any attention to my tears, which I had always at command. She now made me go barefooted ; and when there was company, I was not permitted to sit at the table ; and when her nieces would coaie, 46 VANITY VERSUS NATURE. t I / lU who were about my age, and had always been try playmates, sh». would not permit me to play with them or sleep with them. She kept me continually in the kitchen. In spite of my earnest determination to be happy, all this would gall me ; and I would weep at night, long after the rest were asleep. My aunt Lavinia died ; and I was left a great deal alone. My aunt and uncle visited a great deal ; and I would be left whole days by my- self. I would pass a part of my time studying, and the other jjart looking in the glass. I had heard a great mcny say, that I was grow- ing handsome. This turned my head ; for I had always been taunt- ed with my ugly looks. I no sooner discovered, that I was admired, than 1 commenced building castles in the air, and imagining myself the wife of a prince. I no longer thought of Nature ; and would pass a greater part of my spare time trying to arrange my hair becomingly, making muslin mittens to protect my hands and arms from the sun, and arranging ruffles and trinkets of all sorts, with which to adorn myself. One of the first things my sister had said, on seeing me, was : " But where is your pug-nose ?" " It is gone," I replied ; but I did not tell her how it had gone. I will here make the confession to the reader. The school-children used to tease me on account of my ill-shaped nose ; and would make horrid profiles on their slates, and write my name under them. So I determined to bring my nose down into proper proportions. At night I would take a long p'rter and fasten it around my face, drawing it so tightly over the of my nose, that I could hardly breathe through my nostrils. 'ring the day I used to pull on the nose. In two years I succeeded, o the pug had disappeared. How much did I not suffer for this vanity ! It would often bleed copiously. But it never hurt me half so much, to bring my nose into shape, as it did to look into the glass and see, that the school-children had been drawing correct likenesses of me. I always carried a little comb, with a looking-glass attached, in my pocket ; and, even in the woods, I passed a great part of the time looking at myself. The more perverted I became, the more I became puffed up with self-esteem, and the greater became my contempt for my persecutors ; and the more they shunned me, the more I esteemed myself above them. THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 47 I was determined to gather all the knowledge I could, and to do my own will ; no matter how many stripes it might cost me ; for I knew, that I never could be a lady, unless I was educated ; and I could not educate myself, and perform faithfully, the duties my aunt set before me. I felt, that my whole future was at stake ; and I set myself earnestly to work at my task. I would take a book with me wher- e/er I went. After passing the whole day and returning with little" fruit, a sharp reprimand was sure to await me ; but by the force of my will I rendered myself deaf to my aunt's vehement threats and just reproaches. She supposed my silence was actuated by a fear to provoke her more, and a desire to calm her anger ; which it often had the effect of doing. But the good woman little knew, that while I stood before her, my mind was far away, imagining myself courted and beloved by some noble heart, that would lead me to the altar, where would be blotted out the name, they so much grudged me, and I should be raised above my misery and shame. Sometimes my very listless- ness would provoke my aunt the more, and she would give vent to her indignation by giving me a push, that would send me reeling across the floor. CHAPTER XIV. MY UNCLE IS OF OPtNION, THAT THE DEVIL MUST HAVE BEEN BORM IN ME. One day I was ramtling in the forest. It was early spring ; and the trees were just putting forth their leaves and blossoms. Yielding to the influences ot the time and the place, I fell to building castles in the air ; in the building of -which the new self-consciousness produced by my vanity had no small part. I alternated my reveries with the ad- miring of myself in the little glass. But my dreams were suddenly interrupted, and my castles destroyed, by the dread of my aunt's dis- pleasure, when I remembered, that, meanwhile, I had neglected an errand, upon which she had sent me. I looked round, for sympathy, to the trees, and talked to them, as of old. But a change seemed to have come over them. For though all was beautiful, as ever, yet nature did not breathe happiness and joy to me, as she had done be« 48 I MAKE A VOW. ^ill fore ; and I wondered, that my spirit could be darkened, in the midst of all that I loved. I childishly wondered, could the winter just passed have chilled nature's love for me. I knew not then, that it was my own heart, that was chilled by the breath of pride, which, drawing me to self, must needs draw me from the heart of nature ; of which can be said, what was said of the Wisdom, that created it, that its conversation is vith the simple. I suddenly exclaimed : " I know what it is, old friends ! you despise my cowardly fear of that woman. But now I swear to you, that I will never show my face among you, if I permit her to strike me, without returning the blow." I raised my hand, as I swore, and sealed the vow by kissing myself in the glass. Then I threw a kiss towards the mountains, and ran home with the courage of a lion. But, strange to say, my aunt received me with more than wonted kindness. I had met Aunt Huldah one day, and shown her the marks, which Aunt Mercy's lashes had recently left on my arm. She was much moved at the sight, and told me to come to her, if any one should treat me so again. Days, weeks, and months, passed without blows ; and I feared that I should never have an excuse to flee to Aunt Huldah's protection. When summer came, I was no longer sent to school ; *id would spend most of my time in the woods ; where from May till October, I went to gather berries in their season. I drove the cows to and from pasture ; and would have to sit for hours on the lawn, watching for the swarming of the bees. But amid these occupations I was ever eager to learn, and found constant companionship in my books. One Sunday I heard a Methodist minister denounce Voltaire from the pulpit. It was the first time I had ever heard the name. He commenced by saying : " Voltaire was a philosopher ! " and he re- peated the sentence. " What a beautiful name 1 " I exclaimed to myself. He spoke of Voltaire's learning, his genius, and the wonder- ful versatility of his gifts. Then he denounced him, as the worst of men, for having abused these gifts for the destruction of the Christian religion ; and concluded by describing his death-bed as most wretched and harrowing. The sound of Voltaire's name had charmed me : in spite of all the minister said against him, I was irresistibly drawn to wards the rnan, whose name was Voltaire. I kept thinking of the name, and of what the preacher had said. Weeks afterwards, I VOLTAIRE. 49 asked my uncle, what Voltaire had done, that the minister should abuse him so. My uncle answered, that he was a bad man. But I insisted upon knowing what he had done. My uncle lost patience, and said, that he did not know anything about him, nor did he wish to know : it was enough for him to hear what Brother King, (the preacher), had said ; that was proof enough for him, that Voltaire was a scoundrel. " Yes ; " said I ; *' but perhaps the preacher did not speak the truth." My aunt, who had been hstening to the con- versation, flew into a passion and said : "What, do you_^even dare to doubt the preacher?" "I don't know," said I, "anything about it ; but I felt as though he was lying about the man. What a pretty name he has, Voltaire, Voltaire ! " At these words my uncle joined in with my aunt, and said, that it was plain, that it did me no good to go to meeting; that the devil must have been born in me. " Yes ! " exclaimed my aunt, with a sigh, " it was sufficient, thai Brother King should say, that Voltaire was a sinner, to make her like him ; and she wants to know all about him, in order to imitate him, I suppose." • CHAPTER XV. I KEEP MV vow; BUT LOSE MY FRIENDS. I WAS now in my fifteenth year. One morning, as I was starting for school, my aunt Mercy asked peremptorily for an article., I had been using the day before, and said, that I should not go to school, till I found it. I instantly thought, and said, that she but sought an excuse to keep me home to work. I. She was incensed ; and, seizing me by the arm, she struck me two severe blows over the shoulders with a little stick. In an instant 1 caught her by the hair, and, as she raised her arm to strike another blow, I snatched the stick from her, and broke it over her hi£ad. I then fled to the woods ; where I lurked for several hours; and, in the afternoon, I started for Aunt Huldah's. When I told her, that I had come to live with her, she indignantly commanded me to go home. I reminded her of her promise to take me, if any one should dare to strike me again. She would not admit, that she had made 3 - ;■ 1 .11 m I If ^ . ft 50 AUNT HULDAII AND I. such promise. "And besides," she added, "do you think, that Horace would carry my batter and eggs to the station if I should step in between you and them ? " " Now be a good girl," she said soothingly, *' and run home." She went on to say, that her health was so poor, that she, could not get along without "help," and the father of the " help" would never let her remain in the same house with uie. "And I don't blame him for that;" she added. ■ -*♦ ' 1 offered jto tfike the place of the " help." " What ! " she ex- claimed ; " you be my help ! I wouldn't give a good broom for a dozen like you. Oh, 1 know all about the hard times Mercy has to bring you up. All you care for, is to gad the lots. Nobody could ever make anything decent out of you. One thing is certain, i am not going to be bothered with you." ' ' " But," said I, " I thought you would be good to me on my father's account." She hesitated a moment, shook her head, and said very gravely : " I am nof so sure, that you are /lis child." I still entreated, and said, that I should never go. At last she said : " You will sleep on the door-step then, for I cannot permit you to stay in the house;" and with that she gave me a push toward the door. I had learned from Aunt Huldah, that my brother, the " help," and another girl had gone to the river to fish ; and, when repulsed from her house, I hastened to join ihem. As I went, the country appeared more beautiful, than ever. I felt free once more ; for I was determined to live in the woods, sooner than return to my uncle's house. My bosom began to glow, as it did in former days, when I used to loiter for hours, and converse with nature. The sky was a deep blue, filled with massive snow-white clouds ; and the whole landscape was draped in the varied and beauteous colors peculiar to our American autumn. I paused at every step to look upon the scene, every now and then exclaiming : " Beautiful covmtry I why are not the people like you ? " and I would stoop and kiss the ground I wished, that I too were one with irrational, or even inani mate, nature ; and then my position thrust itself upon me, and I wept. When I reached the river, my brother handed ne his fishing-rod, that I might fish a while. Presently he iinnoyed the two girls by some trifle, and both attacked him. Wlvii^ I saw this, I dropped pole and line into the rtye^, .-^nd to. PLUCK. 51 sprang; upon them. I took my brother away, and sent him home j and then began a furious fight between me and the two girls, whic'n •nded in their running away. When at a safe distance, they loaded me with opprobrious names. On my return, Aunt Huldah received me with open arms ; for my brother had told her how I had fought for him. " Well, you have good blood in you, anyhow ; " said she, " no matter where you come from. 1 will be your friend. I like people, that can fight ; but," she added, " I am afraid, that that is all, that you are good for ; " and she laughed. ' . • My pugnacity purchased me a bed for the night, at least. The next morning Aunt Huldah had come once more to a lively sense of the great inconvenience of protecting me. She offered tc accompany me home ; but I protested that I would never go into the house, unless they would promise never to strike me. When we arrived at the house, my aunt Mercy angrily forbade me to enter, till I should consent to take the whipping and beg par- don on my knees. I defiantly refused to submit, and said, that if they would give me my clothes, I would never trouble them again. My aunt Huldah tried to extenuate her own fault, in harboring me, by telling how she had at first repulsed me ; and to say something in my favor, by telling how well I had fought for my brother. Her tactics did not succeed , for her praises of my pluck but added fuel to their indignation ; and they answered her very sharply. She in return taunted Aunt Mercy for her cruelty to the orphan child of Mr. St. John, and ended by promising to pay my board with any one, who would take me. As my aunt Huldah descended the hill, I took the road towards the mountain, little caring where I went or what became of me. i ."«:') "'; My heaviness d( heart grew less at every step, as I hastened from the house. I walked about a quarter of a mile, and then threw my- self down by the side of the road, under a large chestnut-tree, near to a neat little cottage surrounded by fruit-trees. My heart went out towards that little cottage, and I wished it were mine. I could be perfectly happy, I fancied, if I owned such a home, and could live by myself, and do as I pleased. It was situated in an isolated and picturesque spot. Nature never displayed her charms niore peace- fully and lovingly, than she does, at every season of the year, in the country, which surrounds this little cottage. I would doubt the t: 1 }'.! ii M': 52 HOMELESS. morality of any one, who could stand on that spot, and remftin un* moved at nature's aspect ; whose heart would not instinctively raise itself to God v/ith thankfulness for the gift of life, and sense to enjoy His wondrous works. As I gazed on that lovely landscape, I forgot my wretched existence ; I forgot that 1 was an orphan, with- out a home, and with hardly a friend in the world, i : ,. : , ; ^ . - , When, after a little, I saw that I had attracted the attention of the inmates of the cottage, I walked on until I was out of sight, at a spot, where the road was bordered, on one side, by a ledge of rocks, and, on the other, by a beautiful pond. I sat on the ledge of rocks and looked intently at the reflexion of the sky in the water of the pond ; when suddenly a gust of wind arose, and the placid surface was cov- ered with numberless waves. A tremor came over me : I rushed dowu from the rocks, knelt in the road by the edge of the pond, and burst into a flood of tears. For a moment I was bewildered ; I knew not what had brought me down so suddenly, nor why I wept. I rose to my feet, impatiently dashed the tears from my eyes, and was about to climb the rocks ? .i, when I cast another glance at the water, and again saw the wav^s. I dropped on my knees, buried my face in my hands, and wept long and bitterly. Ah, those waves ! I understood at last. They spoke to me of my father : of the days, when we would cross the river together, and when, as the boat touch- ed the wharf, he would have to drag me along by the hand, as I would linger to catch a last look at the waves. I remained on my knees looking at the waves for a long time : every ripple would bring a fresh outburst of tears ; and I could once more hear my father's voice, as he used to say : " Come along, Tick. I shall have to carry you, if you don't." I looked up to heaven, and cried imploringly : ** Father, father ! " At last the breeze ceased, the water became tranquil, and so did my breast. As I turned to climb the rocks, I looked over at the mountain, and saw, that tlie sun had just set. I ran a few steps towards my uncle's cottage, be- fore I remembered what had happened : then I turned and ran the Other wav. r.'t. ;* ->'-i)ij^*- .«:-:„v.-'.'«», ■ -■-';-\.;'r''::-i.:fV>-^' CHAPTER XVIII. ,^'>;t; fi-^ fv ;.v••:;'■ V ' " .' THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFH. The moment my sister knew, that I had left my uncle's house, she came to see me, and took me back with her to New York. She was employed, and boarded, at a straw-hat establishment in the Bowery ; and I was permitted to stay with her, for a little while, till I could get employment. • r i , - .- I tried for some time in vain to get a situation. My applications were often met with the answer, that I was too small, and too deli- cate, to work. One morning I commenced in Broadway, at Fourteenth street, and stopped at every "fancy" shop, asking for employment. My ap- pearance was so much against me, that after a hurried glance, the answer was invariablj- one of those **no's," from which there is no appeal. My heart kept growing sadder and sadder, until I passed Bleecker street ; when I saw in a window a card stating, that three hundred sewing-girls were wanted. The forewoman of that establish- ment engaged me at three dollars and a half a week ; and I went to board with the family of one of the sewing-girls. It was a very poor Irish family, whose humble home was often but scantily provided with fuel and food, but ever lighted up with cheer- fulness. I told my story to the forewoman of the establishment ; an inti- macy soon sprang up between us ; and she got me a situation, as fore- woman in a children's clothing establishmen* in Broadway, owned by Mrs. Dwindle. In my new situation I had higher wages and much less to do. I A NUN S CHARITY. 57 resided with the family, and was treated like a member of it. Mrs. Dwindle and her husband would often remark, that they would like to see me accomplished ; and regretted, that they were not able to send me to school. One day, as several of Mrs. Dwindle' s friends were speaking of my going to school, one of them said, that the Catholics would be most likely to take a scholar ,aatis. I decided at once on the first step I would take. I had often passed through Houston street, and used always to linger, as I passed St. Catherine's Convent, with an almost irresistible desire to go in. So, the next day, I \vent, and was kindly received and encouraged by the Superior. She told me, that their institution was not for education, but simply for charity ; and advised me to go to Madam Hardey, Superior of the Academy of the Sacred Heart, at Manhattanville. Shortly afterwards I went to Manhattanville, accompanied by Mrs. Dwindle's sister, and asked for Madam Hardey ; who in a few mo- ments made her appearance. She invited me to be seated beside her, and questioned me about myself. I merely told her, that I was a Miss St. John y that I was poor, and an orphan ; that I wanted to educate myself; and, if she would take me, I would be forever grateful. While I was speaking, Madam Hardey looked me full in the face : she did not appear to notice my companion. Hef atten- tion was drawn from me, for a moment, by a religious coming in and asking, "if the dog should go with them too." "Cer- tainly," replied Madam Hardey; "they expect to see the dog, Jls much as they do you." As she spoke those words, she smiled so sweetly, and her face lighted up so beautifully, that I felt I could be happy near • her ; and I waited with breathless impatience for her reply. She paused, as though waiting to hear, if I had any- thing more to say ; and, as I looked up into her eyes to catch her words, she spoke, and her words thrilled ray very soul. She said, in a kind decided tone : " I will take you ; you may come as soon as you choose." I sprang to my feet, and thanked her with all my heart. I had never met a stranger, who received me so kindly. My friend was as much moved by Madam Hardey' s generous man- ner, as I had been ; and she dwelt on the fact, that Madam Hardey never asked for a reference, but took my word. 58 AN artist's stratagem. .1-' It appeared, as though hapi)iness had once more dawatd upon me. On the morning of the day appointed for my departure, a young girl accompanied me to a daguerrotypist's. We childishly told the man my reason for having my portrait taken on that day ; and he soon had the whole of th<; story. He several times inquired about my family. I told him of my sister, who lived very near, (and I gave her name and address), a cross, cruel beauty, who cared but little for me ; and I rattled on about the convent^ the good superior, and the beau- tiful convent grounds. But at the word convent^ he would knit his brows, shake his head, and abuse the Catholics. He tried to pre- vail on me not to go ; but I told him, that nothing in the world could prevent me. Suddenly he arose, and begged us to excuse him, as he had an engagement down the street, which might detain him ten minutes, not longer. He came back appearing very much excited. I little suspected the trick he had played us. The daguerro- types were soon dispatched ; and as we came out, I saw my sister on the other side of the street. I tried to get away from her ; but she soon tapped me on the shoulder, and insisted on axompanying me home. After an introduction to the Dwinelles, my sister, in their pres- ence, asked me to accompany her to her home. I tried to ex- cuse myself; but she would not be satisfied, till at last I lost pa- tience, and told ^er all. She calmly replied, that she was well aware of it. (The daguerrotypist had told her.) I defied her. She leaned over, and whispered in my ear my mother's name. She then asked, in a triumphant manner : " Now will you go home with me ? " I durst not refuse ; and I went with her. She upbraided me at every step for giving her so much trouble. When I reached her home, the lady, her employer, talked to me, as if I had committed an act disgraceful to my sister, as well as to myself. I pleaded in extenuation of my fault, that I wanted to be educated, and no other opportunity had offered. They sneered at my eagerness for improvement; and, when 1 spoke of the good superior, they sneered again. " After all your mother did to injure the Catholics, how dare you go among them ? " aske^ithe lad3rf**' I replied, that they did not know, who I was. *•' If you go into that convent," she threatened, " I will go myself m FREQUENT CHANGE OF BASE. 59 and tell them, who you are ; and that good superior will teai you limb from limb." Her threat so frightened me, that I nearly fell from my seat. All, that I had suffered, for being Maria Monk's daughter, flashed through my brain. She had conquered. I rose, and told her, that I would not go. ",:■■;.'.,'/. ,^,, ■' 'A. .t'h' :...w, .■...'.j.i-Jr, : When I reached Mrs. Dwindle' s, they were indignant, when I told them, that I would not go. They were curious to know, what my ' sister had whispered to me, that had made me change so suddenly. I refused to give them any explanation. Mrs, Dwindle plainly showed her displeasure, and remarked, that she felt, that she had been rash in introducing me to her friends, without knowing anything of my antecedents. She begged me to be frank with her, and promised to forgive me, no matter what I might have done. But my lips were sealed. She rei)roached me for my want of confidence, and accused me of ingratitude. The next day she got me a situation in a shop in the Bowery. From that moment I began to sink. My spirit was crushed. I had no heart to look forward, and hope for a better lot. In one day all my bright visions for the future had vanished, and all my friends too had vanished with them. j* .i...-. At the end of two weeks I was discharged. I then engaged at a ribbon shop. I had not been there long, when two of Mrs. Dwin- elle's gentlemen acquaintances called on me there. One was a handsome young man, who excited for me the envy and jealousy of all the girls in the shop. From that day I was watched with an evil eye ; and they were not long in entrapping me. One day I wrote a note to the young gentleman, to say, that I should be pleased to have him call to see me again. But, in the flowery manner, which I thought becoming to the epistolary styl6, 1 told him of the " pleasure which his presence afforded me." I misspelt /r^J^«f^, and wrote it presents. -^ As I finished writing, the proprietor sent me, on some pretext, out of the shop, in great haste. When I returned, 1 could not find my letter ; and all in the shop declared, that they had not seen it. Early the next morning J was sent fpr, and, in the presence of several of the elder girls, my letter was read aloud to me, torn in two, and thrown at me, with the remark, that no respectable girl would BP^ »l 60 A RETROSPECT. 'ifff accept presents from men. I denied having ever received any ; 9t which all turned on me like furies, and asked me how I dared to deny it, after having written it with nr.y own hand. 1 was dismissed immediately. I had none but the bitter alternatives : to go to my sister foi shelter, or to sleep in the street. When I called on my sister, I had to confess the truth, as she knew some of the employees in the ribbon shop. When she had heard what 1 had to say, she broke out upon me in an avalanche of abuse. She then left me, and, after nearly an hour, returned to tell me, that her emploj^er had given me permission to remain for the night. I was then ushered into the parlor, where the lady was seated ; and she and my sister took turns in lecturing nie. They both con- cluded, that I would be far better off in the country. The next morning I left the house with a fixed determination never to put my foot into it again. The word country had frightened me thoroughly. Towards evening I succeeded in engaging myself, as an apprentice to a basket-maker. At the end of a month the establish- ment was bankrupt, and I was once more alone and without a home. P>ery piece of furniture had been taken out of the house. I and my trunk alone remained. I sat on the trunk and fell to thinking. I passed my whole life in review, and comparing each unhappy o\ painful scene with the present, I asked myself where I preferred to be j vvhere I was then, or where I had been. m\ I CHAPTER XIX. A NEW TURN OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE. — MY MARRIAGE. I REMEMBERED an old woman, who had once been good to me* I went to her, and she received me kindly into her humble home. I again obtained employment, and again went through the round of bitterness, humiliation, and disappointment. I began then also to learn more, than before, of tlie darker and more revolting side of the tragedy of life ; and I found, alas ! how A SUNBEAM. 61 what is vile, and selfish, and cruel, and devilish, can be disguised and excused under the sacred name of lov«, and friendship. It could do no good, to give a fuller account of all, that happened to me, from that day of utter helplessness and misery, when I sat alone on my trunk in the basket-maker's dismantled shop, until I was intro- duced to Judge . The judge was from Dutchess County, and was acquainted with my relations. He as good as adopted me , his wife became a mother to me ; and he was generally recognized as my guardian. I was then eighteen. The troubled life, which I had led, since my father died, began to tell on my constitution, and I fell ill. The physician proposed, that my guardian should send me away to a boarding-school in the country. The judge agreed to the proposal, and on the first of April, 1856, I was enrolled a scholar at Monson Academy. Monson is a small village in Hampden county, Mass. I was received most cordially by Professor Tuffs, the principal, and his wife. They introduced me to the leading people of the place, and I was frequently invited to their entertainments and receptions. The moment I arrived at Monson, I tried to become oblivious of the past. r studied assiduously, and conformed to all the rules. Every- body showed me confidence and esteem ; yet my soul was sick ; I was not happy. The climate, by an alternation of rain and fogs, seemed to be in sympathy with the condition of my spirit. One afternoon we had holiday. Having studied hard all the morning, I began to think what I should do, to improve it. Sud- denly a bright, unwonted, sunbeam shed its rays through the room. My heart lighted up, as it did in childhood ; and I sprang towards the beam, to embrace it, as I used to do in the woods. I burst out into a hearty laugh at the silliness of my action ; but, in an instant, r was on my knees, kissing the rays, as they fell upon the floor. I got up and drew back the curtain, as far as I could ; then threw my- self upon the floor, with my head lying in the sun ; and as its rays played upon my cheek, my eyes filled with tears ; it was the innocent kiss of other days. When it disappeared, I waited for its return ; and each time it seemed to bring greater peace to my heart. As the sunbeam slowly crept away, I gave it a parting kiss on the window- pane ; — and then 1 raised my eyes to heaven, and said : " At last, I have had one happy day." w^m h \ ! 62 A PRAYER FOR A HUSBAND. ^PEf H^f ■M Iw i W ^' mm. u :>' From that hour I began to be more like myself. I became cheer ful, and light-hearted ; and looked forward, as hopefully, towards ft happy future, as any of my companions. At the close of the term I returned to New York ; and, as I was still anxious to pursue my studies, the judge's wife proposed, that I should go to the select academy of Madame Martiret, in West Twen- ty-first street. '!'t ;.;■. f',-:- •■■:; L, /.• !i.,'. Mis:5 Julia Martinet, from the moment I entered the school, took more pains with rae, than with the other scholars. She was just to all, but she was more than just to me. She used to take me alone to the parlor, and teach me the proper pronunciation of historical and mythological names ; for I pronounced them, as I had taught myself, when, I first undertook to educate myself in the wilij woods. In the latter part of January, 1857, Madame Martinet gave an even* ing party to her scholars ; to which some of the best people of New York were invited. The judge's wife took upon herself the arrange- ment of my toilet. She dres»sed me most becomingly ; and on my head I wore a wreath of exquisite natural flowers. As I merrily tripped down the staiia, I said half aloud : *' Now, Lord, you must get me a husband to-night j de sure, that you do." When I entered Madame Martinet's drawing-room, I noticed a tall, handsome gentleman, about thirty, who made way for me to pass. My friend and teacher exclaimed : " How beautiful you are to-night, Lizzie ! You look as lovely, as the flowers you wear." Then, turning to this gentleman, she presented me to him, saying : *' This is my daughter ; I am very fond of her ; and you will soon acknowledge, that I have done you a favor by introducing you." She then addressed me, i -id said : ** This is Mr. Eckel, of Tennessee ; he has just returned from Chili ; you will find him very interesting." Mr. Eckel, by his suavity of manner, and the sprightliness of his conversation, was a good type of the cultivated southern gentleman. I was at once dazzled by him. He had a vivid imagination ; and his poetic fancies, as he uttered them, so bewildered me, that once, when he paused for my reply, and looked full into my face, instead of answering him, I returned his earnest gaze. But our glances had different meanings. He was thinking of me, and was trying to read into the depths of my soul ; while I was thinking of myself, and was Badly pondering in my mind, whether I would ever become an accom- plished lady, that I might dazzle others, as he did me. THE PRAYER ANSWERED. 63 We wer tion. One afternoon my husband was giving me a Spanish lesson ; wheri suddenly he closed the book, and said : " What happiness it is to call you my own dear wife 1 that is all there is in life worth living for : tO' love and be loved ; to be united until death." " And after death ?" said I. He paused, commenced to speak, but hesitated, as though he wished me to urge him to &ay, what was already upon his lips. But I wanted him to go on with the Spanish^ lesson, and tried to take the AN INFIDEL. <55 book from him ; but he held it clinched, as he looked me steadily in the eyes, and said : ** Do you believe in Jesus Christ ? " I startled at the way, in which he pronounced that name ; for I had always heard it spoken with reverence. It was a name I had ever feared, and had never loved ; but a chill passed through me, at the cold and mocking tone, in which he pronounced it. I answered him ear- nestly : " Of course 1 believe in Him." He shook his head, and slowly, and in a low tone of voice, as though afraid of wounding me, he gently said : " But J do not" " But," said I, " I have read the Bible ; and it says, that only those, yho believe in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ can be saved." " But, my dearest wife," he replied, "the Bible is a lie from beginning to end. Read Genesis ; and any geologist will tell you, I'hat the world was created thousands and thousands of years before the epoch given there. Just look at the first chapler, and you will read as pretty a fable, as was ever invented ; how God first created a man, and a most silly woman, who was deceived by that lying serprjnt. '* But," said I, " king David, who wrote such beautiful psalms, must have been inspired ; when, for instance, he said : ' The Lord is my shepherd!'" "Beautiful poetry," said he, impatiently interrupting me ; "but the truth is, that when David was young, he was a sort of roving troubadour ; but afterwards he became nothing more or less, than an old filibuster." " What do you believe ? " I asked. He replied, that he did not believe in the divinity of Christ, in the individuality of a devil, or the locality of a hell. "You only tell me," said I, "what you don't believe ; but tell me what you do believe." The question seemed to puzzle him, for a moment ; but he soon recovered himself, and answered, that he believed in an Intelligence, — a God, if I preferred the word, — which pervades all space, all matter ; and the spark of intelligence, which he himself possessed, proceeded, he believed, from God, and would return to Him again, as the dew-drop on the mountain returns to the ocean. I asked him what he called his sect. " We are infidels ; " he said j "but the fashionable term is Unitarian Universalists. I am an infidel." I shuddered ; for I had read a story, called " The InfideFs Bride" which had left a painful impression on my mind. It de- picted the wife, as supremely wretched, just because her husband was an infidel. At that moment Miss Martinet's words flashed on my iHP 66 IMMORTALITY. 'i mind : " He wiH make you miserable." Miss Martinet was a C&tholic. She probably knew, that Mr. Eckel was an infidel ; and the thought came to me, that this might have been her reason for opposing out marriage. 1 withdrew a few steps from him, and bat down upon the floor, and leaned my head against the bed. I felt sad. There was something in the word infidel, that 1 did not like ; it made the same impression on me, as did my mother'i name, the first time I heard it. I wished my husband were not an infidel, without fully comprehending what an infidel was ; but the word seemed to forebode me evil. We remained for a few moments without speaking. I broke the silence by asking him, if he believed, that all man's personality, and all his hopes of eternal bliss and a glorious immortality, that I had so often heard the Methodists speak of, were to be swallowed up in the grave. "Nonsense;" said he, "if I had my choice, I should choose oblivion. The sleep of a thousand years, is no longer than that of an hour. Why should we make such an ado about nothing ? " With an anxious tone I asked him, did he not believe in a future punishment. A contemptuous smil« passed over his face, as he re- plied : ** A bugbear, that mankind has been obliged to trump up, from the beginning, in order to keep thieves and liu'-s in subjection. But, beloved, how frightened you look ! " At those words, he knelt down near me, and said, that my future punishment should be throughv,^t eternity, to be adored by my most devoted husband. "Then," said I, "you do believe in the individuality and immortal- ity of the soul ? " A nervous spasm passed over his face, which he tried to conceal. But I quickly said to him : " It is now your turn to be frightened. Why do you turn so pale, and look so sad ? " " Because," said he, " my whole conviction of the immortality of the soul is merely based on a simple fact, which actually occurred to me in Chili ; and I am as sure of its reality, as I am of my own exist- ence. But it recalls one of the saddest hours of my life, which I have been trying to forget." He opened his trunk, and, from a small portfolio, took out a piece of paper, and continued : " When I was in Chili, a few months after my wife died, I took my child to Valparaiso, and left her with Mr. Albert Campbell's family, who were devoted to me, and also to the memory of my wife. I then returned to my post. One moru'ng my wife appeared to me. I cannot tell, if I was .■£/Lrji;*j«^{>w.-' _: ^ A LIGHT GOES OUT. 07 asleep or awake ; but I saw her distinctly, holding the child in her anns. The clock struck four, I arose, and rushed towards the spot, where she appeared ; but the vision had tied, and I burst into tears, and nearly fainted ; for I was sure, that my child was dead, I was as heart-stricken as though I had just received the news. I dresh-id myself, and walked up and down the beach, I cannot tell how long I had been there, when my secretary came and handed me a dis- patch. It was from Mrs. Campbell, Here it is ; " and he handed it to me to read. It read thus: "Mr. Eckel, your child died this morning at four o'clock," I asked him, if that was the only reason, that he had for believing, that the soul is immortal, " I am sure," I added, " that the Bible will give stronger assurances, than that. But why have you not told me all this before ? I have ever been living more in the drep'' :>{ Hell, than in hope of Heaven ; for I have al- ways heard more about Hell than Heaven, But I am not sure, that you are right /ct." " Read Gibbon and Hume," he replied, " and you will soon be convinced, that the Christian Religion is a gigantic humbug." Said I : *' / wish it were so." 1 had always feared the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, through dread of the punishment due to my sins ; and, when I said, that I wisiied to disbelieve in His name, I spoke it from my heart, and longed to be convinced, that there was no punishment for sins. In an instant I felt a light go out "of me. I cannot describe it : it was one of those supernatural impressions, impossit '.e for any one to understand, who has not felt them. I had often violated the laws of God ; but the moment I dared to go so far as to wish to disbe- lieve in the sacred name of Jesus, my whole being became enshroud- ed in a mpral darkness, which was never dispelled, until the light of Faith once more gleamed upon my soul. "Yes," said I, " I wish I could know, that you are right : I should be so happy." " Be happy then," said he ; " for I will soon convince you. If I have never told you these truths before, it is because I did not know, how much your mind might have been prejudiced. There are mi ads, which have an insane reverence for the name of Jesus ; but I am glad to see, that you are more reasonable, and are willing to be instructed." i--.-"-: ■ • ■■■■■ r:;-^ From that day my husband took every pains to make me. what ^e was himself, an infidel. He procured me Gibbon, Shelley, Hume, and other writers ; whom I devoured with eager attention. S9f 68 THE RELIGION OF THE BIBLE. li rli !-■ IK ■ r I ^1 1! .-I f ill These impious authors soon became my passion, and my delight , yet, in spite of all their subtle reasoning, a feeble ray of doubt still lingered in my mind ; for, amidst such moral darkness, even doubt itself becomes a ray of light. CHAPTER XXI. AN infidel's interpretation OF SCRIPTURE. When alone, I passed the time learning foreign languages ; but, when we were together, we would read and converse on those infidel writers. Once my husband said to me, that the ignorance of the Christians themselves in regard to their doctrine was most aston- ishing ; that a Protestant, to him, was the most unreasonable of beings; that any man of sense, who had a knowledge of sacred or profane history, must either be a Roman Catholic or an infidel ; that there was no compromise between the two. " But," said I, " 1 could never be a Roman Catholic ! " All that I knew about them, was what I had read and heard in Amenia. " I suppose," said he, "you judge of their doctrine from what you see of the Catholics themselves. If I only knew their religion from what I have seen of the majority of professed Catholics, I would pronounce the greater part of them idiots, and the lesser part knaves." " If I believed the Bible," he continued, " I would become a Ro- man Catholic at once ; for were the Bible true, their doctrine would be unanswerable. I have studied the question long and thoroughly, and have made the machinations of the Roman Church itself an ob- ject of special research. It is one of the most magnificent structures of human policy, that were ever conceived by the mind of man. It is after you have examined it long, and analyzed it well, in all its sinews, its fibres, and its breathings, that you become amazed at the harmony of its moverents ; and you feel as though you stood before some monstrous body possessed of human reason and supernatural sense, and whose magnitude fills the globe, on which it stands. Always moving, always conquering, even when it appears to halt and its adversaries pronounce it crushed or receding, its strength never wanes ; for, in proportion, as they have weakened it in one part, they A WONDROUS MECHANISM. have strengthened it in another. It has, ever since its existence, re- tained its equilibrium, like the universe itself. It is the masterpiece of human wisdom ; and the Pope is the pivot, on which the whole of this sublime machinery turns." " A Roman Catholic has to believe," he continued, " that the Pope is infallible ; or he might as well throw up the whole game. For the Church of Rom: finds just as much reason to believe in that, found- ed as it is on the words of Christ himself, as it does for believing in the rest <" f the juggleries of Christianity ; and they cannot be called anythi.xg else ; for to cheat a man out of the pleasures of this life, by a mere promise of eternal happiness, is the greatest fraud ever invent- ed by human skill !" "Where," said I, "do the Ca hoHcsfind in the New Testament, that Christ said, that the Pope is infallible ? " " You will find it," said he, " somewhere in Matthew ; where Jesus one day was questioning Peter, and the old fisherman paid Him a compli- ment, which pleased Him so much, that He promised him, that He would never abandon him or his church, and that Hell itself should never prevail against either of them." " Theii," said I, " you believe the Pope, cardinals, bishops, and priests, to be knaves, and their adherents so many dupes ? " " By no means," he answered : " I am convinced, that they are sin- cere ; and that is the most marvellous part of the whole business : that they actually do believe themselves in the divinity of the whole edifice. Therein lies the enigma, which eighteen centuries have not yet been able to solve, and which aioue is sufficient to excite one's admiration for this great contrivance ; whose workings, and whose re- sults soar above reason itself. In the face of the Church of Ronae!, Reason itself lies dethroned." - » I could not see, I said, how he could say, that this great piece of machinery had always held together ; for it seemed to me, that Luther and Henry VIII. had carried off two of its big wheels. " Nonsense ! " said he : " they were only the offal, which the wheels threw off; but they were not a part of the machinery itself; for it became much cleaner and brighter and ran on much smoother without them. It was such Catholics, as Luther and Henry the Eighth, that .T'oeded rather, than impelled the course of this mighty work ; for the Church has always tried to grind fi .. ^n pride and liceniiousness, and your Luther and your Henry the Eighth were a fair mixture of bo^'h." Ilk I- ty ( X, ll ' 1 f ^ ' li III ji: B4r ( il 70 PIETY AND COCKFIGHTING. I then recollected how my uncle Horace used to abuie the Blessed Virgin, and I asked my husband, how he could be in earne? t in his ad- miration of a church, which worshipped the Virgin Mary as equal to God. "That is a lie;" said he; "for they do no such thing. I know the Catholic catechism by heart, and it only teaches to honor the Virgin, as being the mother of the Messiah ; and why should it not ? How can a man worship Jesus Christ, as a God, and then re- pudiate His whole family 1 It is simply ridiculous." Said I : " I have Hved among the Methodists, and I know they are good people." " Good ! " repeated he~; " but what do they amount to ? I never bother my head about these difterent sects. You never know where they begin, or where they are going to end ; but the Catholics have something tangible. Take a devout, earnest, good Catholic, Irish servant girl : she will have more good, common, practical sense, than all these ranting sectarian preachers put to- gether. I have often attended the Catholic service in South America ; and I have seen more real devotion in one Catholic church, than I have in all the Protestant churches I have ever entered. Your Pro- testant women have not serious religious convictions. They go to church, when they are young, to catch beaux ; and, after they are married, they go to show off their fine clothes, and to make the other women jealous ; and, when they get old, they go to set a good ex- ample for their children. There is less dissimulation among the Catholics : in Catholic countries they attend to their sacred duties in the morning, and divert themselves the rest of the day. I was inti- mate with a priest there, whom I know to be an honest man, and what the Christians would call a pious man : I loved him for his upright- ness and integrity ; yet I have heard him celebrate mass on Sunday morning, and have met him going to the cockfights in the afternoon, with two big-feathered fighters, one under each arm ; and I would trust that man farther, than any man I ever knew." "VVSiat!" I exclaimed, "break the Sabbath in that way I " " It is easy enough," iaid he, "to see, that you have been bred among a set of Puri- tans." •.-,■.' .•:. ,--■'•:, " Well," said I, " I never edified them with my piety. But I never met so big a sinner yet, as would not have said, that a priest, who went to a cockfight on Sunday, did wrong." " Well,' said he, *' I don't mean to say, that it was the best thing he ever uid in his life ; but I do not see, where the harm lies. Tiiey say, that if a man MISERIES OF UNBELIEF. 71 labors the whole week, they do not believe, that the Lord will grudge him a little innocent diversion on Sunday." " It is by drawing the reins too tightly on us poor mortals," he continued, "that we are set a thinking. If we have time to examine , the matter, we protest ; and, as we become enlightened, we keep on protesting, until we protest against Protestantism itself, and then we become Infidels, Freethinkers, such as I am. But we have to go through a galling process, before we reach the pinnacle, on which we stand, and whence finally we can take a good survey of all, that lies beneath us. We have to traverse Protestantism, because Pro- testantism is the first step towards Infidelity. " You never hear of Catholics falling suddenly into Infidelity, and you never heard of a sincere, enlightened Catholic turning at all. There is no need for them to change ; as the church admirably adapts itself to all natures and all climates, without changing an iota of its fundamental principles, which, they believe, have been handed down to them diiectly from Christ h'.mself. After they have inculcated, and tried to make practical, the three great theological virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, — they let a man alone to exercise his own free will, and save himself by the help of God ; but they don't take upon themselves the care of their neighbor's salvation, by meddling with his affairs, and neglecting their own souls, as the Protestants do. These will put a strait-jacket on you, that will chafe a man so, that, unless he is a lunatic, he will not stand it long. So we throw off the whole yoke, and become freemer." " And then," said I, " you are happy ? " He replied : "I do not mean to say that ; for I believe, and my experience has proved it to me, that the happiest men here below are those, who have lived and died in the illusion of Christi- anity, when they have had the courage to live up to it." He became thoughtful, and after having paced the room several moments in a hurried, anxious way, he continued : " There have been j'loments in my life, when misfortunes have borne heavily upon me, in which I have tried to drown despair in pleasure ; but pleasure itself, the gay deceiver, like the apples of Sodom, would turn to ashes in my mouth. In such moments, dearest one, I have wished, that I had. never doubted." He paused for a few moments ; and then commenced to speak jo- cosely, as chough he would drive away all serious thought. *' I do wish," said he, " that those Puritan Yankees, while they were teacliing ■ISHT I -if ' f iii . lit f if 72 VENUS VERSUS MINERVA. you their catechism, had taught you a little order ; for it would have been of more use to you." *' Let us be just," said I, " and not reproach them for that. It was the least of their faults. Aunt Mercy " . ... " Aunt who ? " said he, interrupting me. I repeated the name. " Caramba 1 " he exclaimed, " what a name for a woman ! " " Ah I " said I, '* you should have lived with her once, and have been treated by her like one of the family, and then you would have agreed that her name was most appropriate. Well, this old lady was nearly six years trying to teach me to hang up my sun-bonnet, and to put things back, where I found them. The truth is, I heard such a noise about order in those days, that I took a dislike to it, and we have been bit- ter enemies ever since." " It is of no use," said he, " to try to pass over so serious a defect in that way ; for, if you have fallen out, it is time you were recon- ciled." " It is enough," I replied, "for me to find my things ; I never think about the rest. But I know people, who devote more time to putting their things straight, folding them, and arranging them, than it would take me to learn all the natural sciences." "And they would be far better employed," he remarked, " doing those very things you so much despise. I find only one defect in you, dearest, and that is, you are too ambitious. I wish you would take life more calmly : you are too restless, too eager to learn ; you place too high a value on mental acquirements. I love you as you are ; and where is the man who does not prefer Venus to Minerva ? Give me a woman, that can neither read nor write, and I would prefer her infinitely to a blue-stocking. Let us enjoy life while we may, — * dum vivimus, viva- mus^- — and say, with Horace : * Let kingdcms and empires pass aWay ; but give me the moment as it passes by.' You told me, the other day, that you were seeking for happiness. You don't know how you wounded me ; for vdiere can happiness be found, but in our mutual devotion ? Happiness consists in small things ; in the picking up of a pin, or the turning over of a leaf. Carpe diem : let us seize the present, and not sacrifice to the futiure, who is an ungra eful dame, and would be sure to cheat us." ■J w* :il i ! ... r.. 1 1 ,;. If !? THE STUDY OF MEN. 71 CHAPTER XXII. WASHINGTON. — MY HUSBAND AND I CHANGE PLACES. - In January, 1858, 1 accompanied my husband to Washington, and entered into its intrigues and frivolities with a zest and earnestness, of which only a giddy mind, filled with vanity and self-love, is capa- ble. To be thrown among prominent men and to receive their adu- lation, was what my heart had craved ; and now it had obtained its desire ; and for the first time in my life my ambition was gratified. It was in Washington society, tliat I first learned the magical power of woman over man, and even over the destinies of a state. For a while I threw aside my books, to study men. I sought to know their weaknesses and foibles, and then set out to educate my- self in the arts and wiles, by which poor human nature could be most easily controlled. Our apartments soon became a resort for many of the distinguished men of the capital. They would pass the even- ings, discussing politics, playing cards, or trying to form new poUtical combinations. We remained in Washington about eight months. Wlien we re- turned to New York, we stayed at the St. Denis Hotel ; where I re- sumed my studies. A few weeks after our return, my husband was ill and I was seated at his bedside. He then gave me, for the first time, some account of the state of his affairs ; from which I found, that he had been living, since our marriage, on the generosity of his family, who now refused to give him further assistance ; and that, just before our marriage, he had lost all he was worth, by the total loss of the ship *' Obcd Mitchell." " There is nothing," said I, "I so much dread as poverty ! " "The grim spectre," he replied, " has been chasing me for a long while ; and the thought, that you would sooner or later discover it, has tor- tured me to distraction." - "Mistortune, dearest," said I, "shall never separate us : it will only draw me to you. I have suffered, and I know how to pity you." It surprised hi n to hear me speak so : for I had nev(«r revealed to 4 n S3RP^ 74 THE IVY AND THE OAK. ill'i'll is m- him my past history. " I have often pondered," he said, * as to what would become of you, if you had no one to take care of you ; " and he dwelt on my peci'.liar childUke helplessness. I reminded him, that in acting hitherto such a part, I had been but fulfilling a promise, which he had exacted of me on our wedding-tour. I reminded him, how he had said, that it is the duty of a husband to take care of his wife ; and of a wife to lean upon, and cling to her husband, as the ivy does to the oak ; and that he had made me solemnly promise, that thenceforth I would let my husband stand between the world and me. " But now," I said, " I am tired of being a puppet. I be- lieve, that it is as much ihe dtity of a woman io asbisc her husband, as it is the duty of the husband to take care of his wife. It is now your turn," I continued, " to promise, that you will henceforth let me stand between you and the world." He clasped me to his bosom, and said : '* You are so good ! I only wish you were as affectionate, as you are noble and generous. Do anything, anything you choose : I can see no hope ; I am so discour- aged, that, were it not for you, I would light a handful of charcoal, and all would soon be over." The next morning, I went to the St. Nicholas Hotel, to see Col. Irsilbo of Tennessee, one of my husband's most devoted friends. I told him how we were situated, and succeeded in enlisting his sympathy. He named over several things ; but quickly decided, that it would be of no use to offer any of them to my husband, as he was too indo- lent for one, too proud for another, or not qualified for a third. He continued : " It is the most difficult thing in the world, to set men up, who have dabbled in politics. They become like gamblers, who refuse to work, and spend the rest of their lives taking their chances." Finally he said: " I will take you to Fernando Wood's office, and introduce you to him. He is the only man, that can do anything for your husband ; for he must have a situation under the government ; where there is a good salary and nothing to do." ' ' .■ •• After receiving his friend in the most cordial manner, Mr. Wood turned to me, and asked the Colonel, if I was his daughter. " Yes," said the Colonel, "for I have just adopted her. She is the wife of a Tennesseean ; and you know, that we are still one family in the dear old State. Promise me," continued he, " that you will be a friend and a father to this lady." Mr. Wood gave me his hand, and told ine, that I had only to make my demands. j-i. i-i:. THE BLACKGUARD VOTE. 75 When he learned, that my husband had been consul : " Please give me his name," he said, "and I will get him a situation in the Custom House." "Are you in earnest?" I asked wonderingly. "Certainly^ madam," he replied ; " did you not hear me promise the Colonel ? ' " Why then," said I, "you are a good man ! I thought you were th< worst man, that ever lived." " I suppose you read the newspapers," said he. "Yes," I replied ; "and if you are innocent, why do you not contradict, what they say ? " " V/hy," said he laughing, " the best service, they can render a man in this city, is to abuse him : it will secure me the whole blackguard vote in the next election, wiili- out costing me a cent. They have said so much against me, that I am now sure to win." I left, assuring Mr. Wood; that I would try to induce every man, I knew, to vote for him. In less than a week, my husband received an appointment in the Custom House. It was at one of the abstract desks, and just such a place as the Colonel had proposed ; where there was a salary, and but little work. !From that moment my husband began to look up to me as a marvel, and a genius ; and would depend upon me for everything. We took more spacious rooms in the hotel ; and our evening receptions became almost a repetition of what they had been in Washington ; with the exception, that I now took every advantage of Using those, who visited me, for my own profit. I was always in- triguing, to obtain an appointment for some one, whom I would make remit me a quarter of his salary, if I succeeded. Not content with that, I would use my influence in obtaining contracts for my friends ; upon which I received a percentage. In a short time my income far ^^xceeded my husband's salary. ' u ■ ' ' '^'^' CHAPTER XXIII. 1 REVISIT MV AUNT. — SHE DOES " HER CHRISTIAN DUTY" BY MAK- ING MY HUSBAND JEALOUS. The unusual tension of nerves, required for my new part of in- triguer and lobbyist, soon caused a reaction, which made me wish myself again in the woodlands of Dutchess. My health begun 76 THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. \':\ I' U/ \ ill It ^^: II?' f 1; 1 . 1 i I 1 1,1! : to fail ; and, with the consent of my husband, I revisited the scenei of my childhood's joys and miseries, in the summer of 185Q. My uncle and aunt received me, as if I were their long-lost child. I passed several days rambling alone in the woods ; and sought out the spots, which were dear to me, when a child. All things were unchanged in their exterior aspect ; but they si)oke to me a new language, which my guilty conscience could not but understand. I found remorse, wherever I turned. The woods seemed to frown upon me, and to whisper to me to begone ; and, one evening, beneath a glowing sunset, I gave them a long parting look, and sadly went away. I have never since returned. From that time I was constantly drawn to the pond, whose waves had once made ihe weep. One day, I sat near by upon a little mound, which gave a fine view of the surrounding scene. The sun was setting, hidden by a cloud. I had not been there long, before I felt the peace of other days come back again, which I had vainly sought amidst my old favorite haunts. Almost unconscious of what I did, I raised my eyes to heaven, and repeated a little prayer, that I had composed, when a child. I had hardly finished it, when the sun escaped from behind the cloud, and shone forth with dazzling splendor, and its peerless brightness illumined the whole landscape. In the same instant, I heard the mellow tones of an organ, which pro- ceeded from the neighboring cottage. It was soon accompanied by a child's voice warbling a little hymn. The whole scene seemed to vibrate upon my soul, and filled it with an unknown and ineffable sweetness. There was a pause in the music ; but it recommenced, and repeated the same melody. After the hymn was ended, I longed for the spell to last ; and the hymn was commenced again. I listened, like one entranced ; and, when the music had entirely ceased, I thought, and exclaimed aloud : " Oh ! that I could build here a church ; that these hills might ever resound with sacred music ! It is just the spot, in which to worship God ! " I arose to go, and, as I turned, the sun sank behind the moun- tain. And I too sank again into the foul depths of infidelity j and peace left my heart. One day the little girl, who filled my former position in Aunt Mercy's house, expressed to me a desire to go to New^ York, and return a lady, as I had done. I was stung with remorse, and felt my apparent success a shame — a decoy to invite others to ruin. A husuand's honor. n Aunt :, and dfelt :l:l I had the appearance of having all that I could desire ; yet He, who reads hearts, knew, that I was wretched, and rarely saw a happy hour. I had formerly studied, believing, that knowledge would bring happiness ; but now study became a resource to enable me to forget. Still I clung to the pleasing delusion, that more knowl- edge might bring happiness ; and 1 resisted the arguments of my huiband to induce me to give up the pursuit. I nrould not permit him to point out to me the road to happiness, as he had not found it himself. My aunt was annoyed, that my husband should be so blindly attached to me, as not to see my faults ; and she sought to open his eyes to my defects of character. I rather encouraged her in this, believing her to be a woman of sense, who would do me no real harm. Besides, I had so great reliance upon my husband's sense of honor (to which he seemed to cling, more than to life), that I was conilident, that her attempts would redound to her humiliation. Alan ! for me fatal mistake ! Just before setting out for Amenia, I had almost decided not to go. A dread foreboding had taken possession of me, that some evil would befall me there. I could not shake it off, till one day amidst an outburst of tenderness on my husband's part, I had said *o him : " Is your love so strong, that you are incapable of believing evil of me? I have enemies in the country; would you believe their slanderous tongues? I admit," I added laughingly, "that I have ever done but little to conciliate their good will or their good opinion." He had taken it very seriously, and had said : " I am a man of honor and self-respect. Do you think me capable of permitting any one to speak disparagingly to me of my wife ? Has a man any- thing more sacred ? "I would consider, that he offered me a personal insult, who would even refer to my wife's faults in my presence ; and so would any gentleman." I was delighted with his reply \ and had decided to go j sure, that I had nothing to fear. .,-..,,;,L ..K.u"-k - "•'■VM.,y. ,..,.. ..-,--■ • ..;>Ti..-, ../■!■ r ^..-: .• ^- ■..; , . But the breath of slander is so insidious, that it steals upon us unawares ; and never is this poison infused into oiu: minds more subtly., than when we receive it from the lips of those, whom we be- lieve to be our friends, and the friends of those, whom we hold most dear. And even while they are uademiining them ift t ur affection IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) k /. {/ A 'Q. C/j fA 1.0 I.I 11.25 1^128 ^ 1^ 12.0 2.5 2.2 1.8 U IIIIII.6 V] A 7] ^\t->' *^^ Kiotographic Sdences Corporation 23 WBST MAIN STRHT WEBSTER, N.Y. 1458C (716) a7a-4S03 [V ^^ o ^^v ^JV o^ vrapt in furs, I was shivering. I left the bedroom and came into the room I had first entered. This room had two narrow windows, which gave but a cheerless light, on account of the projection of another building. It seemed, that no ray of sunshine could have ever penetrated there. The furniture consisted of two wooden chairi, a table, and an old cooking-stove. I asked the woman how they had managed to live. She told me, that they had sold, or pawned, nearly every article of clothing and furniture, to provide bread ; until all was disposed of, but the few pieces I saw in this room. She added, that my husband from time to time wrote poetry for the Sunday Atlas and the Evening Post ; and these journals paid him well. The following was written in lead-pencil, and lay carelessly on the table : Say who be this so strangely fair, That meets me on life's fitful river ? Deep shadows loop her raven hair, And stars upon her forehead quiver. O who be this so strangely fair, With step so light, y^ cold her breath ? O she will take my vacant chair, — I know and love thee now, rweet Death I A few days before he died, he had risen at midnight and written some verses. He told her, the next day, that, if he should die, she should take them to the Atlas office, and she could bury him with the proceeds. Saying this, she took up the portfolio, which lay upon the table, and held it closely to her, as though she were afraid, that I might claim it and its contents. I inquired hov/ my husband had sooken of me ; and I dreaded to hear her answer. She replied, that his mind was ever running on' death's welcome. «y me, and that he would often say : " How could she treat me so ? not to let me see my child ! It kills me, it breaks my heart." " I have heard enough," I exclaimed ; and I rushed out of the room. I was descending the stairs, when the woman came after me, and, sci2ing me with both hands, drew me back into the room. She begged me not to leave her. She had no money to bury him, she said, and no clothes even, nor a bonnet, with which to go out. I told her, that it was my intention to do everything, that was needed. At this she threw her arms around me and kissed me. "But," said she, "let me tell you all." "Ah, no," I cried j "for he must have cursed me. " No, no," she said : " he always loved you ; the one thing he said was, that you were too ambitious, ever sacrificing the present for the future. But let me tell you how, just before he died, his countenance lit up, and that sweet expres- sion came over his face, which it still retains ; and, stretching forth his arms, he pointed upward, and exclaimed : * The portals of Heaven are opening ; ' and he nearly screamed out : * There, there are my wife and child, the same as in Chili. Oh, see, she beckons me to come to her now. Oh, welcome Death ! how glad I am to leave this world. Come, sweet Death, and take me quickly ; I long to go.' Those were his last words. After he had said this, he made but a few respirations at long intervals, and then all was still ; — he was dead. I closed his eyes, and crossed his arms upon his breast, as you see them now. I had hardly done so, whei I heard a neigh- boring clock strike five, and then the candle went out, and I was left in the dark. I took the blanket off his corpse, wrapt it around n,e, and walked the room till morning, 't'hen I wrote two letters, and a neighbor took them to his friends." When the woman had end^ her story, I begged her to tell me, who she was. She told me. Her father lived in Syracuse, and her husband, who had abandoned her, was a captain in the Federal army. " I will give you some money ; " I said, " and you must go back to your father." "Ah, never, never," she replied; but she begged me to give her money, that she might get the clothing which she had pawned. This strange being was highly educated, and her manners were those of a refined lady; yet she was one of the most debauched-look- kig creatures I have ever beheld. Her face was something revolting to look upon* and the contrast between her speech and her looks 88 somebody's daughter. was such, and her intonations wer« so softly reiined« that, if you look* ed upon her face, while she s|K)ke, her words would appear like so many sparkling dewdrops oozing out of some stagnant pool. She im< plored nie not to leave her ; for she dreaded to be alone ; and it was only through the assistance of my friend, that I could disengage my- relf from her. She followed us down stairs to the sidewalk. My ...iend got into the carriage. Before I did so, I turned to hid this '.voman good-by j but she had gone. We had hardly driven twenty paces, before I caught sight of the woman, standing before the coun- ter in a rum-shop, in the act of handing to the man behind the coun- ter a bank-note, the one I had just given her. How events repeat themselves 1 Why should that woman have stood there, just at that time, to recall to me the last time, that I saw my mother ? It was only years after, that I found the answer to this question ; when the devil, taking advantage of my dejection, sought to enlist me in the ranks of the unfortunate women, who vainly attempt to drown sorrow in the cup. The remembrance of the cir- cumstances, under which I last saw my mother ; and of that wretched woman, who had closed my husband's eyes, — as I saw her in the bar- room, — saved me from the abyss. Those sad scenes were, as I have since learned, among the greatest graces, that I had received from God, After making all other arrangements for the interment, I went to my brother-in-law, and asked him to have our child's grave reopened, that I might bury my husband with her, and fulfil a promise he had asked of me at her open grave, — that I would let her rest on his breast. I returned home with a heart bowed down with grief. I clasped my child to my bosom, and renewed the vow, that I would be a good mother. I tried to nourish her ; but my emotions had been too much for me ; and, from that day, my breasts refused all mitrimenL The next morning my brother-in-law told me, with saddened coun* tenance, that my sister objected to letting my husband be buried in their lot ; but that he had bought a grave in Greenwood, in a pleasant enclosure, not far from his own ; so that my husband would not be far from his child. The nth of January, 1863, was a bleak, wintry day. I was in Greenwood, standing by the side of an open grave, waiting, while some men disinterred my babe j for I had insisted, tliat her remains THE TWO COFFINS. 89 should be placed upon my husband's breast. His coffin had been lowered into the earth ; but not a clod had yet been thrown upon it. The wind blew mournfully around me, and kept up a doleful melody, as though nature were moaning a dirge for the departed. I wa» standing all alone ; for the friends, who had accompanied me, had withdrawn, and were walking up and down among the graves. They had tried to persuade me to leave, assuring me, that my wishes would be obeyed. But I must see for myself so sacred a tnist fulfilled ; and I per«'''ted in remaining. At khi I saw two men coming, bearing a little coffin. My heart niielted ; for the first thought, that came to me, was, that it contained that precious little head, whose touch used to thrill my heart with so much joy. I bade the men place the little burden on his breast ; and, when I heard the two coffins touch, I felt relieved. I leaned over and gave them both a long parting look ; but, as I saw my tears drop into the grave, I felt how different f 11 would be, could I place my hand upon my breast, and say that I had always done my duty, as a wife. The following Sunday a friend brought me The Atlas. It con- tained the poem, which my husband had written a few nights before he died. It always makes me sad to read it, and often have I mois- tened it with my tears. For I cannot read it, without seeing his sickly form sitting by that table, during a cold winter's night, in that cheer- less room, with his debauched companion. There he sits, regretting • sunnier days ; and, by the feeble glimmer of a candle-light, he writes this poem, believing it may pay the expenses of his burial. [Written for tk€ New York Atlat.'\ EVENING MUSINGS. BY THE LATE SAMUEL ECKEL. (his last fokm.) The evening star is in the sky, The balmy wind is whist ; but, oh I My soul is very sad, and why ? I'm thinking of the long ago. The maple-leaves have gone to sleep ; The lonely moon is still awake ; And by her gentle light I weep : My heart can olecd but cannot br««k. po GRAVE-FLOWERS. The days of childhood, sweet as mom— My playmates, too, each with a toy — That blest the home where I was born. And made me happy when a boy,— Have vanished like an April gift Of crocus-blooms when fields were green ; When singing-birds on pinions swift Gave life and 1)eauty to the scene. The hours of youth, with dreams of bliss All filled with starry hopes for me, Have faded, too, and left but this — A dark and gloomy yet TO DE. January 5th, 1863. One summer's day, when the sun shone brightly, I went to Green- wood, and by his grave I passed the day. On his bosom I planted the iose, the heliotrope, and the violet, — his favorite flowers ; and at his head I placed an ivy, which I entwined around a little riiarble slab, whereon is simply inscribed : TO MY HUSBAND AMD MY DARLING BABE. CHAPTER XXVII. PARIS. — ^THE AMERICAN COLONY. — I AM PRESENTED AT COURT. I RECEIVED more congratulations on account of my husband's death, than were offered me at the time of our marriage. But they would send through me a bitter pang ; for I sincerely mourned him. Yet I| tried to conceal my grief, lest others should suspect me of affectation. My sorrow would betray itself, however, in spite of all my efforts to conceal it ; for I soon lost my ambition and energy, and became^ de- spondent and discouraged. 1 then began to seek encouragement, and hope, by consulting for- tune-tellers, spiritualists, ami clairvoyants ; a habit I had indulged in during my married lif«, without my husband's knowledge, but which, PEERING INTO FUTURITY. 9t after his death, I carried to great excess. I had faith in whatever these persons told me. For a while, indeed, my faith in the spiritual, ists was somewhat shaken, as they had all predicted, that my child would be a boy. I called them to account for having deceived me, as I had already selected a boy's name, and had marked some of the baby-clothes with the initial. All the satisfaction I got, from them was, that they appeared as much surprised as myself. / As soon as my husband died, I went to a strange medium, whoni I happened to see advertised. I had hardly sat down at the table be- fore this woman wrote out my husband's name. This restored my confidence ; and I would go regularly to consult the spirits, whenever I became doubtful and sad in regard to the future. But spiritualists and soothsayer? would occasionally contradict each other. Not- withstanding their disagreement in minor things, (and I consulted e' 'ivy one I saw advertised), they were all of an accord in the one all-important matter, that I would marry a tall, wealthy, distinguished blond ; that he would die very suddenly and of an accident, about five or six years after marriage ; that I would inherit his estates, and would marry again for love ; that I would outlive number three, and live to a good old age. My maid was a young German woman, whose husband had aban- doned her, and had left her heart- stricken and wretched. She would lull my babe to sleep, singing to it the most melancholy German airs. She had a sweet, sympathetic voice ; and those plaintive melodies were the only sounds, that accorded with my saddened heart. I sought to be alone with her and my child. My old exciting mode of life had become distasteful to me ; and, one by one, my friends aban- doned me. I had lost all my gayety and energy, and was conse- quently incapable of serving or diverting them. In a few months my parlor was deserted by all, with the exception' of two or three faithful friends ; and they happened to be the few,' whom it had never been in my power to serve. I was speaking with them one day about the future. I proposed to study two years more and then to go to Europe. But they all advised me to go at once. These gentlemen gave me letters of introduction to their acquaint- ances abroad ; and I left with my maid and child in July, 1863. Our steamer glided over the Atlantic as smoothly, as if we were sail- ing on some silvery lake. Not a gale arose, hardly a cloud s.ppeared in the horizon, from our departure, till we came within sight of port. 9» BEAUTIFUL FRANCE. Never shall I forget my feelings, when I first laid eyes on the shores of France. The very air infused into me a new life. In an instant every trace of sorrow disappeared from my heart, as though it had been fosiiclied by some magic wand. I felt like a happy child. As we passed through the streets of Havre, I kept looking up at the sky and constantly exclaiming : " V^hat a beautiful blue 1 " My maid too, for the first time, threw off her grief, and began to smile ; and my babe clapped her little hands, and gladdened us both with her infantine laughter. We went along, like a group of merry birds, that had just discovered a genia' clime. I kept continually stopping to embrace my child. My heart was so flooded with delight, that I could have kissed the very pebbles, over which we walked. I did not feel like a stranger, who had just arrived in a foreign land ; but more like an exile, who had just come home. The genial expression of the passers-by ; every- thing, in a word, gave joy. Even the signs, which hung over the shops, seemed to welcome us yith a bewitching grace ; and I remember dis- tinctly the first sign, which attracted my gaze. It was an immense picture of our Lord carrying a lamb, and the shop was named *'Au Bon Pasteur^ — Of the Good Shepherd" — We looked into the shop, to see what it meant ; and we began to laugh, when we saw it filled with children's clothes ; and a lot of little children there trying them on. We got into the train ; and it seemed, as though we were passing through one continual garden, fr':*:ii ihe time we left Harve, till we reached Paris. I kept humming to myself, all the way, the first verse of an old French song called '* J/a Nornuindie :" *' Qsand tout reimit Ji I'esperance, Et que I'hiver fuit loin de nous ; Sous le beau del de notre France, Quand V-. Mileil revient plus doux ; Quand la Nature est reverdie ; Quand I'hirondelle est de retour ; J'aime a revoir ma Normandie ; C'est le pajrs, qui m'a donn^ le jour." Of which I would submit the followmg, as an attempt at a transit tion: VThen to new hope from their long tranct Ail tilings revive ; and winter lle^s { PARIS AND THE PANTHEON. 93 'Neath the sweet sky of our loved France, As milder suns embahii each breeze ; When earth dons her green livery. And swallows homeward wing their flight : Fain would I see my Normandy Once more, where first I saw the light. f Just before we reached Paris, we heard a voice from an adjoining coach exclaim : " Voild Paris / " I looked, and the first thing I saw was the Arch of Triumph and the dome of the Pantheon. I see them still, as I saw them then ; and even now they send through my heart a pleasing thrill. In that instant, the earth, the sky, the air, the Arch of Triumph and the dome of the Pantheon, all seemed to bid me a joyful welcome, and to foretell a happy future. They have kept their promise ; but the Pantheon was the last to put the seal of ful- filment on that, which then spoke so vividly to my soul and said : " Thou shalt be happy yet ! " We put up at the H6tel du Louvre. On the stean^er I had made the acquaintance of a lady and gentleman, who w€re on their wed- ding tour. They were Cubans ; and, as I spoke Spanish, we soon became friends ; and they proposed, that we should visit the monn- ments and churches in Paris together. " Yes," said I ; " but we will visit first the tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau." I felt as if it were a homage, that I owed to the memory of those two philosophers, who had contributed so much to enliven my solitude, when neglected by my husband. We went to the Pantheon ; and at once dest ended into its vaults, and walked through their serpentine passages, until we reached the tomb of Voltaire. I became mournfully sad during the few moments, that 1 stood by his tomb. As I reflectingly gazed on his statue, I regretted not having brought a garland to hang on the lyre, which his statue represents him holding in his hand. After remaining there a few moments, we passed on to Rousseau's tomb. No marble statue was there to honor his memory. A small monument, on the side of which was sculptured a sinewy arm, and ' a hand bearing a lighted torch, did honor to the dead philosopher. Some one remarked, that the device meant, that Rousseau came into the world to bring Discord. I turned to the sj>eaker, and repHed, that that was a misinterpretation ; for the torch meant, that he came to enlighten the world. " Then," 94 ST. GENEVIEVE. answered the speaker, " if such is the light, I prefer the obscurity, which preceded." As we ascended the steps leading from the vaults, I th 1 AM INTRODUCED. ing to conceal my knowledge ; whereas, the truth was, I only suc- ceeded in disguising my ignorance. It is needless to say, that I was at once detested by the women, and adored by the men. The lad'es, when conversing with me, would invariably turn the conversation on myself. They would ask me, who were my relations, and wh&m I knew in America. As for my relations, I knocked them all at once on the head, by declaring, that they were all dead ; and I gave them a list of the acquaintances I had made in Washington, who were among the best families at home. The only account I would give of myself was, that I de- scended from the family of Lord Bolingbroke ; that my husband had been United States consul ; that I had always had, even as a child, a morbid distaste for society ; — which I could say truly, when I thought of my life in the Highlands of Dutchess ; — that I had always preferred solitude and study ; and that even now I only went into society, at the earnest solicitations of my friends, and not that/ it gave me the slightest gratification. 1 chanced to meet several gentlemen, who had known my husband on the Chilian coast, and who had been particularly fond of him for his melancholy and laconic humor, which made him one of the most pleasant convives in the world. These gentlemen introduced me to their acquaintances, as the wife of their bosom fri|;nd . My four months' solitude, and my demeanor, verified my words in regard to my indif- ference to the attention of others. I never sought any one's acquaint- Rfice ; I made no advances, and made everybody come to me first. In a few weeks, I was obliged to have a reception-day, as 1 found, that I was constantly interrupted by callers. But there were some few of my newly made friends, whom I would permit to call on me at appointed hours during the day ; which gave me an opportunity of conversing with them," These were chiefly idlers, or, as the French call them, "Z^j Jnutiles ;" who sought me, at that time, only be- cause my apartment faced on the Champs Elys6es ; and it gave them a chance to kill time, by looking at the horses and equipages, as they passed to and from the Bois de Boulogne. Les Inutiles Americains in Paris are not usually men of sentiment but are men of leisure, whose principal occupation, ditring the day, consists in making calls, and in lounging about the reading-rooms of the American banking-houses. Their evenings are usually passed in gambling in their bedrooms, or promenading in the disreputable I UTILIZE ♦* LES INUTILES.' 97 g?,rdens of the metropolis. Thoy are the repositories of all the gossip, that floats among the American colony in Paris. I cultivated a few of the species, and reversed their calling by making them ex- treniely useful; fo-- they brought me a daily bulletin of all they heard, either good or bad, in regard to myself ; and all, that their in- formation cost me, was a few French biscuits and a bottle of wine. By what I learned from " Les Inutiles" I saw, that my position could only he maintained by a continual struggle. I heard with re- gret, that the envious had succeeded in prejudicing our American Minister, Mr. Dayton, agauijt me; and that he had said, that he should not present me at court. I heard also, that the ladies, who frequented my receptions, were my bitterest enemies; and their caustic remarks and broad insinuations would be repeated to me, just as they had fallen from their lips. I was a mystery, they thought ; and there must be something wrong, that so young a lady should be travelling alone, without any protection. Even such ac. coraplishments, as I had, they turned against me, by saying, that it was evident, that I had only been educated, in order to attract and inveigle the opposite sex, with no good design, as was clear to every woman, who had laid eyes on me. I was kept so well informed of everybody's sentiments towards me, that I was always prepared to manage my adversaries, whenever 1 cair ^ .n contact with them. But, instead of using their own weapons, which my position then was too weak to justify, I tried to conquer them, by treating those with the most civility, whom I had the most reason to hate. 1 avoided giving them a chance to suspect, that I knew what their sentiments were in regard to me ; and those, whom I had the most reason to distrust, I would treat apparently with the greatest confidence ; and every one of my words would be repeated to me, with additional remarks, by Les Jnutiles. But I soon got tired of the strife ; for it gave me little or no satis- faction, even after I had succeeded in weakening my enemies. I saw, in spite of all I could do, that I was loosing ground , and I began to lose courage, and was ready to give up the contest and leave Paris. I could go to Florence, where I had excellent letters to old residents, and there begin anew. I fell into my old habit, and went to consulting the fortune-tellers, who all predicted for me a bright future, a splendid marriage, and great worldly success. One day I found Mr. Pennington, Secretary of the American Le- 98 FEMININE DIPLOMACY. 11 gation, waiting for me. He had come to tell me that the first bill at the Tiiileries would take place on the 6th of January, and that, if I wanted to be presented to their Majesties 1 must make my application at once. ** I know too much," I said, " to make an application when I am sure to be refused." Then I told Mr. Pennington, that I had learned from Mrs. , that Mr. Dayton had said, that he would not present me at court. *' The old vixen ! " exclaimed Pennington ; **she is the very woman who came to the legation and prejudiced Mr. Dayton against you." I was surprised to hear this ; for I thought her the only true lady friend I had in Paris. She had feigned to be exceedingly sorry, when she came to tell me what Mr. Dayton had said ; and she was always inviting me to her house to dine, and always coming to my receptions. " Well," said I, " if such is the case, I am disgusted with Paris, and I shall leave at once for Horence." Pen- nington broke out into an ironical laugh. '* Florence," said he, " is, of all places on the face of the earth, the " ; and here, I am sorry to say, historical accuracy will not permit me to deny, that he used, in the superlative degree, a participial adjective decidedly and dede- corously more forcible, than polite, to express his utter condemnation ; in fact it was quite Dantesque. " Why, Paris is a heaven to it ; " he continued ; '* here people only know how much money a man has in the bank ; but in Florence they will tell you how much you have in your pocket. All that people do there is to mind one another's business. It would ruin any one, who has a good name, to live there ; and I wonder what chance you would stand. Why," said he, '* there would not be a hair left on the top of your head at the end of the first week.'' " But," said I, " my head feels pretty sore now, and I have got enough of it ; I give it up." " If you cannot get along in Paris," said Pen- nington, "you can never succeed anywhere. At any rate Mrs. Day- ton is your friend ; for I have often heard her speak sympathizingly of you. She knows, that it is nothing but envy, that has turned, the women against you. Write her a note ; mak-e your application to her. I will choose a good tirne to give it to her. If she asks her hus- band to present you, he will do it. " But," said I, " why do you not ask it for me ? You ought to have a good deal of iniluence, being Secretary of Legation, and being with them most of the time." " How foolishly you talk ! " said he ; " they all know just what kind of a man I am. I -vill run you down when I ]Mt;sent ths note. Then Mrs. Dayton will bo sure to stand up for you. You ou;.^ht to know, that captukp: of a diplomat. 99 people of sense are suspicious of a woman, whom all the men are praising and all the v omen abusing." I wrote the note ; and the next day I rec-ived a letter from the liga tion, asking would I like to be presented at court on the occasion of the first ball, which would take place on the 6th. I replied in the affirmative, and, a few d^ys later, I received a letter, saying, that my application had been granted. I made a most extravagant outlay on my toilet. I wore a pearl necklace, a set of diamonds, and a white silk dress puffed with tulle. Pennington introduced me to a courtier, who escorted me into the supper-room, where I supped at the first table, near to their Majesties, and with the Diplomatic Corps. Mr. Dayton saw me. He came up and spoke to me, and complimented me for being so handsomely dressed, saying that he was glad to see America so well represented. He took his place beside me, and remained by me during the time we were in the supper-room, which must have been three- quarters of an hour. I felt that my opportunity had come to undo the mischief, that my rivals had done me ; and I was determined to profit by it. - It was easy to read Mr. Dayton's character, and it would have been difficult to mistake it ; for his frank, high-toned, generous nature was stamped on all his features. For a moment I was perplexed ; I did not know what art to use in order to win him and to make him my friend. I knew, that my future in France depended on being sustained and protected by the Day- tons. I finally came to the conclusion, that the best art to use with such a man, was to use no art at all. So I threw off those allure- ments and that air of languid indifference, which had never failed to captivate those, who were as deeply steeped in dissimulation as my- self ; and I behaved towards him like a plain, honest, frank, out- spoken woman. This was a hard part for me to play ; for tlie contrary long habit had almost become to me a second nature. I comnjenced by attacking his gallantry, and gave him to understand, that I knew, that I was not indebted to him for the pleasure of sup* ping that evening at their Majesties' tuble. I then tried to enlist his sympathies by exposing to him my real position, and telling how grateful I felt towards Mrs. Dayton ; and I appealed to his generosity by begging him not to let the envious so poison him against me, that he himself should seek to break that slender support, which I had in XT ■ \ % m it fOO ANCESTRY. the protection of his wife. In an instant I saw, that I had conquered ; for he reproached himself at once for his prejudices, which he ac- knowledged to me. " I give them all up," he made haste to say, *' for I never was so mistaken in any one in my life. Why, you are nothing but a child. I have often watched you, and have tried to study you ; and I came to the conclusion, that you were a confirmed diplomat." "And so I am," I replied, "and I have just given youj a good proof of it, by throwing all diplomacy aside, the moment I' came into the presence of my master." He smiled, and slightly in- clined his head, in acknowledgment of the compliment ; and he assured me, when we parted that evening, that I could count on his protection, whenever it would be in his power to serve me. The Americans received me better after my presentation at court ; for there was still a doubt, whether I might not rise after all. Among my American acquaintances was a family, whose son had married the daughter of the Count of , who was brother of the Duchess of 7. I was introduced to this family, and, for a short time, was 1 general favorite. They invited me to their dinners, and |)a;ties; and introduced me to their friends. But, in a short while, it was only a repetition of what had occurred among the Americans. I gave umbrage to the women. They felt, that I took a position, that no lady had a right to aspire to, unless she could trace her genealogy back to Charlemagne or one of his paladins ; and they tried to disembarrass themselves of me, by not inviting me to their houses, nor coming to my receptions. But to their great chagrin, we were constantly meeting in the drawing-rooms of those, to whom they had introduced me. One was that of Madame O'Gorman, and another that of Mrs. Admiral Ross. I was passing one evening alone with Mrs. Ross, at her house ; wher), in a most adroit arjd lady-like way, she very delicately re- marked, that the great affection she had for me, gave her a strong desire to know all about me ; as, from my manners and education, it was evident to all, that I had not descended from anything vulgar. I felt, that she had put the question very sweetly ; yet, I had become chafed by the treatment I had received from her noble French friends, with the ducal connection ; and I had got tired of hearing ancestry discussed from morning till night ; especially for the reason, that I did not care to resuscitate my own. 1 answered her, laughingly : " \ see that it is all over with me '■Ml AN ENGLISH HEART. lOI here, and that you are going to court-martial me, so as to go over to the enemy." She was unprepared for any such outburst on my part. She had supposed, that I would not be quick enough to detect her object. She was so embarrassed, that she could not reply, but blushed crimson. I took pity on her, and continued : " My relative? are all dead ; at least, they are all dead to me. Requiescant in pace ; and if their resurrection depended on me, I am afraid, that they would be permitted to ccmtinue, for many a year, to enjoy their l)rescnt shady condition. I was fondled by them one day as a pet, and the next day was thrust into their kitchen like a Cinderella. But it was not in their kitchen, that the gallant knight Eckel fell in love with me ; for I had already wandered from it. Now, madam, be satisfied ; for I shall tell you no more. But if I should judge of my- self by what I know of my kin, I could swear to you, madam, that the worst blood in America flows through my veins. So now give me my hat, and let me go." At that I advanced towards the door of the antechamber. My friend burst out into a hearty laugh, sprang after me, and caught me, before I reached the door. She kissed me on both cheeks, took my hand, and led me back to the sofa, saying : " I want to be your friend. Sit down, and I will open my heart to you." She told me the efforts, that others, even the Americans, had made to prevent her visiting me. But henceforth, she said, nothing should separate us. " 1 give you my heart," she said ; " and in fact you have had my sympathies, from the first moment, that I saw you." And in the enjoyment of her friendship, I soon learned to know the priceless value of a true English heart. CHAPTER XXVIII. MY OCTOGENARIAN BEAU. — ^A NOBLE IRISH FAMILY AND AN IRISH Ilk F. About this time I was engaged to be married to a Mr. S , from Boston. One night, as I was going to bed, I implored God to send me a true dream, and to let me know, if I was ever to marry Mr. S . I dreamed, that I was standing in a garden, and that I saw a gypsy coming towards me. I went up to her and asked ler to ifljl 1 . 1 9B !5 MARRYING A TITLE. tell my fortune. She instantly unrolled a scroll, which ahe held in her hand, and on it was written, in letters of gold : '* Vou wii/ never marry 8 ." I sav it plainly, but beneath the scroll was a word, that could not be seen so distinctly, for it seemed to float in a mist ; but it was plain enough for me to read : the word was " Laferri^re." The gypsy then disappeared, and I instantly awoke. The dream was just as vivid before me, as anything I had ever seen ; yet I did not be- lieve it, and said to myself: "Dreams always go by contraries." lUit, in a few weeks, Mr. S and I had a quarrel, when we both confessed, that we would sooner be shot, than marry each other; after which we parted the best of friends. My next suitor was the Count de V , an octogenarian, who pretended to be much younger. I made his acquaintance at an evening party given by the Countess de Loyaut6. Everybody knew, that I wanted to marry a title ; and he offered me his in exchange for my fortune, which be proposed to divide with his daughter the Countess de F . I then cast a look over my money affairs ; and I saw, that I must either retrench my expenses, or give up the idea of marrying a count. My friends in America were still faithful to me ; and I was constantly drawing interests on contracts, wherein it was understood, that, so long as certain men should give me a per- centage, they would have ihe preference, — ^justly or not. One evening Dr. Johnson called on me, and asked me, why I did not try to marry a title. I told him, that, for the present, the only man of title, who presented himself, was an octogenarian, and that to take him would seem like being led to the altar by Saturn himself. " So much the better," said the doctor ; ** the older he is the sooner he will die ; and then you will be Madame la Comtesse, without any encumbrances." He talked to me in this way for about an hour ; until he actually persuaded me, that I ought to jump at the chance. I at once conferred with Mr. Dayton, who said all he could to rea- son me out of it. But I became inexorable ; for my head was full of all the advantages, that Dr. Johnson had persuaded me, would ac- crue to me, the moment I would be ushered into a drawing-room as Madame la Comtesse. Mr. Dayton then told me of the danger of marrying a Frenchman, on account of the civil law in regard to mar- riage ; that it was a difficult thing for an American to be legally mar- ried in France, as the most necessary article was a certificate of birth, which not one American out of a hundred could produce, as required ;i i! THE DUKE DE MORNY. 103 by French law. He might marry me, he said, to a Frenchman at the Legation, and I might be married again at the chuich ; yet in France my marriage would not be considered legal, and my right to the title of Countess could be disputed after my husband's death, by any one, whose interest it might be to lay claim to it. As I had suffered all my life from the fact, that it had not been proved, that my parents were legally married, notwithstanding their allegations, that they were married, — and it is my firm belief, that they were ; I was determined not to run any risk this time, but to be perfectly sure of my success before advancing any farther. So I bade society a short farewell, and went to studying le code Napoleon — the civil law of France. I made the Count bring me all his papers, so as to satisfy myself of the genuineness of his title. In the midst of this laborious occupation, Mr. Dayton introduced to me the Duke de Morny. The Duke called on me one day, and was exceedingly amused to see a lady's boudoir turned into a law- office. He proposed to relieve me of a task, which my instinct of self-preservation against French chicanery had imposed upon me ; and took home with him the two or three hundred papers of the Count, which must have proved his ancestry as far back as King Pepin. In a few days the Duke brought me an answer, that my certificate of birtii was the most important paper, and tha*^ I must 'have also l)apers to prove the death of my parents, besides my marriage certifi- cate and the certificate of my husband's death, signed by the French consul ir New York. I sent at once to America, and procured the two last. But to produce my certificate of birth, would be impossi- ble. To obtain a certificate of the death of my father, would be pos- sible ; but I would certainly never apply to Blackwell's Island for the certificate of death of my mother. The Duke de Morny confided to me his own history, which had been^ full of vicissitudes. As he was the illegitimate son of Queen Hortense, and half-brother to the Emperor, he had passed a part of his life in a palace, and another part in misery. I saw, that illegitimacy in his eyes was no disgrace ; so I told him how I had been done out of my birthright, justly or not, there would ever be a doubt ; but that I had smarted from it just as much, as though I were really an illegitimate child. My story interested the Duke, and he promised to do all in his power to aid me, and he was sure of sticcess. As soon as he be- 99 104 I PROVE THAT I WAS BORN. came thoroughly informed, he called on me again, and told me, that there was a law ii> France, which made provision for cases, where foreigners could not procure their certificate of birth. I would have to go before a magistrate, and make a declaration, that I was the daughter of such and such persons ; I must give my mother's maiden name, — "Which," said I, " I will never do ; " (I had not confided it even to him). My declaration must be signed by seven witnesses, and this paper would answer the purpose of a certificate of birth= I secured seven witnesses ; among whom were four Americans : Mr. Dayton, Mn John Monroe, Mr. Alcander Hutchinson, and Mr. Hotchkiss ; and we all met at the court-room of a justice of the peace. The witnesses sliould have declared their own knowledge of the alleged facts ; but on account of the powerful influence, that was aiding me, they were permitted to confine themselves to declaring their belief in the truth of my statement ; as this was all that they could do conscientiously. So the whole burden was thrown on my conscience. I quieted my scruples in this way. I gave the name of my father ; and, as my mother had come from Montreal, which is a city, and ville is the French for city, I gave my mother's first name and her second name as de Ville ; which in English, would be Maria of the City. When I explained to the Duke, how I had gotten out of the diffi- culty, \\F: lalighed heartily, and said : " What is your religion, that you can arrange your conscience to suit such an emergency ? " I was surprised, that he should even suspect me of having any religion at all , and I did not reply. — " Do," said he, seriously, " tell me, what is your belief." Said I : "I believe in Venus and Mars, love and fight." " I am a convert too ; " said he. The next day he brought me Renan's Life of Jesus, We read most of it together, I will never forget how I was affected by read- ing the last chapter. I was alone, and had passed the whole after- noon perusing the book. I had been reading that part, where it speaks of the Saviour's perfections as man, and of his divine gener- osity in being willing to die for his doctrine, which he beUeved would secure the happiness of mankind. Renan speaks admiringly of so much magnanimity. Then he spoke of his delicate organization, and of his crucifixion. I closed the book, burst into tears, and exclaimed : " What a pity, that he is not God ! for I feel like falling down and worshipping him." It was the first time, that I had ever shed a tear THE LIFE OF JESUS. 7 i 105 over our Lord's sufferings. I felt, that he must be God ; but I di(? not watu to beheve it ; and I at once set diligently to work to re- read those passages in Jean Jacques, which had so thoroughly con- vinced me of the contrary years before. But I had to fight against the grace, that was given me at the moment that I finished Renan's work. ,t'yi There was something so beautiful in the description of the Man- God, even as portrayed by the pen of an unbeliever, that I could not divest myself of the feeling, that he must have been divine^ as no mere man could ever have been like that man. > ,!r. !.»•>»-. i .;• ' .♦ 1 Mr. Dayton regretted having introduced me to De Morny, and was always warning me to beware of him. The Duke knew it. Mr. Dayton once said to him, that he was afraid he had thrown the lamb into the lion's arms. The Duke answered : " Which of us is the lamb ? " The moment I made the Duke's acquaintance, I scarcely needed any longer the influence even of the American minister ; for, through the Duke, I could get invitations everywhere, even to " les peiits bals" of the Empress ; a favor, which Mr. Dayton could lot have obtained for his most intimate friends. The Duke also sent me boxes for the opera and theatres. In fact I had everything my own way, and was enjoying life to my heart's content. The Count de V had introduced me to all his friends ; but the moment I became intimate with them, they advised me not to marry him, for it was evident that I would be most miserable, if I did. He was already so jealous of me, that he endeavored to control my re lations with others. This I would not allow ; but he threatened to enforce his will in the matter the moment I should be his wife. All this did not decide me to give up the idea of marrying him. It was only, when the Duke, on bringing me a report of the genuineness of the title, told me that his secretary had discovered, in looking ovci the genealogy of the family, that for the five last generations, all the male ancestors had lived nearly a century, and when he remarked, that there was a prospect of the present Count- putrivalling them all in age, from his present hale and hearty appearance, — that I became frightened and dared not run the risk ; for I had only counted on one or two years at most. I had done everything to attach him to me. Being fond of literature, as he was gifted and talented, we used to pass whole days together, while he instructed me. It is one of the io6 SYSTEMATIC THEOLOGY. 11 I' sinful acts of my life, which I now regret the most, that I embittered the last days of the Count de V . He died two years afterwards ; but he was wretched until the day of his death, on account of the manner, in which 1 had treated him ; for it humbled him in the eyes of all his friends, to whom he had boasted of his future happiness. But 1 forgot him the moment he was out of my sight. Yet, with a " systematic theology " of my own, I looked upon our acquaintance, as providential ; for it had incited me to obtain a certificate of birth, which uiight be of great service to me in the future. '•' '■ ' •' ' I felt, that I owed all my success to God ; and I used to thank Him for everything I received. 1 believed, that He showered favors upon me, to remunerate me for the injustice He had done me in my youth. I did not believe, that He would hold me responsible for my sins ; as I was sure, that if I ceased for one day to be a rogue, that day I would be lost. As soon as I had secured friends among the best families in Paris, I at once swept my rooms of " /es Inutiles." This created for me a new host of enemies; for they wished to make use of me to extend the list of their acquaintances ; and they revenged themselves upon me by injuring me as much as they could. I had weighed all that before I waged war with them, and it was only when I had secured a position too strong for ihem to pull me down, that I ventured on such a battle. i ■-<■!'. \y:Kih'*f:i-:Us-: * * I left the Champs Elys^esj and took a spacious apartment at the Hotel du Louvre. One of my devoted friends, the Count Germain de Monforton, and also the Duke de Morny, were directors of the Credit Mobilier; which company owned the hotel. Through their in fluence, I got my rooms and board at very reduced prices. About this time, the O' Gorman returned from Berlin, where he used to spend the greater part of his time. His return was hailed with great joy by his friends in Paris. I was invited frequently to their house, and the happiest hours, I ever passed in society, were spent under their roof. They were of a noble Irish family, highly cultivated, witty and refined, generous and charitable to the last degree, never doing another a wrong, nor suspecting it in others. They knew who they were themselves ; and therefore did, as they pleased, and judged for themselves, whom they should like, and whom they should not. They were not always thrusting their nobility in your face ; yet you MY FRIENDS. lo; could see it in all their ways. I always left them with one regret, and tliat was, that there were not more like them in the world, Whenever I went to the O'Gormans, I was obliged to throw off the mask I wore in the world, and tried to behave like a woman of sense. For in a house, where so much candor and honesty reigned, deception and craft were ill at their ease. I would cast them off at the sill of their door, where I would resume them again to make a fool of the beau, who escorted me home. It was at Mme. O' Gorman's, that I made the acquaintance of Pope Hennessy and Edmond de Lesseps. Hennessy was then an Irish member of the BritisI arliament, and Lesseps had just re- turned from Lima, where he as the French consul-general. Hen- nessy was full of intelligence and wit. It was impossible to dine where he was ; for he would keep us constantly laughing at his sallies and repartee. One evening, as we had just left the table, I asked him, if that was the truth, he had been telling ; for he had nearly af- firmed with an oath, all that he had said. " The truth ! " he ex- claimed, with astonishment : "who ^ver heard of such a thing, as telling the truth at a dinner-table. Why you would not have me put all the people to sleep, would you ? " " But," said I, *' the O' Gorman has just told me, that you are a good Roman Catholic ; and I cannot believe, that you are sincere." Hennessy became serious, and assured me, that there was not a better believing, or a worse practising Catho- lic in all Ireland, than himself. " Then," said I, *' how dare you tell such lies, if you believe you are going to be punished for them." " Ah," said Hennessy, *' that is all right ; for I have two sisters at home, who are constantly praying for me ; they will keep me out of hell." "But," said I, "why don't you pray for yourself?" He re-_ plied : "So I do ; for I pray that God may listen to them." I did not, and could not believe him confessing against himself. As I pen tiiese lines, the thought occurs to me, that the day may come, when I shall take Hennessy's place, and he mine ; when it will be much easier for me to convince him and the world, that all the lies I ever told were truths, than to make them believe me now when I speak the truUu 1' I 1 n ! il io8 :i^ MACHIAVELLIAN SUCCESS. , / . ■;■ ..*.;; ;:v>.',»K' i ,.jnrM..:il:)f% :[ti- (it ii-'-^m i.>U CHAPTER XXIX. ; .^ ^ .i] »i^', /,< j. it sifi* A NIGHT OF HORROR. — ALONE WITH A CORPSE. — MR. DAYTON. On the last evening in November, 1864, I was standing in my bed- room before a wardrobe mirror, admiring myself and contrasting the past with the present. I felt happy and contented. It seemed as if I then realized all that I had ever hoped for, or dreamed of, in life. I was courted and flattered by the fashionable world of Paris ; and my life was but one continual round of gayety, and pleasure, which never gave me a moment's time for sadness or reflection. In the midst of it all, I had kept my heart perfectly free. I enjoyed everything, yet loved nothing, but what I called success. ' .»■'"■-: '•'•'i' I had made the '* Prince " of Machiavelli my breviary, and I never doubted that its maxims pointed the way to happiness ; for had not the following of them, paved my way to success ? I was contented with the present, and felt, that the future was secure ; for I believed, that all lay in my own hands ; that I had only to con- tinue in my Machiavellian course, and that pleasure and enjoyment would always be mine, i'v .vJ,'-' ^< '^'■■•^ .>.; * ; ^^t)., I had just finished my evening toilet. I had on a dress, which was fitted to my form with artistic simplicity ; and my hair-dresser had becomingly arranged my hair with bands of ribbon in the Grecian style. My maid had gone to her room, and I was alone. I was waiting for Mr. Dayton, whom* I expected to come and pass the evening with me ; for I had written him the week before, that I wished to see him on a matter of importance. It was in regard to an American, whom I will designate, as Mr. Ratscratch ; who wanted to be Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. He had promised me five thousand dollars, if I would get the ribbon for him ; and I wished to get Mr. Dayton's influence in the matter. Mr. Dayton had called the previous evening in my absence, and had left his card, with word, that he would come again the next evening. As I felt chilly, I threw an opera-cloak over my shoulders, and took another admiring glance at myself in the glass ; and this time I exclaimed half aloud : " Who would have believed it ten years ago?" I burst out laughing at the thought of what kind of faces my THE AMERICAN MINISTER. 109 old acquaintances would make, if they could see me just as I stood there then ; and I promenaded before the glass, talking to myself as merrily as could be, until I heard a rap. I flew to the door, and the Hon. William L. Dayton stood before me. He was surprised at my toilet, and withdrew a step, saying : " You are going out ? " " No," said I, "not at all : I have been waiting for you." "But," he con- tinued, "you are dressed to go out." "No," said I, " I am dressed to receive you." He smiled, and came in ; and, as we passed through the antechamber into the parlor, he said to me, that he had just got away from Willie, who had gone to the theatre Palais Royal. " Now," said he, " tell me what the important matter is, that you intimated to me in your note." I went and got a paper. It was Mr. Ratscratch's application to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. " Nonsense," exclaimed Mr. Dayton, as soon as I told him, that Mr. Ratscratch desired to be decorated ; "what fools Americans do make of themselves, the moment they cross the Atlantic. I always feel ashamed of myself, whenever I put on my uniform ; for I feel, as though ail that tinsel were beneath an American citizen." I then read him the application. Mr. Ratscratch had founded a new branch of industry in France, which had greatly enriched the department, in which it was established ; and it was for that reason, that he laid claim to be decorated as Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. .•...:^ ....•, r',,!*- -...: Mr. Dayton promised me, that he would have the application drawn up at hig office in proper form, and that he would present it at once to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, with whom he was on excellent terms, and that he would press it, so as to get it through before he left. " What," said I, "are you going to leave France ? " "Yes," he replied, "I am going to send Mr. Seward my resignation very soon ; for I am tired of this position, where I spend about six thousand dollars above my salary ; and I want to go home on Wil. He's account." Said I : " How sorry I am, that you are going away 1 for you alone can piotect me against the envy and jealousy of the Americans." He told me, that he would recommend me strongly to his succes- sor, and would do all he could for me. X then asked him to intro- duce me, before he left, to two French noblemen, who held good position! at court. " Why do you want to know them ? " he asked. Said I : "I want their protection." " Yes," rejoined Mr. Dayton, no A JUDGE OF HORSE-FLESH. I 4 *' that is all very well /or you ; but who is going to protect them i' " and we both began to laugh. He continued : " You know too many people now, and you have all the young men abusing you." "Yes," I replied, " all the petlts creves whom I turned out of doors." " No, no," said Mr. Da)'ton, "something better than they. It was the Marquis de T , who told me, a few days ago, that he fcund you on your reception-day surrounded by a pretty fast set ; and I was very sorry to hear it too." " What," said I, " did that little English Marquis dare to speak so to you of me ? He was piqued, that I did not take a fancy to him. You know yourself, that he has a face of tlie color and shape of a lobster, and that he walks like one too. He met none but his superiors here, the envious little fellow !" "Tut, tut," replied Mr. Dayton, interrupting me, and taking the Marquis* part, " I know better ; for he is considered the best judge of horse-flesh in Paris." Said I : "I would not trust him to buy me a jackass." Mr. Dayton could no longer restrain his laughter. But I continued: " And to prove to you, that he has even less sense than a well-bred donkey, 1 will tell you what happened a few days ago, at a dinner- party, where the Marquis was invited. ........ ^-.., . ^ " All the guests were assemlDled excepting the Marquis, and it was already twenty minutes past the dinner hour. Finally the host gave him up, and we all sat down to the table. The first course was served, when the waiter handed the host a piece of folded paper, which was so soiled and misshajjen, that any one could have guessed, it had been written in a stable. Our host took the note, but could only make out the meaning of one word, and that was the signature, which he believed to be that of the Marquis. * Ah,' said he, * this must be the Marquis' excuse ; " and we all remained silent, expect- mg to know why we had been deprived of his company. But it was too much for the host : so he handed the note to a lady, who sat next to him ; but she could not make out a word of it either, and passed it to the next, until it went round the table. Each one had his remark to make, which would set the table in a roar. The lu- dicrously shaped note coming from an English nobleman, and the witty remarks of the convives, afforded such merriment, that the dining-room was deafened with laughter. It had just reached its full fieight, when who was ushered into the dining-room but the Marquis Himself? " His presence fell upon us like a bomb, and, in a second, our THE PROSPECTS OF RATSCRATCH. Ill peals of laughter were changed into a death-like silence, and each on« looked down straight into his plate, as though he were making his ex- amination of conscience ; for the thought came simultaneously to us all, that he might have heard what we had said. There was not a smile on the face of one of us during the rest of the evening, and we all waited patiently for him to leave that we might have our fun ; but he outstaid the whole of us ! Now what do you think of that ? to write a note of excuse, which it would puzzle a magician to read, and which to this day no one has ever been able to make out, and, after fright- ening us, to bore us to death ! I have not recovered from it yet." Mr. Dayton laughed all the while, that I was relating this silly story, which I finished by asking him, if he would let such an igno rant jockey pass judgment on me. " No," said Mr. Dayton, " I re- tract, and pronounce judgment in your favor." " And, well you may ; " said I, *' for he only met the most charming gentlemen in Paris here ; but who keep their horses in their stables, without eating and sleeping with them, as the Marquis does." In this frivolous strain we kept up our conversation for about twenty minutes. I appeared reckless arid overjoyed ; but I was, in reality, serious and anxious ; for I was thinking all the while about tlie five thousand dollars, and what he had said to me about his leav- ing Paris. Mr. Dayton had always been a good friend to me. I liked him, and esteemed him more, than any gentleman, who had taken an in- terest in me. But I very seldom saw him, as I rarely passed an evening at home. So I now felt, that the time was precious, and that I must do all I could to enlist his sympathies, so that he would go to work at once and press my' application through the different departments ; for, after being approved by the Minister of Foreign Affairs, it had to pass through the hands of the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce. Mr. Dayton told me, that his relations were good with both these gentlemen, and he felt confident, that he would suc- ceed with them ; for he considered that Mr. Ratscratch had a good claim to set forth. I was so overjoyed, when he gave me so much hope, that I was profuse in my expression of my gratitude. Mr. Dayton was an open-hearted, candid, pure-minded man ; and one, who was totally off his guard against the seductions of a womair like myself. I began to assume a dreamy sadness, as if at the thought of his departure. I was partly in earnest j for he was my sincere 112 A PROTECTOR. I * friend, and had been of great service to me ; and he was a friend, that could be relied upon. He was all, that I needed to protect me against the malice of the Americans, who, by this time, had become exceedingly bitter against me, on account of my pretensions, my in- discretions, and my success. He was touched and moved at my expressions of tender regret, and even surprised ; and he candidly admitted, that it was only the persecutions of others, that had drawn him to me. " 1 have often thought," said he, " what a j)ity it is, that you have not your family here to protect you." "Ah," I replied, "then it is to my misfortunes alone, that I am indebted for so much sympathy. If such is the truth, I shall hereafter call them by some other name." And thus we continued to converse ; until he at last arose, and began to walk the room, like a man struggling to master an inward strife. But he soon resumed his seat, and in a few minutes pressed his hand to his forehead, and exclaimed : " Oh, my head ! I feel sick ; get something, that will relieve me." I rushed into tlie bedroom and got some bay-rum. When I returned, he was seated in the middle of the sofa, with his head bowed down upon his breast. I raised his head, and began to bathe it. " Do not leave me alone again ; " he said. " Oh, I am so sorry I came ! I am so sorry I came 1 " and he made an effort to disgorge. I sent the maid at once for a physician. When I returned, I found him sitting as I had left him, but his eyes were closed : said he : " Do not leave me alone again, I cannot see ; you must not leave me alone." 1 moistened a handkerchief with bay-rum, and sup- porting his head with my arm, I placed the handkerchief on his left temple. That seemed to relieve ^^im ; for he thanked me, and said : " You are a good child ; but do not leave me alone again." For a while netlher of us spoke. At last I broke the silence, and asked him, if he would not like to lie down. He answered by a slight motion of the head. I ran into the bedroom, snatched up a pillow, and returned as quickly as possible. I found him, as I re- entered the room, with his head down on the sofa ; he had fallen on his rig] side. I supposed, that he had tried to lie down. I placed the pillow on the arm of the sofa, and told him to lay his head on the pillow ; but he did not move, nor answer me. I finally suc- ceeded in placing the pillow under his head, and stretching his form upon the sofa ; but I nearly fainted with exliaustion in the effort. DEATH. 113 He began to breathe loudly and harshly. I thought he hr^d faller asleep. He continued to breathe thus for several minutes. Ther there was a pause, — a deep silence. He drew one long last breath ; — and was dead. I thought that he slept soundly. The lire had gone down in the fireplace; so I took oft" my opera-cloak and threw it over him, and wrapt up his right hand in the ermine hood. I took the candle and placed it on the floor, on the other side of the chimney, that the light might not shine on his eyelids. I looked at the clock : it was twenty minutes past nine. I thought that I should let him sleep until ten, and that it would then be time for him to go home. I moved softly about the room, that I might not wake him. The maid returned, and told me that the doctor, who resided in the hotel was absent. "It is all over now;" said I ; "he is asleep, and h> vill probably have recovered from his headache, when he awakes," 1 then returned to the drawing-room, and sat down by the side of the slecpifig xmxi. I remained by his side for more than half an-hour, thinking, meditating, and building castles in the air, as unconcernedly, as though that evening was to end for me, as brightly as it had begun. The clock struck ten. I uncovered his hand, which I had wrapt up in the hood of the cloak. I took hold of it, expecting to find it warm ; but, to my surprise, it was cold ; and, without suspecting why, I shrank instinctively from its touch, and dropped it instantly. I triftd gently to rouse him ; and spoke to him. I called him again, and then again, each time raising my voice. I thought he had fainted ; and I at once began to apply the few remedies, I had at hand, to revive him. I felt for his pulse ; and I imagined, that it feebly beat. I then thrust my hand into his bosom, and placed it over his heart on his breast ; it was bathed in a warm perspiration , and from this I took hope, and still believed, that he had only swooned away. I now called the maid to help me to revive him. I shook him and called him, as loiid as I could. Again I took his hand ; bu» this time I was so excited, that I was insensible to its death-like touch. But the maid and I perceived at the same instant its deathly pallor, and the dark circle, which had settled around the nails ; and we simultaneously uttered a shriek. The maid became livid with fright, and fled from the room. 1 rushed after her, caught her, and threw my arms around her neck, and implored her not to say one 114 THE HAND OF GOD. word to any one in the house ; but to go for Dr. Baillard, Mr. l)ay- ton's physic an. " Anytliing, you ask ine;" she said, "but to go into that room again ; for I am afraid of the dead." " Dead ! " I exclaimed ; "he is not dead ; I am sure of it, for his breast is moist and warm. He has only fainted." "But, madam," replied ni) maid, " the white hand ! " " That is nothing," I replied ; for in spite of all I had seen, I could not believe, that he was dead. ' The maid went for the doctor. I fastened all the doors of rri) apartment, and then returned to the drawing-room. I raised the body up, and placed my mouth near his ear, and implored him to wake. His face was flufJhed, and looked as natural, as in life ; and there still lingered on it that kind and geaial expression, which it always wore. I laid the head again upon the pillow, and placed my hand again upon his breast ; it was still warm. I got my hand-glass, and, kneeling beside him held it over his mouth ; and, while I held it there, I prayed. I held it several minutes, fearing to look at its surface ; for on it hung my last hope. " O God ! " I cried, " have mercy on me ! " At last I ventured to turn the glass. Ah, never shall I forget that look. What did I see? Instead of moisture, nothing but my own affrighted face. I shrieked : " it cannot be ; he is not dead ! I did not hold it long enough ! " I tried again, and pressed the glass more closely to his lips ; and held it longer than before, all the while imploring God to have mercy on me. Then, with trembling hand I turned the glass, and looked again, and saw my face as clearly as before. I rose, and staggered to the table ; and my first thought was ; " this is the hand of God !^^ I felt, that God was there ; and I knelt down and implored Him to forgive me ; to have mercy on me ; to take pity on me ; and to give him back his breath, just long enough for me to get him to his home. I prayed, and prayed with faith ; believing, that God was all-powerful ; that, as He had taken away his breath, He could give it back to him again. 1 then arose, and turned towards the dead man, expecting to find him alive. I could not be resigned. I raised him up again, and implored God more fervently than before, to give him back life, onl> for an hour ; just long enough for him to reach his home, so that his family might never find him there. I held him up, and prayed until I lost all hope : then instantly my strength failed me, and the corpse fell from my grasp, with a heavy bound, back upon the pillow. DESPAIR. 115 Trembling with fear, I left his side, and knelt in a corner of the room, the furthest from where he lay, and there I prayed once more. But this time 1 invoked the sacred name of Jesus. Years and years had passed, since I had called upon that holy name ; and, as my lips pronounced it, the hills of Anienia came up before me, as in a vision, and I remembered the days of innocent childhood, and the delight, that my soul then found in the word of God. For an in- stant, a ray of comfort lighted up my desolate soul ; but it as quickly passed away. For my doubts at once thrust themselves upon me, and quenched that light ; and I was left alone once more in darkness. In that instant a feeling of unutterable despair came over me, and, like my husband, I too wished, that I had never doubted. I remained in the corner of the room, almost afraid to stir, until I heard a knocking at the door. I was afraid to open, till I heard my name feebly pronounced ; and recognized the voice of my maid. I learned from her, that the doctor had retired, and refused to come before morning. "Did you tell him," I inquired, "that it was for Mr. Dayton?" "No ;" said she, "I was afraid to speak his name. Ah, madam, how can you stay in that room ? The doctor asked me, if you were ill. I told him, no, but that you wanted to see him." " Oh horror," I moaned, " and must I wait here alone another hour while you get the doctor." I sent her again, to say, that Mr, Dayton had been taken very ill in my parlor. I sent a servant for the book- keeper, whom I told that the American minister was taken very ill in my roonis ; and I requested him to send word to his family to come in their carriage for him. Alone once more with the dead body. e^ji I soon became calm ; and I made up my mind, as to what I should do. I resolved to put a bold face on the whole matter. I was the only one, who knew, that he was dead ; and I determined to' get him home, before the police should know anything of it. It was nearly midnight, when Dr. Baillard arrived. He and Mr. Dayton were bosom friends, and the doctor loved Mr. Dayton as a brother. He leaned over him, placed his fingers on his pulse, and instantly I saw his hand tremble and his face turn pale. He placed his hand on the dead man's heart, heaved a sigh, and then opened one of his eyes, which was fixed and stared glaringly at him. He quickly closed it, staggered back a few steps, then came up to me, and stood in an attitude, as though he were going to strike me. I looked at him» Ii6 THE SON. t as calmly, as though I had not the slighest suspicion of what wal passing tlirough his mind. Said he : '* Do you know, that he is deadi '• "Certainly," 1 replied: "he must have died a few moments after nine ; but I knew it not until after ten ; for I thought he was asleep. 1 did all I could for him, and have been sending for doctors in vain till now." The doctor began to question nie, and was eyeing me closely meanwhile ; but I answered his questions indifferently, and began to lament over myself, for all that I had suffered. " But," said he ; " how am I to break this news to his wife." It was as much, £.s I could do, to appear calm. But I rallied, as I knew, that everything depended on my self possession. At that in- stant, Willie Dayton came in, and rushed up to me, shook hands, and began to apologize for coming so late. Then he asked what was the matter, that 1 had sent for them so urgently. But before I had time to reply, he saw his father lying on the sofa ; he rushed over to him, and said : " What is the matter, father ? Are you ill ? " Said I : " Willie, he is dead." The son uttered a shriek, and threw himself on the dead body of his father, — and began to kiss him, and screamed OTit : " Oh, father, speak to me, speak to me." The doctor came and took him off the sofa, and supported him, or he would have sunk on the floor. Then Willie said to the doctor : " I am so glad you were with him." Then, as though recollecting himself, he turned to me, and said : ** But how came he here ? " Said I : ** He came to call on Mr. Vanderpoel, (who was then residing at the Hotel du Louvre ;) but it appears he was out, and so he came up to see me. He came in very ill. I sent out for a doctor at once ; but he had gone to the theatre. I did all I could for him." Then the doctor said to me, surprised : " Did he come in ill ? " Willie answered : " Certainly ; for he must have left me a few moments before, and he complained of having a headache." The doctor's manner then became more gentle towards me. Mr. Dayton's youngest son also arrived, and I drove home with him and Willie to break the news to Mrs. Dayton. As soon as we left, the doctor called two of the porters, and told them, that Mr. Dayton had fainted, and would have to be carried down to his carriage. The porters seated the dead man in a chair. The doctor assisted them to put him in his carriage, and they drove off as quickly as possible. All was done so promptly, and with so much discretion, that the police did not get the slightest clew to what had happened until tlie following morning. t%v ■ l§^ THE WIFE AND DAUGHTER. 117 When I arrived at the house, Mrs. Dayton was standing in the corridor, looking over the baUistrade, and, the moment she heard tlie door clos*^, she called out ; " Willie, is that you ? I wonder where father is : he has not got home yet," I began to tremble, and shrank back ; but Willie pushed me forward, and told me to go upstairs tirst. Mrs. Dayton was greatly surprised to see me. I was wrapped up in my opera-cloak, and the first thing she said to me, after shaking hands, was : " Are you going to a ball, or have you just returned from one ? What is the matter ? " I could not answer her. Ry this time Willie was in the room. He threw his arms around his mother's neck, and burst into tears. Miss Dayton took me into her bedroom, and begged me to tell her what was the matter. But I could not utter a word. Said she : '* How very pale you are ! " She then arranged her bed and helyjed me to lie down, and begged me to speak, asking if anything had happened to my child. The very thought, that all was well with her, ga\ e me breath, and I replied : *' It will kill you to know." She beca,iie deathly pale, and assured me, that she was prepared for any- thing. I then repeated to her what I had told the rest. She did lot weep, but the mental agony, which depicted itself on her face ex- pressed more than tears could have done. She walked the room with her hands tightly clenched, and would now and then exclaim : " Poor ma 1 " At last the Body was brought in. I heard the valet give orders, that it should be h\\d in the grand saloon. Jt was there, that we used to dance. I heard a shriek and a moan ; it was Mrs. Dayton's voice, and it pierced me through and through. Miss Day- ton continued to pace the room, and every time her mother's voice would reach us, a new pang seemed to wrench her heart. I could stand no more. I sprang to my feet, and said : " I must go. ' "■ No, no," said Miss Dayton, tenderly ; ** you must not think of going home to-night. Try to sleep. You look so pale ; and your hands are cold." She went into her mother's room and brought in a warming- pan, which, she said, her mother had placed in her father's bed to take the chill off. She put it at my feet, and told me that I must try to sleep, '* Sleep ! " thought I : " would that I could sleep, and thus forget ! " Miss Dayton recommenced to pace the room. I closed my eyes, and feigned to be at rest. But I lay there, as though I were stretched on a bed of flaming fire : I did not dare to move, or shed one tear. Hi)w long I lay there agonizing, I cannot tell ; for it seems to me, wm wmmmmm Ii8 WHERE DEATH HAD BEEN. 'til h M 'fill W I- ii'i. 1' P even to-day, like a century ; so poignant were my sufferings. Finally they overpowered me so, that I could lie still no longer : I rose and declared that I must go home. Miss Dayton did all she could to prevail upon me to stay, and it was only after I pleaded that I could not remain away from my child, that she yielded, and called the Vrtle* to accompany me home. But the doctor had need of his assistance, and he could not go. " Never mind," said I : " I will go alone." It was past two o'clock ; but nothing could have induced me to remain till morning. The carriage was still at the door, waiting to take home the doctor : they told me to take it, and let it return for him. Paris was enveloped in a dense fog ; and, as we drove through the Champs Elysees, the lamps shed through the mist a weird light, which, added to the gloom and loneliness of the hour, seemed to in- crease the terrors of my soul. ,U ;..>V '?;■-; t%^ >M.;y( When I got to my rooms, I found my maid weeping. ** What are you crying for ? " I exclaimed ; for 1 felt, at the moment, as if no one could be wretched but myself. " Who could help crying," she answered, "to see that good man carried out dead? The doctor told me that he was dead ; and that you, madam, were the most heart- less woman that he had ever met. But I never thought so until to- night : and you did not shed a tear ! " (5 fn Before I reflected where I was going, I found myself in the draw- ing-room, Everything was strewn abouf the room in great disorder, except the pillow, that lay on the arm of the sofa, and showed the print of his head. It was like going into a banquet hall where Death had come, to make it suddenly desolate and deserted, and as if he had but just taken his departure. 1 quickly left the room ; and when I reach id my bedroom I said : " Now it is my turn ; " and I threw inyself on the floor ;iad j ive vent to the torrent of grief, that was raging within me. The sight of my distress made the girl weep for me. She raised lue from the floor, and placed me in an arm-chair, and began to un- do my hair. She raised it off my temples, to loosen the ribbon. She started back, and thei) biought me the very hand-glass, that I had held over Mr. Dayton's mouth. " Go I " I exclaimed, " I can never look into that again." "But," said she, " do, madam, look and see : look at your hair." I did, as she told me : many of my hairs nad turned gray. Then she began to weep and pity me, for al] tha' I must have suffered. ; ■!?: RETROSPECT OF A NIGHT. Ii9 I too wept, until I was bathed in tears. I chanced to look up, and saw, that I was sitting in front of the wardrobe mirror, just wher ; I had stood adniiriug myself with so much satisfaction, when Mr. Duy- ton rapped. But I had to recollect myself; for it seemed, as if a year had passed over my head since then. What a change ! and I began to contrast the beginning with the ending of the night. I remem- bered my reflections just before Mr. Dayton came ; and I thou;;ht that, if my old acquaintances could see me then, as I sat there, they would see very little to envy me for ; and thinking of them brou^jht back to my mind the hills of Amenia, its free forests and happy plains, and, for the first time since I had left them, I wished that I had never seen beyond their horizon. ■rl-i<:' -.l^iHf.'JiiJ -I.-.. '»'! f 1, .tHi.f>.r>::';..,."i,;: i«] CHAPTER XXX. ■I, -.;-if-^lrl'i<- n■f^ THE RWCOT.T.ECTION OF THK PAST SAVES ME FROM A DRUNKARD S GRAVE. — THE "SISTERS OF HOPE." . The sudden death of the American minister in my apartments soon became the talk of Paris. The American colony was very much excited ; and in a few days an American official solicited an interview, and requested me to state to him the circumstances of Mr. Dayton's death, in order that he might inform Mr. Seward. Just before I saw him, Mr. Ratscratch told me, that he was the worst enemy I had in Paris, and repeated to me some of his remarks. To be revenged, yet to satisfy him, I gave him a long account, draw- ing minute and pathetic circumstances merely from my imagination, while to protect myself I carefully concealed as much, as I thought desirable of the Ratscratch business, which had led to Mr. Dayton's visit. One evening I was accompanied home from an evening party by Edmond de Lesseps and a young Irishman. I felt myself plunged in profoundest melancholy and grief. My conscience seemed to reproach nie with every sin, that I had ever committed. My young Irish friend undertook to prescribe a remedy, that would certainly cheer me,^ and ordered for me a hot " sling ; " and, 1 suppose to encourage me to take the medicine, he ordered one for himself. I drank it nearly al I20 MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLY. ■ijfe one draught. Hardly had I taken it, when all my sadness disap. peared, and I felt as gay and merry as ever in my life. In a few moments he ordered another ; and I drank that too, as quickly as the first. As soon as I felt the effects of the draught, I exclaimed : " Whenever I am sad, I shall know what to do to chase grief away ; thank Heaven I have found an antidote for sorrow. I will never suf- fer again, so long as this medicine is within reach." " It is a wonder," said my young friend, " that you never thought of it before. It is the only thing, that will drive away care. Look at yourself in rhe glass ; you look as animated and fresh as an Hebe ; " and he ordered a third. Lesseps looked sad, and would not drink. He seemed to be dis- pleased at the scene, and to look reproachfully at me when I turned to him. I began to wonder, why it was, that I had never resorted to I.'..!: means of excitement before : when all at once I was startled by a recollection of the past. In an instant all my strength left me, and I sank in my chair, as though I had been pushed back by a blow. All my sadness and depression returned ; for I remembered two women, whom I had seen standing in two different grog-shops ; and the thought passed through my mind, that there would soon be a third, and that would be myself. • ,. • '"'I now refused the proffered glass, and in a determined tone, said : " Never." Lesseps seized my hand and kissed it. And, as my young friend still urged me to take the glass, I took it and threw it into the fireplace. The thought flashed upon my mind, that the past would save me ; and I raised my heart to God' with a feeling, that He had always been good to me after all. I had often re- proached Him for having haunted my life with such horrible recol- lections. But in that moment I thanked Him for them. It was the first time, that I had ever raised my heart in loving gratitude to God for having bred me upon sufferings. When my friends took their departure, I had hardly strength to stand. I grew weaker an«i weaker, until all at once, that same sad feeling took possession of me again, and I fell senseless upon the floor. 1 awoke only the next morning, and found the housekeeper of the hotel watching by my bedside ; my maid, she informed me, teing too ill to attend me. She also handed me the card of Mr. de Les- seps% I attempted to rise, but was seized with convulsive pains, and was nf t able to move. I was in a burning fever. She brought Lesseps to my bedside. LESSEPS. 121 He said, that he was not surprised to find me ill, and that he had noticed how greedily I had seized on every kind of excitement, to keep up my spirits since Mr. Dayton's death ■ and that I must have wonderful vitality, to have resisted so long. He begged me not to be sad, but to keep up my spirits ; and i)romised, that he would see that I had every attention. My hair was dishevelled, and the house keeper, in arranging it ofif my forehead, showed Mr. de Lesseps where it had turned gray on that fatal night. Mr. de Lesseps was moved to tears, and said to the housekeeper : " How the world mis- judges us, when it judges from appearances ! But," said he, '* I knew this lady was suffering, in spite of that mask of reckless indif- ference, which she always wears. Yet it is for that, that the world applauds and admires her ; because it believes her to be as heartless as itself!" ', '.-■ '■• --,;"■*: : l""' ■' ■'-■- ' • ■' •' The housekeeper's duties obliged her to leave me ; and the ques- tion arose : who should attend me ? My maid was nearly as ill as myself; and there was my child too. Mr. de Lesseps at once decided, what should be done. " I have a cousin," said he, " who is superior of a convent in Spain ; and they have a branch of their Institute here, about ten minutes' walk from the hotel. • Their voca- tion is to attend the sick, and they receive five francs a day for their services. The institution is called Les Sosurs (f Esperance^ (The Sisters of Hope)." He proposed to go inunediately and get one of the Sisters of Hope to take care of me. The Lessepses were related to the Empress Eugenie, and were, at the time I write of, one of the most favored and popular families in France, not alone on account of their relationship to the Empress, but for their own intrinsic merit and worth. Lesseps soon returned, accompanied by a boy with a large bundle of toys, that he had purchased for my child. When the Sister came, my child at once left her playthings, and took hold of the crucifix, which was suspended from the beads, that hung by the Sister's side. The Sister said to her : " Kiss it, dear child ; " and, at once, the child placed it to her lips, and covered it with kisses. The Sister was so pleased, that she caught the child up in her arms and kissed her on her forehead. After pressing her to her bosom, she placed her on the floor, in the midst of her toys ; but the child left them again, and took ho d of the crucifij, and began kissing it. The Sister then said r Iob^to B •?f*:' V ! It 133 PROSTRATION. to her : " What a good little child you are, to love Jesus .so ! " My child was then over two years old : it was the first crucifix she had ever seen ; nor had she ever heard the name of Jesus. 1 saw the expression of the Sister's face charge, when Mr. de Lesseps, told her, that we were not Catholics, and that the child had never been bap tized. Sir Joseph Olliffe, was the physician who attended me. He caniv. towards dusk, and began his treatment ; but the next morning I was worse. The following evening he became alarmed ; and the next day he brought tlie celebrated Trousseau, to hold a consultation. They found my condition most precarious. While there was no disease, yet there was a total prostration, such as they had never witnessed, unless caused by long physical suffering, and usually just before deatli. They spoke to me plainly, because, as they said, my life depended on my own will. If I would only keep up courage, and drive from my mind everything, that troubled me, I would soon get well. At the very mention of the word trouble I burst into tears. Sir Joseph, without my knowledge, drove directly to see Mrs. Day- ton, and told her, that I was dangerously ill from excessive mental excitement. . Miss Dayton and Willie came at once to see me. In the afternoon, Mrs. Dayton sent me a beautiful box, with the follow- ing note : . ' "Mv Dear Mrs. P2ckel, " I regret exceedingly to hear, that you are still suft'ering as much from the excitement, through which you have passed. " I send you by the bearer some very fine tea, presented to me by Mr. Burlingame, our Minister in China. Please accept also the box, in which it is contained. " Ever gratefully, yours, " M. E. Dayton. •' Paris, Dec. 21st, 6 Rue de Presbourg.'* On the fifth day I was able to move a little. The physician then prescribed strengthening tonics ; but so soon as I had tasted, and found tl'em disagreeable, I >vould se^id them up to my maid. I did so in fact with nearly every prescription, that the doctor left me ; and I would amuse myself during the day laughing at the success of this little stratagem. As Sir Joseph OUjlTe always snoke t() me in THE NUN AND THE CHILD. 193 English, which the nuns could not understand, they thought that it was all right. The result was, that I recovered long before my maid. During my illness, much of my time was passed with the Sisters and my child. My child became fondly attached to the nuns, and would not leave them to play with her toys. No matter how often she would awake in the night, she would call out at once : ** Ma Scetir, ma Soeury As soon as the nun would reach her, the child would say to her : '■'■ Je v'eux embrasser le petit Jesus ^ (I wish to kiss the little Jesus.) The nun would hardly know whether to scold her or not, for the child would frequently awaken her out of a sound sleep, after she had passed a fatiguing day by my bedside. I lold the Sister, that she must not permit the child to call her up in the night for such a purpose. The nun would tell me to scold her for it. 1 told her that I had not the heart to do it, for I loved to hear her. "And so do I;" replied the nun; "it is a sacrifice to get up ; but I otier it up to God each time." This was anew lan- guage to me, which I did not understand. One evening the Sister retired later and more weary than usual. She had hardly got to sleep before the child called her. " This time," thought I to myself, " you will lose your patience." The nun quickly lighted the candle, and flew to the child's side, believing something ailed her ; for she called her as though she were in dis- tress. But the moment she reached the bedside, the child said to her, in one of her sweetest baby-tones : '■'■Ma Sxur^je veux embras- ser le petit Jesus y \Vhen the nun returned, she lay down again on the sofa, without saying a word. 1 remarked that it was too bad, that she should be so disturbed; but she instantly replied: "Oh madam, if you could only have seen her ! for the dear child was hardly awake, when she asked me to let her kiss the crucifix, and she dropped to sleep while she held it to her lips. I can never for- bid her to call me, if I should never get another hour's rest." I could not understand, why she should feel so ; for the love of Jesus Christ was to me then a deep mystery, which my obdurate heart could not comprehend. One evening the child was asleep. I felt much better and stronger. It was about nine o'clock ; when the nun crept softly to my bedside, and asked me, if I would not repeat a little prayer after her, before I went asleep. She knelt down Vymy pillow, and, in one of the gentlest and sweetest accents, she began to say the W ! I ! i,. I' lilit -J-l 124 "IT IS THE lord's PRAYER.' Lord's Prayer. I repeated her words, every time she paused. When we had finished, I told her, that I had learned that prayer at .school when I was a little girl, and that it was a Protestant prayer. "Oh, no,""she replied; "it is the Lord's Prayer." "How sweet it is in French!" said I, "let us say it again." She answered: "It must be sweet in all tongues ; " and she knelt, and we said it again. Just as we had finished, I stretched out my hand, and placed it on her head, to prevent her from rising, and I said to her : " Sister, o/ice more /" and we repeated it again. Then she rose and kissed me, took my hand and pressed it, and said to me, with a feeling, that I know must have gushed from her heart: "Oh, madam, how I wish, that you and your lovely child were Catholics ! I pray for it constantly." Said I : " Don't pray for that, Sister, for that can never be. But pray, that I may get well, and that I may yet be happy, and that my heart may be at rest ; for I am troubled, and long for rest." " I do pray for that," said the Sister, " and only for that ; for you can never know rest, until you love our Lord." " Sister," said I, "don't speak to me in that way." "I am teUing you the truth," said she. "But," I replied, "I do not believe in it: you can never change me from what I am." " That is very true," she answered ; " I can do nothing ; but our Lord can change you, and I pray earnestly, that He will." " How good you are ! " said I ; "but you little know the woman, that lies here before you ; if you did, I am sure you would never have kissed me." At those words she covered my cheeks with kisses ; which so affected me, that I began to weep. I told her that, had it not been for mv child, whom 1 saw playing before me all day, I would hardly havp nad the courage to breathe. She told me how great had been my danger. "Why," said I, " I would have loved to die, could I have taken my child with me." "But," I added musingly, "she is so dehcate, I am sure jhe cannot live long." " Do let her be baptized," exclaimed tii,* Sister to me imploringly. " That would do \o good," said I ; " .she never did wrong, she would go straight to heaven now." "Well," said the Sister, "you believe in sin. You tell me you have sinned, and perhaps your parents too have sinned before you." These words pierced me ; for the Sister had nursed me most tenderly ; and I thought, if she only knew, who my parents were, and what an enemy on 2 of them had been to her religion, how different might be her feelings towards me. THE SPECTRE OF THE FEAST. 125 CHAPTER XXXI. LAFERRlfeRE. In January, 1865, I leceived an invitation to the first ball at the Tuileries. Edniond de Lesseps escorted me there, and took me into the Hall of the Marshals, and gave me a seat with his family, who had their places in the seats reserved for the family of the Empress, which was on the left of the throne. I wore a magnificent toilet of white tulle, and a wreath of ivy interspersed with diamonds. That evening I made the acquaintance of the best people of the court. The Empress, of whom Edmond de Lesseps was a favorite, came up and spoke to us ; and of course everybody else followed her example. I was elated with my success, until Mr. de Lesseps led me into the supper-room. He happened to conduct me to the very spot, where I had conversed with Mr. Dayton a year before. Here I found the skeleton of the feast ; and what, a moment before, I had enjoyed like a triumph, seemed suddenly changed to a hideous " dance of death." I tried to disguise my feelings, and to appear gay and indif- ferent ; but, after a little, I could stand it no longer, and I said to Lesseps : " Enough, let us go." " What ! " said he, " I did not expect, that you would leave before morning." Descending the stairs, he said to me : " I hope you were satisfied with your evening ; in fact these were the only happy hours 1 have ever passed under the roof of this palace ; for I have never been here before to a festivity, that I did not come away mournfully sad. But to-night I was happy, to see you so happy ; " and he continued to express himself in this way until our carriage came. He handed me in. I threw myself back in the seat and burst into tears. I preferred Mr. de Lesseps to any of my friends ; yet I did not love him. But he loved me. He was the youngest son, and had no title ; but he had a he|irt. I was ambitious to marry a title : I felt that only a title would make me happy. He knew me thoroughly, and deplored that I should be the slave to such an illusion ; but he was charitable, and attributed all my faults and follies to a bad education. On the last Sunday in January, 1865, I was invited to an evening party at the Princess Sulkowska's. Lesseps called on me early in the VI f y'^..-iil.JlljgM 126 iGH LIFE. evening. I was low-spiii. ^, and he had been tryir.g to cheer me up. The Prince de M onleard had promised to call for me, to take me to the party. It was nearly nine o'clock, and Lesseps proposed to leave me, that I might make my toilet. I told him, that I had not the heart to change my dress, and that I was going, as I was. Said he : "You are dressed very becomingly ; but not at all suitably for an evening party." 1 had on a black velvet dress with train, fitted to my figure, in the Ga- brielle fashion. My hair was thrown off my face, and looped up at the back with a diamond comb. Lesseps tried to prevail upon me to change my dross, as others might say that I had only chosen that costume in order to be singular. I begged him to leave me to my caprice ; and said, that others might think what they pleased, but change it I would not. " But," said he, " the Prince will not accompany you." At that moment 1 heard a rap, and said to Lesseps, before I opened the door : " Hand me my scarf and cloak, and he will not know how I am dressed." When we arrived, and I was ushered into the saloon, I was con- fused ; for there were a few ladies assembled, and they were all dressed in the most elaborate style. I excused myself at once to the Princess, and told her, that 1 had misunderstood her invitation, and supposed it to be a mere informal reception. The Princess, to make me feel at ease, redoubled her attention to me, and excused me to her friends, by accusing herself of not having made her invitation sufficiently clear. She conducted me to a sofa, and introduced me to the Countess de , one of the largest and homeliest women in France, — but a lady of rank ; which lessened in some degree, in the eyes of many, her excessive plumpness. I sat on the sofa beside this lady, and was at once reconciled to my toilet ; for I could easily believe, that the contrast between us, as we sat there together, was not disadvantageous to me. I tried to arrange myself on the sofa, so as to bring myself out in high relief, and to make the enormous form of the Countess serve as a background to the figure. The door opened, and the valet announced the Viscount de Laferri^re. As the Viscount entered the room, our eyes met. In an instant the Princess was at his side, and, when she spoke to him, he ap- peared like a man, who had forgotten himself for a moment. After exchanging a few words with her, he retired into an isolated corner of the saloon, directly opposite to where I sat. My eyes followed him, and, when he saw, that I was still looking at him, a slight flush THE VISCOUNT. 127 passed over his face, which he instantly controlled, and his whole countenance assumed an exi)ression of haughty indifterence, I recommenced my conversation with the Countess ; but, in a mo- ment of absent-mindedness, my eyes reverted once more towards the Viscount. He was not ])repared for my glance ; for I caught him this time looking attentively at me ; and, with a desire to revenge my- self for the expression of indifference, which he had assumed, I in- stantly turned my eyes from him, with an air and a look, in which I tried to express a feeling of disdain. I then looked triumphantly at him, to see the effect. But, this time, his face was calm, and on it was seated a deep shade of melancholy, to which my heart at once responded ; and his own must have instantly divined what was pass- ing in mine, for his face brightened up for an instant, and then he turned and left the spot, where he was standing, with the air of a man, who was displeased, that another should have been able to di- vine his thoughts. The Viscount de Laferri^re was tall in stature, and had passed the middle age : his hair was blond and slightly tinged A^ith gray. On his left breast sparkled the insignia of the different order?, that sovereigns had bestowed upon him. His bearing and manners were courtly, but extremely reserved. The outlines of his features were noble and beautiful : they bore the impress of deep thought, shaded by a tinge of melancholy. This he tried to conceal, by affecting an cxj)ression, which it is impossible to describe, but which is more or less assumed by men, who can read at a glance the thoughts of others, but who are not willing to be read themselves. I chanced to see him several times again during the evening. He was always looking at me ; but, these times, he did not try to avert his gaze, but remained like a man, who was looking at one object, while his thoughts were on another. I felt nettled, that he should not have asked the Princess to introduce him to me. It was only a f,mall gathering of between thirty and forty guests, and all those, whom I did not know, were presented to me : he was the only exception. The same week I was at another ball at the Tuileries. I had just entered the Hall of the Marshals, and had left my escort in the ad- joining room. I was conversing with the Countess de Lesseps, when a lady asked me, if I would not permit her to present to me the Viscount de Laferri^re, who would escort me to the other side of the room, where there were two vacant seats. I paid no attention ' ■ til U: 128 AN AMKUICAN PRINCESS. m J to the name, and, before I had time to reply, the introduction was made, and he offered me his aiin. I told him, that I did not come to be seated, but to dance. "Then come with me," he replied, "and 1 will get you a partner." >^.,•!^- ,:'',! 1 took his arm, hardly looking at him, or he at me, until we had crossed the room, and I turned to thank him ; when we looked each other lull in the face, and both started with surprise. The Viscount exclaimed : "Did 1 not have the pleasure of seeing you last Sunday evening, at the Princess Sulkowska's? But how comes it, that a royal Polishwoman, like you, can stoop beneath the Prussian flag ? " (He thought I must have been jjresented by the Prussian minister.) Said I : " I am not from Poland. 1 came from a land that is free." " Ah," he replied, " that nuist be a ha|)py land." " Yes," said I, " happy for others, but never for me." " 1 thought," he said, " seeing you at such a brilliant party, dressed in black, that you must belong to one of Poland's royal families, and were so wadded to the thought of your country's wrongs, that you would not cast tff your mourning, even for a night. But tell me who you are." Said I : " I am an American, and a^jrincess ; for, in my country,every man is a sovereign." My answer displeased him ; for he did not know, whether to un- derstand it, as a sentiment of patriotism, or as a thrust at his own government. He continued : " I refused to let the Princess intro- duce me to you the other evening, because 1 thought, that you were one of her compatriots, who wanted to be a martyr : your black dress deceived me so." " How extraordinary," I replied, " that the order of things should be reversed in me ! for it is usually the woman herself, who deceives, and not her dress." Said he : I hope you have learned, that from books, and not from experience. At all events, 1 was en- tirely deceived in you ; for I was sure, that you were a Polish lady, who had no heart for anything, but her country." Said I: "They tell me that I have no heart at all. 1 sometimes believe it ; but I am suie of one thing, and that is, that I have a conscience." (I did not tell him, that I knew this chiefly by its sting.) " Ah," he replied, " you are very lucky ; for that is a very rare thing in this country." As we promenaded the different rooms, he was surprised to see so many of his friends salute me ; as he thought I was a stranger, and he wondered, that I should be so well known, and that he should never have met me before. He led me to a secluded part of the palace, into a room, which belonged to the private suit of the Empress. We sat in an alcove, TfeTE-A-Tf!TE. 125 tion was ot come replied, i , ,,;-^;;<.i ■ we had Iced each Viscount it Sunday t, that a mtlag?" minister.) is free." ," said I, , "seeing belong 10 liought of ning, even American, n." ler to un- ,t his own cess intro- you were jlack dress le order of an herself, ^e learned, , 1 was en- I lady, who ' They tell I I am suie lot tell him, on are very romenaded ends salute I should be ore. oom, which an alcove, and talked a groat part of the evening. He told me, that it was the first time he had abandoned his post ; for it was his duty, as one of the Im|)erial chamberlains, to remain in the Hall of the Alar shah, until their Majesties retired. " But," said he, " I could not resist tlie temptation of having a long chat with you." I was frank with him, and open-hearted. Sometimes I would make him laugh, and then again it seemed, as if he had to suppress his tears. I wondered would I ever see him again. I gave him my address, but I did not dare to ask him to call on me. He conducted me to my carriage, and bade me a formal good-by, without even touching my hand ; which disappointed me, for I expecied he would kiss it, as he assisted me into the carriage. When I got home, I embraced my child with rapture, for I felt really happy. It was one of the happiest evenings I had ever known. Never had I met a gentleman before, whom I had so much admired, so much respected, so much loved at first sight. The next day M. de Laferriere left his card ; and the day after, he sent me a note, asking me, if I had received an invitation to Prince Bonaparte's ball. The day following he called, and from that mo- ment he was my constant visitor. He treated me as he would a child, and always addressed me, as " his dear child : " " ma chere en- fant.'' All my gentlemen acquaintances quarrelled with me, on his account, and ceased to visit me ; because Laferriere, no matter how long they stayed, would always outstay them, and made himself, during their visit, as disagreeable, as he could. He treated them, even his intimate friends, when he met them in my rooms, with a cold and studied reserve, which they well understood ; for it plainly showed them, that every one of them was one too many. I was willing to sacrifice them all for him ; for I found no pleasure nor happiness, unless he was near, or my thoughts were upon him. CHAPTER XXXII. IN LOVE. One morning Laferriere brought me the news of the Duke de Morny's death. In three months I had lost three of my most valua- ble friends ; — Mr. Dayton, Mrs. Ross, and the Duke de Morny. But 6* T^ »30 THE DE MONTALEMHKRTS. Nil Pi I became insensible to misfortune from the day I met Laferriirc ; for he seemed to replace everything 1 lost. P'or the moment, his fiicndiihii) seemed sufficient to wipe out the bitter remembrances of the past, to fill up the present, and to give me bright hopes for the future. It was about this time, that the Princess Sulkowska introduced me to the family of the Count de Montalembert. The Princess chape- roned me several times to their evening receptions. There I met a society, that I was totally unfitted for ; and, in order to conceal my unfitness there was required on my part a double amount of dissim- ulation and tact ; for I was constantly put to the test. A part of the time, I felt, as though I were on the wheel ; for the Count and Countess would address to me questions concerning the political constitution of my country, which I knew nothing about ; but, being too proud to acknowledge my ignorance, I was in constant dread of having it exposed. So that I never descended their stairs, without saying to myself, that certainly I was never made for that. With the O'Gormans I was perfectly natural, and did not try to conceal how little I knew ; therefore they never tried to enlighten themselves by talking with me, but would always treat me, as though I were their child. With them I felt perfectly at home. I soon found, that I might have spared myself much annoyance, if I had been equally frank, from the beginning, with the De Montaleniberts ; for I soon learned, that, where true nobility reigns, honesty, candor, and simplicity are always at their ease. The Count de Montalembert called upon me several times ; but it happened, whenever he came, that I was surrounded by some of the Emperor's suite. I met him one evening at a party, and he told me, that I received a class of people, who did me very little honor, and that, for himself, he would not associate with them. I was too much dazzled by the flash of the court, to be capable of appreciating such a man, as the Count de Montalembert ; and I frankly told him, that 1 believed, that he was jealous, because the Emperor had not given him an appointment ; and therefore he opposed him ; but that, if he chose to snub the Emperor's adherents on that account, it was no reason why I should. I'he answer amused him, and he laughed neartily over it. One morning Laferrifere did not call at the usual hour, and his valet came with a note, which told n)e, that he was ill, and I VISIT THE VISCOUNT. 131 could not leave his room. Without thinking of the inipropriety of such an act, / drove off at once to see him. When the servant answered my ring, and I asked her if the Viscount was at home, she gave me a reproachful look, which said as plainly as words : "How dare you come here and ask for him ? " and then she told me, that Monsieur the Viscount was out. As she was about to close the door in my face, I pushed my way into the antechamber, in si)ite of her efforts to prevent me. '* I know that he is at home ; " said I, " and he would do well to teach you t ) speak the truth ! " and, without further ceremony, I opened one »>f the doors, which led from the antechamber. It happened to be ti '^ door of the ])arlor. In defiance of the remonstrances of the servant, I went in, took a seat, and handed her my card. But she still insisted, that Monsieur was out. Said I : *' Hand him that card, unless you wish me to go and ransack the house till I find him myself." The servant took my card, and returned in a few seconds ; but this time, in a most subdued voice, she said to me, that Monsieur would be in in a moment ; and she disajipeared as quickly as possi- ble. I did not have to wait long before the Viscount entered, with a nervous step and troubled look. Without even saying ** Good-day," he came quickly towards me, and, raising both arms, exclaimed : " You imprudent child ! why did you come here ? who saw you come in? who knows it? whom have you in your carriage?" Said I : " I came all alone. But what is the matter ? " ",0h, my dear child ! if any one knew, that you called on me, your reputation would be lost." I burst out laughing, and said : " I should like to lose it ; for it is a very bad one. But, what a strange way you have of receiving your friends ! " The Viscount became impatient and vexed, that I would not ac- knowledge at once my fault ; and he took hold of my arm, as though he would like to give me a good shaking. " What," said he, " have you not been in France long enough, to have learned something] about the conventionalities of society ? If it were known, that you called on me alone, every door 1.1 Paris would be closed in your face. How am I to get you out ? Suppose some one should meet you on the stairs ; — and what does my servant think ? " And the poor Vis- count acted, as though he were frightened out of his wits. " What do I care what your servant thinks of me ! My opinion of her is, that she is a shrew." "That servant," said he, "has been in my family twenty years ; and when servants remain so long, we are but nominally I ill. . f 132 MASTER AND SI' ilVANT. their masters ; they rule us to a ceriaiii degree." " Yes," said I ; *' and 1 would prefer changing mine every week to being reduced to such servitude." " Ah, but, a trusty servaiit," replied the Viscount is a precious thing ; and we ought to have consideration for them ; their virtues entitle them to it. Besides, it is for our interest ; for what should I do, if I did not have trust - persons to guard my things?" and he threw a glance around the r'Km, which, for the first time I discovered, was filled with antique ornaments and sou- venirs. *' I am thankful," said I, " that I never had any ancestry, and therefore have no heir-looms to guard. But 1 would rather have servants, who would carry off half of my things, than become the slave of one of these trusty dames, whose very look will make you quake, if you happen to jar, in the slightest degree, their ideas of propriety." He began to laugh in spite of his vexation. " But," said he, " this ser- vant is none of that kind, but a most worthy person, whom I greatly esteem ; and I do not wish her to have less regard for me, than I have for her. I am sure, that she must have taken you to be one of the demi-monde ; for, what other lady would ever call on a gentleman alone in this way ? How imprudent ! how imprudent I You might have met some of my family here. And the woman, too, read your name on the card. How can I account for this ? " His hand was placed, all the while, on the knob of the door, just ready to open it, for me to leave. He bade me 'good-by, and told nie I must go ; for he did not know what the servant would think. Said I : "1 am ready to go, and am not at all sorry I came ; for it has relieved my mind. I feared you nnght be seriously ill, 1 am satisfied with my visit, al- though it was like forcing my way through the ranks to get to you. But I have seen you : I am happy now, and am ready to go." Said he : "I will go and tell the servant, that you are an American lady ; -iiid that it is not against propriety, in America, for a lady to visit a gentleman." " That would be defaming the American ladies a little," said I ; '* but I owe them a grudge : so let us hit them all a rap with one sling. Go and tell that prude in the kitchen, that all well-bred American ladies visit their gentlemen friends at their residences, when they are ill." He 'eft the room ; and when he returned his face was radiant wiib smiles "It is all right, now," said he, "and 1 am delighted you THE VISCOUNT AT HOME. 133 came; for I was thinking of you, aisd wanted to see you." He begged me to forgive him for having scolded me ; he would sacrifice anything sooner than be the cause of diniinishing in the least the esteem others had for me. " But," said I, " you know that every- body abuses me." " No, no," he replied ; " it is only tiie envious, who abuse you ; for I know some estimable people, who are very fond of you. But I can well understand now, how it comes that you are traduced, if you are ca])able of such recklessness as this." " Non- Kense," said I ; " this is one of the smallest things, I ever did, to get a bad name." Said he : " You are one of those who are alwa)s calumniating themselves. But I never pay compliments : so do not resort to that means, if your motive is to receive a comj^liment from me." " I am telling you the truth," I said ; " and, as for your com- pliments, the greatest one you can pay me is, to abandon society and pass all 3'our time with me, as you do. I do not desire any greatei compliment from you." He invited me into his library. I began at once to look at the pictures, that were hanging on the wall ; most of which were family " portraits. 1 threw them all a fugitive glance, until I came face to face with the portrait of a lad of about fourteen summers. One would have at once taken it for the portrait of Laferriere, himself when he was a child ; so much did the expression of the eyes resem- ble his own. I looked at it several moments, before I asked him, who it was. A sad smile passed over his countenance, as he said to me : " How much I love you for having noticed the orAy portrait in the room, which is dear to me ! " He was about to continue ; but the tears choked his words, he buried his face in his hands, threw himrclf on the sofa, and sobbed bitterly. It was several moments before he could master himself sufficiently to continue ; when he told me, that if was his grandchild, who had died a few years before ; and then he showed me the portrait of his granddaughter, who had died but a few months after him. The Viscount had never spoken to me about him- self, and I had never had an opportunity of asking others about Kim ; for, from the moment he first called on me, nearly all our time had been passed together. Nor did he know the first outlines of my his- tory. All that we knew of each other, was, that we were perfectly nappy in each other's society. We did not care to know more. A strange mysterious sympathy existed between us, which neithei" of us could account for. After passing the livelong day together, wc '1 t i '"■ 1 1 i 1 ' 1- , 1 f i 1 1 ( ' 1 f 1 ■ ii ■ n 134 THE viscount's HISTORY. always complained of the hours passing too quickly ; and 'tfhen w« bade each other adieu, we already longed for the morning to come, that we might see each other again. From the day I first met Laferri^re, I became more thoughtfully serious, and less selfish and ambitious. I could enjoy nothing unless he was by my side ; and we mutually agreed to refuse all invitations, where we were not both invited • for it was too great a sacrifice to make for society, to be separated from each other, even for a few hours. The Viscount's family, with the exception of his father, had always adhered to the old order of things. But his father, in his youth, had joined the ranks of the followers of the first Napoleon, and became his Chamberlain. The Emperor conferred upon him the title of Count. He was a Marquis under tlie Bourbons, and could have resumed that title after the restoration ; but he always preferred the title given him by the Emperor. Erom the moment that Laferriere's father espoused the cause of the Bonapartes, all intercourse between him and the other members of his family was broken off. The Vis- nount himself had never had any communication with his father's family, as he had inherited the sentiments of his father, and had always been a strong supporter of the Bonapartes. The Viscount had graduated at the Polytechnic School ; — had en- tered the army, and served on the general staff in Greece. When he returned to France he became enamored of the only daughter of the Marquis of Saron, whom he married, and by whom. he had one daughter, who was now living, and was the wife of General the Count de Bernis. The young lad, whose portrait had afi:ected Laferriere to tears, was the only son of the Countess de Bernis, and the little girl was her only daughter. The Viscount told me, that during his short military career he had seen enough of the world to make him thor oughly convinced, before he was twenty-three years old, of the futility of seeking happiness in sensual gratification. He loved his wife de votedly, and his married life had been a most happy one, the whole of which he had passed in the chateau, which he had inherited from his ancestors. He was then member of the Council General of his department, and had been elected, for the past twelve years, chief nagistra.te of his own township. The Emperor Napoleon HI. had written to him twice during his married life, inviting him to come and accept a position at court ; but BURIED LOVES. 135 he had strenuously refused, as he had no iUusions in regard to court life, and then beUeved it to be, what his experience afterwards proved, — corrupted to the core. After a Hngering and painful illness, his wife died. The P^mperor wrote him a letter of condolence, and renewed his offer, which the Viscount again refused ; for he had filled the void, that his wife's death had made in his heart, by his aflfection foi his little grandson, Raymond de Bernis. But the premature death of this promising youth again cast him into the slough of despair. " As soon as the Emperor heard of the death of my child," said the Viscount, " he wrote me again, and iterated his offer ; which this time I accepted, hoping that the distractions of a court life would make me forget my sorrows. But they have only aggravated them. Still 1 cannot resign myself to go back to the chateau to live ; for when I see the trees, which we i^lanted together, gro./ing up, each one of them tells me a tale of the past, and speaks to me continually of my buried hopes. I remained here in Paris and mingled in its frivolities ; but niy heart was dead to everything around me, until the mom'ent we met ; and that was the first time I have ever been con- soled, since Raymond died. There is something about you, that re- minds me of my boy ; and yet you are totally unlike in appear- ance. But you have filled up, in a measure, the void, that that dear child's death made in my heart; and it is only now, my child, that you can understand how much 1 love you," I wept while the Viscount related his heart's sorrow to me ; but when I told him, that I could understand how deeply he suffered, he replied : " Ah, no, my child, you can never know nor understand all, that I have suffered ; for you have never lost a beloved child." " Yes," said I, weeping as though my heart would break, " I lost an infant, and I have but one recollection connected with her, which, whenever I recall it, tears my heart open anew. I can well imagine, what your grief must be, when you have your heart full of many re membrances." He took my hand, and, for the first time, he pressed it to his lips, and then placed it on his cheeks until it was bathed in his tears. "Yes," said he, " I feel that our hearts sympathize. It was thu8 ^lat Raymond and I used to sit and converse for hours. When my wife died, he consoled me. But when he died, I was left entirely alone, and it used to make me mourn to see how soon the others for 136 I TELL MY STORY. got him." Then he continued to tell me all abou: nis darling's little ways, which wound him so around his heart. I then told him, how I used to sleep with my babe, and of the feeling of loneliness that would come over me, after her death, whenever I awoke and, before I thought, would reach out my hand to feel that little head. " Ah," said he, " I understand it well ; for I have had that feeling come over me at every step I took about the chateau." He then tried to console me, by saying that I had reason to be happy, since God had given me back my child. " Ah, no," I replied : " a thousand other children can never replace the child, that dies." " But," said he, " I love you as I loved my Raymond ; and that is saying much ; for never did I love a being on earth, as I loved that boy." A few evenings after this visit, 1 opened my heart to Laferriero, and told him my history, naturally disguising my own defects, and making out my relations to be so mauy hyenas. The old aunt would hardly have recognized herself, if she could have seen how I painted her to Monsieur de Laferri6re. He then understood better my posi- tion in Paris among the Americans, and told me, that henceforth I should look upon him as a father. The Viscount was blind to my defects, and had unbounded confi- dence in my virtue. He believed me to be just what I represented myself to be ; and I tried to become worthy of his esteem. He was always reserved with me ; although his manners were tender and his words were always full of fond devotion. I was timid with him. I ceased from that moment to play the coquette ; for I had become indifferent to the praise and admiration of any one but himself. CHAPTER XXXni. -»' , -A-v- -•,•.',■, A GENUINE REPUBLICAN IN SEARCH OF A TITLE- One day the Viscount proposed, that I should dine with him, and jesired, that I should invite some lady or gentleman to join us. I proposed, that Mr. Ratscratch should be the "one too many." The Viscount exclaimed : "Oh, no ; he would be a terrible bore, since he can't speak French." Said I : "That is just the reason to invite I INTERPRET FOR RATSCRATCH. 137 him." I then told the Viscount how desirous this gentlemai. was of obtaining the ribbon, and that, as the gentleman had promised me a large sum, if I would get it for him, I wished, that the Viscount would aid me ; which he promised to do. One evening found Mr. Ratscratch and myself seated at the Vis- count's table. The Viscount and I were so full of talk, that we nearly became oblivious of the presence of Mr. Ratscratch. At length the latter ventured to ask me what, we were talking about, that seemed so very interesting. I knew Afr. Ratscratch's hobby : so to put him in good humor, I told him, that the Viscount and myself were discussing the American war. This inunediately loosened Mr. Ratscratch's tongue. He talked vol- ubly, and begged me to interpret his sentiments to the Viscount. I continued the former conversation with the Viscount for a few mo- ments ; and then turning to Mr, Ratscratch, I rattled off some remarks on the war, which I had heard the Duke de Morny make, and which delighted Mr. Ratscratch so much, that he wished me to express to the Viscount his high appreciation of him, for taking so clear and just views of the subject. I continued, as before, my conversation with the Viscount ; when I saw Mr. Ratscratch looking straight into the Viscount's face, evi- dently expecting him to make some sign of acknowledgment for the compliment he had desired me to pay him. I told the Viscount to look at Mr. Ratscratch, take his glass, bow and smile, and hen drink Mr. Ratscratch's health. As he did so, the Viscount discovered, by Mr. Ratscratch's gesture and brightened countenance, that I must be making game of him ; and was seized with an impulse to laugh ; but I checked him just in time, telling him that he would ruin me if he laughed then, as it would be in the wrong place. In the meanwhile, Mr. Ratscratch had said something else, which I had not heard ; and, as the Viscount at that moment put on a seri- ous look, the better to control his laughter, Mr. Ratscratch, misinter- preting it, anxiously asked of me, if the Viscount disapproved of his last lemark. I then told the Viscount to smile, and say, "6?///," which was about all the French, that Mr. Ratscratch understood. Finally Mr. Ratscratch was satisfied ; and he began another long sentence for me to inter|)ret. We kept it up for some time, until I happened to have a moment's d'straction. I then got things so mixed, that I no longer knew where I was ii'if:'^ H i4< ' 'I ' : y'-' I 138 THE RIBBON IS EARNED. either with the Viscount or with Mr. Ratscratch I asked the Vis- count to pardon me, and told Mr. Ratscratch, that I was tired talk- ing politics. The Viscount saw, that I had gotten into as bad a predic anient with Mr. Ratscratch, as I had with himself; and he lost all control, and laughed till the tears started from his eyes. Mr. Ratscratch could not understand this ; and he turned to me agair for an explanation, I did not have ready a satisfactory answer ; s I pretended to get provoked with him for giving me so much trouble ; I pi^otested, that I wanted to eat my dinner, and not act as interpre- ter all the evening ; and I proposed to him to defer the war question till the Viscount should have learned English or he should know a little French. So the question was adjourned that night; but it was renewed every time we three chanced to come together. After Mr. Ratscratch had dined with us several times in this way, the Viscount declared, that he had richly earned the ribbon ; and that he would do his endeavor to have the name of Ratscratch enrolled on the list of the Chevaliers of the Legion of Honor. CHAPTER XXXIV. I GO TO CHURCH. — A PREACHER DRAWS MY PORTRAIT. i The Princess Sulkowska was the most dc voted friend I had. She was really attached to me, and I too was attached to her. But there was one thing, which I could not endure with patience ; she was ever seeking to make me a convert to the Roman Catholic faith. No mat- ter where we were; — at the opera, at a ball, or out for a drive, — she would always find an opportunity to say something to me about my soul ; and her request in varied keys and tones was ever the same that I would let my child be baptized, and become a Catholic myself I would beg her to let me alone, and would quote Rousseau and Voltaire ; when she would stop her ears with her hands in horror. She was ever begging me to go with her to Mass. One day she insisted, and called in the Viscount to aid her to prevail on me. One look from him was worth a volume of her entreaties. I saw that he wished m<^ to go ; and I yielded. She took me to a little chapel erected on the Street of St. Philip du Roule. It was dedicated to St. Joseph. I AM PREACHED AT. 139 A small, insignificant-looking abbe preached ; and the first thing he did, was to attack Voltaire. I was sure, that the Princess had put liiui up to it, and from that moment I was satisfied that the ser- mon was prepared for me. I listened attentively, but only witli the intention of contradicting whatever he might say; for I sneered at the thought, that that little abbe could convert me to his views, or teach me anything. He began to expose the reasons, which prevented sinners from be lieving. It was, he said, because they were afraid, that religion would restrain them in their course of wickedness. It would be easy enough to make intelligent and candid minds believe, if that belief did not enforce self-denial. Sometimes divine truth would flash upon unbe- lii'vers, in spite of their opposition to grace ; and, for an instant, they would feel, that it must be so ; that Jesus Christ is the Son of God. Then they would begin to reason, and would throw into the balance of their fallacious reasonings, their worldly interests and their sensual gratifications ; and, just because it flattered their self-love not to have it so, they were determined that it should not be so, — that Christ was not God ; and they would return to their infidel writers, as the dog returns to his vomit ; and they would do so, in order to bring back their incredulity, which had been swept away by one breath of the Holy Qhost. They would consult these works, to quiet their consciences ; he continued ; for, when grace infuses its light into a soul, conscience awakens, and it requires just such poisons, as the mind distills from authors like Voltaire and Rousseau, to put it to sleep again. Thought I to myself: that litde a*^/"!? is drawing my portrait ; for what he had said was exactly what had happened to me. The Prin- cess watched, to see the effect of his words ; particularly when he at- tacked my favorite philosophers. But I would look away from th s|)eaker, when his words moved me most ; and would aff"ect the great est indifference^ and even weariness ; which was most disheartening to my zealous friend. After the preacher had finished, the Princess said to me : " I am sorry, that you did not pay attention ; for that priest's words would have converted a heart of stone." " Yes," said I, " he must have been an i ifidel himself, to know so much about them. Tell me. Princess, how often does that little abbe come to see you ? " She assured me, that she did not know him, and had never spoken a word to him in I40 GIVING FOR god's SAKE. •i ! her life ; and, she continued with a smile : " It must have hit you pretty hard, or you would not have suspected such a thing." For a moment I was struck ; as the thought flashed through my mind, that the God, who reads all hearts, might have inspired this man what to say. But in another moment I doubted the Princess's word, and felt sure, that she mus/ have advised him. When we reached the church door, a poor woman, with an infant in her arms, stretched out her hand and asked me to help her, for the love of God. I handed her a piece of money, and, turning to the Princess, I said : *' Dear Princess, this is my religion : you will never convert me to any other." She instantly replied : " That is Charity, which is one of the corner-stones, on which our religion rests ; but there are two others necessary to poise the edifice, which are Faith and Hojje ; and those you have not. You do right to relieve the poor ; but, at the same time, you do wrong to neglect yourself. If in giving your money, — had it been but a farthing, — you had been actu- ated by a si)irit of Faith and Hope, then you would have done it for God ; and it would have benefited yourself more than the ])oor creature you have relieved." " But," said I, " it gave me pleasure." " Yes," she replied, "it gratified your generous nature; therefore you have al- ready received your reward. But if you had offered it to God, to please Him, and you had not thought of yourself, you would have performed an act of Faith, Hope, and Charity, and you would have given hke a Christian, and would receive a Christian's reward." " Don'*- be afraid. Princess," said I ; " speak it out ; and say, that I gave just like a Pagan." " Yes," she replied ' lughing ; " and that is just what you are, a charming little America i^an." While we were waiting for the carriage, a v^ came out of the church, elegantly dressed. Turning to the beg , she said : " My good woman, I have no money with me ; " and, as she pronounced those words, she kissed the child, that the Avoman held in her arms. The poor face light^^d up, and her eyes filled with tears, as she ex claimed : •' Oh, may God bless you, madam." The Princess remarked, that that lady, in kissing the beggar's child, had given her more than I ; she had done the woman's soul an everlasting good ; she had helped her to love mankind. For the charity of the poor is to love the rich. "You must not," she continued, "confound liberality with Chris tian charity. The one helps us to obtain the other ; it is true, A COMPELLED TO SURRENDER. 141 glass of water is a very small thing ; but, given with charity in the name of Jesus, it is the price of eternal life." Our conversation ended with the usual entreaties on her part, that 1 should have my child baptized ; and with sharp remonstrances upon my tieglect of so imjjortant a matter. \Vhen I reached home, the Viscount was waiting for me ; and his first question was, if the Princess had made me set a day for the bap- tism. "No;" I replied, "but it was hard to get away from her." Then the Viscount informed me, that she had made him promise, that he would try to influence me. "What ! " said I, "will you too join the attack ?" and I tried to laugh it off; but, to my surprise, I found him as importunate, as his friend, save only that he went more adroitly to work. He took the child on his knee, and began to caress her, and asked her would she like to have him for a godfather. The Viscount was a fervent believer. He had endowed monaster- ies, had erected two hospitals, and had given a large tract of land to the Trappists. He told me how deeply he was interested in the child's future, and begged me to yield. I had no more power of resistance, when I saw, that the Viscount earnestly desired it. I was hemmed in, at home, as well as abroad, and I had to surrender at discretion. CHAPTER XXXV. A LITTLE CONVERT. — THE LITTLE OLD SHOE. In the beginning of April, 1865, 1 received a letter from New York, which decided me to return to America. The letter was from one of my friends, informing me, that an affair, in which I had used influence before my departure, had been decided favorably ; and begging me to eturn at once, as he feared, the other parties interested might cheat ftie. I made immediate preparations to leave, expecting to be absent about two or three months. As soon as I announced my intended departure, the Princess and Viscount gave me no peace, until I named a day for the baptism of my child. The Princess was godmother, the viscount godfather. The ceremony was performed in the church of St Gcrmaine I'Auxerrois. 142 A LIST OF NAMES. J{ When the ceremony was over, the Princess took from a casket a beau tifiil child's necklace of torquoise and gold, whose pendants were, a cross in the centre, and, on each side, a finely wrought medal bear- ing the image of the Virgin Mother. She made the child put to her innocent lips the two medals, which bore the likeness of that mother, under whose protection she then placed her. She clasped the neck- lace around her neck, covered her face with kisses, and pressed hei to her bosom, saying : ** (Jod bless you, sweet child ; may the Blessed Virgin always protect you ; and we will all pray, that your mother, may soon learn to love Jesus." The child was baptized by the names of Marie Genevieve Do- minique I'"erdinande Lenore. The Princess's first name was Marie ; La- ferriere's name was Dominique ; Mr. de I.esseps wished the child to be named after his cousin Ferdinand, then at Suez ; the Princess said, that she ought to be called Genevieve, after the patron saint of the city, where God had led her to be baptized ; and I wished her to be called Lenore. To satisfy all ])arties, the priest gave her the whole list of names. About one week before I left Paris, my maid informed me, that she feared the sea, and would not accompany me. My child was delicate ; I had no experience in taking care of her, having always abandoned the entire charge of her to a maid ; and I dreaded cross- ing the Atlantic with a strange one. ■; . '' • • 1 took my child in my lap, and asked her what I should do with baby, if Fanny, the maid, should leave us. "Do you Hke Fanny?" I asked. "No," she answered in her baby-French; "no, mamma, I don't like Fanny; I like the Sisters." The thought struck me instantly, that I should ask the Sisters to take care of her in my absence. In less, than half an hour, I was at the convent door. The Supe- rior told me, that their institution could not receive children ; but that another branch of it was for education ; the nearest house of which was at St. Mande, a suburb of Paris. She advised me to go there ; and I drove there immediately. At St. Mand6, the Superior received me kindly and agreed to take the child at once. But she had not seen the child, and supposed her .to be much older than she was. As soon as she saw her, she was taken aback, and exclaimed : "Why, that is a baby ; we don't take babies here." " But," said I, " she is two years and a half old." *' We have never taken a child under five ; " she answered ; " an/^," I PART WITH MY CHILD. 143 Supe- ; but use of to go o tak« ed her lie was It take old." aivi," she continued, taking another look at the child, ** this one does not look much over a year." I blamed the maid for having put on tiie child a dress, which she had outgrown ; and I insisted, that it was this, that made her look so small. The Superior laughed, and .said, that I might i)ut any dress on her, that I chose ; I could not make anything, but a baby, out of her. The Superior called the child to her, and seated her on her knee ; but the child soon got up, and stood on the nun's knee, and began playfully to hide her face in the frill of the Superior's cap, and to kiss her as she did so. All of a sudden, as though an idea had just struck her, she got down saying : '■'■ Je vats embrasser le petit Jesus ; " and she began to fumble in the skirt of the Superior's dress searching for lier beads. The Superior wondered what she could be doing. But the moment tlie child found the crucifix, she caught it in both hands, and covered it with kisses. She then looked up into the Superior's face and laughed ; and then kissed the crucifix again and again. ,■ , , ; ■. - • ■ ■. '■ ■' ''■■'- '■ >: ,-'• ■• The Viscount could hardly refrain from weeping ; while the Supe- rior actually wept, and catching the child in her arms, kissed hei most tenderly, and pressed her to her heart, saying : " 1 will take this child. I will run the risk." " It will only be for a couple of months," I remarked. " Never mind," replied die Superior, " I will keep her, and kike as good care of her, as I can, till you return." I felt worse on separating from r.iy child, than if I had always been a devoted mother ; and 1 felt a keen self-reproach for having neglected her. When I entered my bedroom, the saddest feeling imaginable came over, me. The room was in perfect order, — no playthings strewn about, — and no child's voice. I felt so desolate, that I sat down in the middle of the floor, and began to weep. I was all alone, and I wept and sobbed, until I could weep no more. As I arose, I chanced to see something peeping out from under the bu- reau. I made a spring for it, as thqugh the child herself had come back to greet and cheer me. It was one of her little old worn-out shoes, of which the child had made a plaything. I took it up, and kissed it as tenderly, as though it w,ere the little foot, which had worn it. I then put it into my jewelry-box, and completely covered it with my diamonds and ' pearls, and I said to it : " You dear little shoe ! how hai)py you have made me 1 " I un- I 144 A DREAM COMES BACK. pi'l m } m covered it again, and began to talk to it as before. Rut this time, tlie sight of it made me sad, and I recommenced weeping ; for the httle shoe seemed to reproach me for having been faithless to the vow, that I had made to (iod on the morning of my child's birth, when I pressed the first kiss on her baby brow. I had promised, that 1 would be a good mother ; and I felt, that I had kept the prom- ise but indifferently. I covered the little shoe with kisses, and wet it with my tears ; and then put it back among my jewels, and said : " Stay there, little shoe ; and, whenever I look upon you, you shall remind me of my vow ; and I will yet become a good mother." I renewed my vow to God ; and I felt better, stronger, happier, and more resigned. I must crave par- don from some of my readers for my childishness ; but if it is a mother, that peruses these images, I need ask no pardon ; for mothers know how to love little feet, and know, that few things have the power to si)eak so tenderly to a mother's stricken heart, as a little old shoe. I wept long after I lay down to sleep that night. Separation made me feel with exaggerated keenness my former want of devotion to my child. I asked God to forgive me ; and I thanked Him for His good- ness and mercy ; especially for having given me such a friend as Laferridre. I repeated his name over several times, — for to me it was the sweetest name on earth, — when, for the first time, I recalled the dream, that I had had when living in the Champs Elys^es. I in stantly sprang out of bed and began to pace the room, wild with de- light ; for I remembered, that I had seen the name of Laferridre written in a sort of haze, that floated under the scroll, whereon was written : " You will never marry S ." I was now sure, that I should marry Laferri^re, for a part of that dream had come true ; and Iwas astpn- ished, that I had not recollected it before. To marry Laferritire was all that my heart or my ambition craved He had titles, wealth, and position ; and, even without those advan- tages, my heart would have taken him, for himself alone. He was the embodiment of principle and honor ; I always felt the ascen- dency of his superior worth, and I tried to resemble him. He had given me a better opinion of the whole human race ; and I began to believe in honesty, friendship, and truth, and to love virtue, in prO' portion as my love increased for him. The next morninj'^, before I had finished my toilet, he sent his valet to inquire about my health, and he addressed me the following note : — I,, THE VISCOUNT S LETTER. 145 " I hope, my dear child, that you have passed a quiet night, and that sleep, the great restorer, has dissipated the bodily and mental fatigue, which yesterday's journey must have caused you. I thought of you, when 1 awoke ; of the grief you must feel, in no longei seeing by your bedside the dear little child, whose caresses always commenced the day so happily. My poor friend, you have indeed been obliged to make a very sad sacrifice, and the certainty of having acted with wisdom and reflection, is all that can allay the bitterness of this unnatural separation. " For one so young, your life has been a troubled and stormy one ; still, though you have passed through terrible trials, your heart has never before been torn by a grief like that of yesterday. You think you have little feeling ; but you will find, my dear child, that we can- not change the laws of nature, and that with woman the heart is the mainspring of every action. It is useless to try to become a nun in character : you will always remain a woman ; that is to say, a being to love and be loved, agreeable, nervous, and susceptible. Nature is stronger than you ; you labor to turn poetry into prose ; but you will labor in vain. "As I write, I cannot help comparing my happiness, when with you, with the sadness of my solitude. My heart is sad, and it is chiefly on your account. To see you depart alone, isolated, so young, without relations, without friends, troubles and torments me, and adds a thousand fears to the grief of the separation. "God is good, my child. He will watch over you, and I, un- worthy though I am, will pray with fervor, that His divine protection may follow and guard you during your voyage. ** In your moments of trouble and anxiety, think of me, my cher- ished child, — of my warm affection for you ; and I hope the remem- brance will inspire you with courage and resignation. " I can find no words to tell how I love you ; or to express my « sentiments of affection, consideration, and confidence. "Ever yours, ■-'■. " LAFERRli;RE." Two days afterwards, Mr. de Lesseps and Laferriere accompanied me to the train, that was to bear me away from Paris and all that I loved. De Lesseps gave me a few parting words of advice ; then bade me farewell. It was for the last time on earth. He returned 7 146 HOMEWARD BOUND. ' . I to Lima, and soon after died far from his home and his friends. As Laferri^re assisted me into the railway-carriage, he said : *'God bless you, my child ! Come back again, as soon as you can." I said, that he might be sure, that I would ; " For," said I, '* I leave with you th» best part of myself — my child and my heart." Si CHAPTER XXXVI. NEW YORK IN MOURNING. — LES MISERABLES. — LAFERRIJire's LETfERS. On a bright morning in April, I embarked at Liverpool, and sailed for my native city. After a pleasant voyage, as we anchored in New York harbor, the passengers were all on deck admiring the beautiful scene. P>ery face was beaming with gladness ; but I felt lonely, and my heart remained unmoved, amidst one of nature's most beau- teous prospect? I preferred the Arch of Triumph to the whole of it : and while eac assenger was pointing out the view, that pleased his fancy most, I almost wondered how any one could admire, with so much enthusiasm, a scene that lay so far from the Seine. I was al- ready longing to return to France ; for I had a presentiment of all, that I should have to suffer, before I should again see its shores. On landing we found New York City draped in mourning, for the assassination of President Lincoln ; and as the carriage rolled through the streets up to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and I looked at the emblems of mourning, which hung from the dwellings, my heart grew sadder and sadder ; and 1 took it as a bad omen to find my native city iii mourning, on my return. , , After parting with my friends on board the steamer, I experienced a feeling of isolation, which none but those, whose kindred have dis- owned them, can ever know. I remained at the hotel, but a short time. As I was alone, 1 found it exceedingly unpleasant ; for a young lady alone at a hotel, no matter how retiring and modest her demeanor may be, becomes at once the object of special remark, and often of suspicion. At every board' ig-house, at which I applied, there was objection to taking a single lady alone. After many fruitless attempts, I succeeded, through the influence LONE WOMEN. 147 of one of my gentleman friends, in obtaining board in West Four- teenth Street. I paid twice what the accommodations were worth, as the lady took me at the risk of displeasing the rest of her boarders. I set diligently to work to arrange my affairs, so as to return to France, as quickly as possible. My illusions, as to the sincerity of others in having my interest at heart, were soon dispelled. I found every one disposed to swindle me, and to take advantage of my evident impatience to return to France, by delaying payments due to me, in the hope, that I would leave without waiting for them. In order to turn my vexatious delays to some advantage, I began to study again ; — I engaged teachers and labored assiduously. I secluded myself, as much as I could, from the other boarders ; but they managed to make me feel so uncomfortable, that I was always seeking to change my lodgings. It was then, that I began to consider and to pity, the condition of young women alone and without protection. If I had not had plenty of money, I know not what would have become of me. I sincerely pitied other women with a scanty allowance ; for I could well understand how much they must suffer, particularly, if young : since their youth, which should call forth the sympathies of their own sex, seems only to inspire envy or distrust. I have often forgotten my'own troubles, reflecting on the suffering, that such a state of things must entail on thousands of women, situ- ated in the world like myself, and far more deserving, while far less capable of battling with such injustice. I began to conceive a great dislike for a country, where, it seemed to me, there was so much narrow-mindedness, so little real charity and true sympathy, among women, for each other. I longed to leave it, and thought only of getting away, as soon as I could, with the determination of never putting my foot on its shores again. I longed to leave a country, where so many of the women seemed to be pushing one into the streets, and so many of the men enticing one to ruin ; and where so many of the latter seem to look upon a young woman without protection, as their legitimate prey. These men will apparently sympathize with us, and then play upon our better nature to drag us to the abyss. Our happiness depends so much on the sympathies of others, that, when we see ourselves un- justly trodden upon, if we find not in religion^that strong arm of Faithi which alone can sustain us, it Is difficult for woman's heart, not to re- 143 MY MONITORS. ceive with gratitude the hand, that ofters sympathy; and equally hard for her trusting nature to suspect at first the deviUshness, that prompts it. Well is it, at such moments, for those, who have learned aright the lessons of God's word, to put not their trust in man, and to seek sympathy and support, where alone it is lO be found — with our Father, who is in heaven. At the time I am describing, I had not yet learned this lesson. And what was it then that saved me ? It was my child, and La- ferrifire : — for Laferridre was constantly writing to me. His letters were full of sympathy and encouragement. He had an exalted opinion of me ; and I strove to become worthy of it. And my child would ever come up before me, whenever I saw that little old shoe, in the same way as a Christian is reminded of his Lord by the sight of a crucifix. That little shoe had become the monitor of my conscience. And when, to give the last touches to my toilet, I would open die jewelry-box, I was sure to see it, and to go out into the world fortified by my recollections. I corresponded regularly with LaferriiJre, and found in his letters a sympathy, a consolation and a joy, which sustained me in many a difficult and trying scene. Although not aspiring to the character of a litterateur, the Viscount was a man of refined and cultivated intellect, enlivened by a heart full of strong and noble sympathies. As those letters show Laferridre in his true character, and explain more fully, than any words of mine could do, the relations, that ex- isted between me and the Viscount, I feel that no apology is neces- sary for inserting them here : . ,., "Paris, April z-jth, 1865. "My dear Child, " Ten days have elapsed since you departed, ten days since I lost you ; and, meanwhile, my anxious thoughts have continually followed the vessel, which carried you across the inmiense ocean. Each hour, as it increases the distance, which separates us, seems to diminish the chance of our ever meeting again. I have been too happy these few months ; a happiness so complete and unalloyed never re- turns twice in a lifetime. I fear I shall die without ever beholding again your nuich-loved countenance. Unless I restrain myself, I shall write to you every day ; but I have no wish to fatigue you with I. quantity of letters, which you will have no time to answer. I will THE SPHERE OF WOMAN. 149 send you news of your dear child, every eight or ten days. I will go to see her Saturday, and I will not finish my letter till after my return from St. Mande.- " The first news you learned, on your arrival, must have been, I suppose, of the assassination of President Lincoln. This odious political crime shows the violence of the factions, which are rending your country. I am very anxious to hear from you, so lonely and without any direct protection in the midst of the civil discord, which ij troubling America. "Be very wise and prudent, my much-loved child ; try not to in- volve yourself in any dangerous political complications ; that is a hard and thankless task, which should be left to egotistical and de- signing man. Poor women, even those who think themselves the most masculine, always have too much heart and imagination, to take any useful part in party struggles. Woman ought to have another aim in life. She is made to be the companion of man ; the charm of his life, his consolation in misfortune, the poetry of his fireside, the good genius of his family. " You, my dear child, have all that is necessary to form a charm- ing woman ; remain what God made you, and do not try to become a man. " Nothing new here since your departure, excepting a tropical heat. I have hastened to bury myself In soHtude, to dream of you in peace, and to live over, moment by moment, the happy days in the Rue de Rivoli. I am longing to hear of your safe arrival, and to learn your l)lans ; that is, if you know them yourself: you are, as a woman, a litde wanting in foresight, you leave by far too many of the events of your life to chance. You have, however, an excellent head, capable of planning and managing ; but you are so excitable and easily mov- ed, that it would be very difficult for you ever to follow a marked- out course. " I implore you, my dear child, to weigh well all your actions, to think seriously of your own future, and that of dear little Genevieve. You yourself have suffered the most painful thing in life — poverty — • you should not expose your child to the same trial. You came through the ordeal almost miraculously, without spoiling the natural sweetness of your disposition ; but where you have been saved, a thousand other young girls have been shipwrecked. Think of your child, therefore, my friend, and 1 trust this thought will make yo« I ■ i^o THE CHILD OF THE CONVENT. IP |i si ■ '.1 < i i'^ rifjl always wise and prudent. I appreciate you fully, I know how much goodness, nobleness, and spirit are contained in your childlike heart. "You are all a woman should be; therefore remain one, and do not wrong yourself by struggling with the world. If I could only be near you, my cherished child, to guide and sustain you, it seems to me, that with my support, you would pass through life more smoothly, (hat your troubles would be lighter, and our pleasures shared together would possess a new charm. Let us hope, that time may bring about this delightful dream : — it is mine, and it shall be the last, of my life. I am going now to see the Princess Sulkowska, to beg her to go with me to St. Mand6." " Saturday, A/ri/ 28M. " On arriving at St. Mand6, I found the dear child in admirable health. She was as fresh as a rose, neat, smiling, happy, and in the best of humor. Her tlesh is firm, her complexion is smooth and clear ; I never saw her look so well in Paris. It is evident, that she has already improved physically, as well as morally. It is fortunate she is no longer under the care of her nurse Fanny. The good Sisters, in whose excellent hands she is, feel a true affection for her. " Genevidve passes her life in the gardens, among the flowers and birds. She has about her a thousand things to interest her, and to develop, without fatiguing her young mind. I am delighted to be able to send you news, which must rejoice your maternal heart. Be reassured, therefore, my dear child, and rely upon your friends, and, above all, on me, to guard the treasure you have left in France." " Monday, Apri/ 30M. " I am going to spend the whole of this day at home, thinking of you. You must by this time have arrived in your native country. I am trying to imagine what your impressions were on arriving ; and whether your stay in France has not so changed your ideas, as to make those no longer agreeable to you, whose society you formerly enjoyed. " Paris is a great enchanter ; it turns all heads. When one has led for lome time an easy, free, independent life here, it seems to me, it must be difficult to find much pleasure elsewhere. In this modern Babylon, everything is to be found, the most serious things alongside of the most frivclous, true affection and vulgar gallantry side by side. It was in Paris we first met ; — I shall never forget it, — and this recollection will make the great city forever dear to me. It seems to me, I am once A CHILD OF PARIS. iSi more in the ' Salle des Marechaux' at the Tuileries : suddenly you ap- pear ; — and I love you. From that momei.t my fate was decided ; my heart, which I believed dead and cold, became warm and ardent. From that time, how many happy hours have you given me ; but, alas ! Iiovv quickly they passed ! while the days of separation seem eternal, " 1 can no longer live in Paris without you. I shall go, where, I know not, but changing from place to place, never visiting again those spots, where I have seen you and shall see you no more. Dear child, without you I havo neither strength nor courage; and grief renders me indifferent to everything. "Adieu for to-day, my dear child. I cease writing, but my thoughts are with you. They traverse time and space. You are my one thought, my fixed idea, my happiness. You occupy the first place in my affec< tions ; and I love you above everything and all. . „^ " Your friend and father, " LAFERRlilRE." " Paris, May 31, 1865. " On arriving at Paris, your welcome letter was the first object, which met my eyes. I read it with feverish avidity. God be praised ! You have finally arrived in good health, and I have in my hand your writ- ten words. " My dear child, I can understand your feelings of sadness and grief on reaching again your native country ; and I feel for you. You have experienced more unhappiness than pleasure there ; you have suffered grief and isolation at an age, when the heart needs love. For eighteen months you had lived in an atmosphere so different ! In France the spirit of calculation is subservient to the sentiments of the heart, and the pleasures of the mind ; — one lives to love, to try to be happy ; and business holds only a secondar)- ])lace, " Your warm nature, your rich faculties, your ardent imagination, soon made you a child of Paris. Besides, you loved in the great city, and you know the saying, that where one loves, there is one's country : * Ubi amor, ibi patria.' " I have just embraced your child, and my heart was moved, when I pressed her to my breast. I thought of you, my poor friend, who nave only this treasure in the world, and have been obliged to separ- fcte from it. The little one gets along admirably. She is too young to suffer from her heart ; at her age happiness consists in being in a ' i" MMi i n •! 152 THE VISCOUNT AND THE CHILD. good natural condition ; and, as far as that goes, she has nothing more to desire. " The good Sisters are very fond of her ; she is the favorite child of the community. All women possess maternal instincts, and the good religious are mothers to little Genevieve. You may rest assured, that nowhere could she be treated with more affection and care. I hope this will console you, and be a balm to your wounded heart. E stayed with her a good while, to observe her. She is very fond of the Sisters, she embraces them, smiles upon them, and all this is done so naturally, without being urged by the Sisters, that it is clear that they treat her with great kindness. " The dear child has so fine a nature, that she will need a calm and regulated education. " Some dear friends of mine have been in Paris for several days. It is very bad in me, I know, but their being here gives me no plea- sure. You are not here, and every one else wearies me : — you have carried away my soul, you have absorbed all my powers of loving, and I have none for any other person. "LAFERRlfeRE." "Paris, yune 16, i866. "My very dear Child, , " Before I tell you how sad and discouraged I am, I must first speak about your charming little girl. I have just seen her, and she ap;jears to be perfectly happy and contented. The poor little thing knew me at once ; she came and embraced me, her first word was — * Mamma,' and she looked anxiously at me, trying to read the answer in my eyes. I told her, that in a little while you would come and see her, and she repeated several times * Mamma;' her little childish face expressed so plainly her concern, that the tears came into my eyes. I tried to divert her attention, and took her to walk in the garden. She showed me the rabbits, the chickens, the ducks ; — everything amuses her. This life in the free country air will have the best effect upon her health and constitution. The Sisters appear to love her very much ; she is the pet of every one, and is caressed and amused from morning to night. 1 asked Genevi6ve, if she would go away with me : she seemed serious and thoughtful, looked at the Sisters, — then without saying anything, she took my hand and repeated again — ' Mamma ' — thus begging me THE THIRST FOR GOLD. 153 to take her to you. This tenderness of heart in so young a child is very touching, and moved me deeply. She recalls to my mind the poor boy I lost, and who possessed the feehng and kindness of a woman. To conclude, your child is well, and well cared for. I love her as a part of yourself. " No one could be more morose, than your friend. You have car- ried away the little youth, that was left me. Death had taken away my dearest ones ; so that my heart is empty, worn-out, and desolate. I no longer love anything, and mankind irritates and disgusts me. I see all the vices and caprices of humanity, and I can no longer play my part among these comedians. The only thing, that I desire, the sole wish I form, is to see you once more. You are my all. Will you return, — is the question I ask myself, and which you alone can answer. I still retain hope, the last gift of the unhappy. It often abandons me, but Genevieve is here and her presence reassures me. But time runs on : at my age, it goes rapidly. You are still young, I am no longer so. The years, which leave only light traces on you, make deep furrows on me. " If you do not return, my child, if you do not bring back to me your sweet smile, if I never again hear your loved voice, which gave me confidence in the future and assuaged the bitterness of my thoughts, then it would be best to die ; for life could give me nothing. " Paris is troubled and disquieted ; they talk of war, and every- body trembles. The thirst for gold has invaded every mind and corrupted all hearts ; and, instead of talking of the interest and greatness of the country, we meet on every side men of business, who tell you what they fear to lose, and who are ready to do any mean act to save their money. I belong to another epoch : when I was young. Frenchmen had a spirit, that has since been lost in the halls of the exchange. It is this that reconciles me to growing old ; — I find modern tendencies ignoble. Money is everything, and every- thing is sacrificed to it. Poor child, you live in a country, where this malady is general. It comes to us from the new world. I pity you, for, with your warm heart and noble mind, you should live in another atmosphere. " Reply at once, dear child ; send me one word to console me. I am very sad, very anxious ; for I love you more than all, and J lend you the most affectionate assurance of my undying attachment " LAFERRliiRE." 7* p 154 THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW. "Chateau ue FLficHERES, Di^PARTEMENr de l'Ain, Oa. 8, 1866. " My dear Child : * " I received your letter in my solitude in the country ; it was welcome to my old chateau, to which it brought the perfume of youth, spirit, and grace. I read over and over again the words traced by your hand ; I meditate upon these phrases, which bring to me from so far your thoughts and affectionate remembrances. " You are sad, my friend ; you do not find the same sentiments and ideas in your own country, that you found in France ; you feel, that you have left beyond the seas your cherished child, and a devoted and sincere friend. Nothing can take the place of true affection ; when one has felt that, the wliole world could not satisfy the heart. Money, power, distinction, honora are only vanities more or less false, which leave the soul void and discontented. " A moderate share of fortune is a great advantage. It permits us to follow our taste, to please ourselves, to come and go, as the fancy pleases. But luxury is useless, and often an embarrassment. I can- not therefore understand the thirst for money, that consumes America. It is a disease, which strikes at the social life of the country. Ameri- cans have done away with all social distinctions ; they have left only one — riches. Everybody wishes to acquire them, — to rise above their neighbors. It is vanity, and ever vanity, that governs the world ; but, to speak frankly, our vanities in the old world are worth much more, than the love of money, that rules your country. It is, more- over, your opinion too, my cherished friend. "You are French in heart and mind, and in your charming gayety. I never knew a single one of my own gracious countrywomen, who had more grace and amiability than you. You have, besides, the ad- vantage of not being imbued with their little childish vanity, and of naving preserved a firm heart and a charitable, compassionate soul through painful trials. " You have, I suppose, received my letter, written in haste at Paris, in which I told you how well and happy I found Gei\evidve. 'I'he dear child is as well as possible. Morally, the dear little one has gained a great deal ; she is good-humored, polite, and obedient. She used to be quite self-willed and capricious ; all that is gone : — the Sisters by their mildness and patience have effected a complete thange. You can tnen say, my dear friend, that the great sacrifice SYMPATHV. IBS you made in separating from your child will not be lost. You have improved her health and given an excellent turn to her ideas. . " She spoke to me of you. They make her pray every day for her dear mother, so that she may not forget you. She remembers a lit- tle of the past, but it does not grieve her ; she is hapi)y and loves her little convent, where she has found health and a much kinder and more enlightened guidance than Fanny's. She is as smiling as a lit- tle angel, who as yet has tasted none of the bitterness of life. This time of peace and innocence will quickly pass, and she will be sub- mitted in her turn to the trials, from which no one escapes. But, thanks to her religious education, she will have Christian resignation to enable her to bear grief and deception. Happy those who find in their faith strength to struggle against the storm, and patience to support the injustice and iniquity of the world ! " I think unceasingly of your grief and your pitiable loneliness, in the midst of enemies and difficulties. You have done well, my dear child, to confide to me all your trouble ; this proof of affection only increases the sentiments of tenderness and esteem I feel for you. I understand all the anguish of your situation, and the grief you feel. "You, who by the strength of your character, and the intelligence and breadth of your ideas are so little of the woman, should not allow yourself to be cast down by misfortunes, that are not your fault. " Why am I not near you to sustain and console you ! You would regain your energy, leaning on your friend, and would combat more effectually the difficulties of your position. " I apjjreciate how hard it must be to face alone the wickedness of the world, and to find out how vicious men can be. It is a very painful discovery to those who know the goodness, the justice, and the generosity, that are to be found in the human heart. Neverthe- less, you must not give way to dejection ; — you must accept the struggle, however painful it may be. , " At my age nothing surprises me, nothing astonishes me. I have Been so much infamy and horror in the side-scenes of the world, that I look on the most horrible things, as the most natural. The thirst for gold causes every crime, and if one could see by daylight the hid- den mysteries of mankind, he would blush to belong to the human race. . '* Poor child, I beg of you to write often to me. A word from you is happiness to me ; do not refuse me this joy. I wish I had some- thing to tell )'ou, that would enliven you ; but I am very sad in mind^ I If 156 THE DESOLATE HEARTH. a'.one in my immense old chateau, filled with recollections of those I have loved and lost. For several years I labored to embellish the interior of the park. All I did had an interest for me ; for I was pre- paring it for my two children. Now all is ended ; the gardens are green, the trees are grown ; but the children are no more ; — my hearth is desolate ; I am alone where I have tasted all family joys. I as- sure you, my dear friend, there are momenta, when life is very hard for me to endure. Then I think of you ; and my heart is wrung at the thought of all you have suffered ; I admire your energy, your cour- age ; — and I endeavor to find in your example the resignation I ought to feel. You, my dear child, have one advantage, that I have long since lost, — youth. You are at the happy age, when one never despairs, because the future is before one ; — to me the future brings old age and death. I do not wish to sadden you by telling how desolate my heart is, but I am seized with despair, when I think of the length of our separation — of its eternity, perhaps ; — at my age one has suffered so much, one has experienced such bitter disappoint- ments, that one has no confidence in the future. One sole thought can lessen my grief: — it is, that I did not prevent you from doing your duty ; that I showed myself a faithful friend in sacrificing my affection to your interests. I have acted honorably; I followed the motto of my ancestors : '^Fais ce que tu dois, advienne que pourra' * " I have grown twenty years older since you left. I am weary ; nothing amuses me ; I have fallen into apathy and indifference. An unexpected promotion has fallen to me, but it gives me no pleas- ure. The Count de Bacciochi, our First Chamberlain, is dead, and the Emperor has appointed me to replace him. I shall live at the Tuileries, and have a daily duty to perform, and also the inspection of the imperial theatres. This new life will perhaps enliven me ; I have great need of it. I am discouraged and disgusted with every- thing. My happiness was so great beside you, that, since you are no longer here, my life is wretched. " I wish, my poor child, I could find an unknown corner, where I could live with you. All the false pleasures of society, whose only iiotives are vanity and whose results are moral decay, have become odious to me. I aspire to find repose near you. I desire that ;ny last days may be consecrated to you, and may heal the wounds of * Do thy duty, come what may, ^ ,i'S PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 157 your soul, which has been so cruelly tried. I think only of you ; and your remembrance is the joy and the torment of my life. I make great efforts to go through my customary occupations ; but you are always before my eyes, and I cannot succeed in interesting myself in anything whatever. It is a ridiculous weakness at my age j but you caused me a happiness and a gayety, which I never knew before, and I cannot be consoled for your absence. " It seems to me but yesterday that I saw you sitting near a door of the drawing-room, while the Princess's sister was singing. The Pnncess uroposed to present me to the young widow ; but I did not care aoout it ; I thought you were too young, for me to become one of your admirers. Afterwards, I see you at the Tuileries ; I am pre- sented to you, and succumb immediately to your attractions. I loved you at once, and since then you have merited my warmest affection in this world. Dear child, I do not know what the future may have in store for us ; I do not know if I shall ever have the happiness of seeing you again ; but whatever may be your destiny, you will live in my heart until my latest breath ; you will always be my much-loved daughter ; for I never met a woman, who had more ei\dearing qualities, than yourself, or a character more sympa- thetic and true. Accept the assurance of an affection, which will only end with my life. " Laferri^re." "Palace of the Tuileries, Paris, , ' ■> Nm. 2, 1866. "MV VERY DEAR ChILD, " Your promised return seems to me like a dream ; it makes me giddy. It is well for me, that I am overwhelmed with business ; or, in my impatience to see you, the time would be insupportably long. *' Foolish child, I am grieved that you could imagine for an instant, that my feelings towards you could change. You will find me, my dear and much-loved child, just as you left me, preferring you to all, loving you more than honors or riches, and ready to forego any pleasure in order to spend an evening by your fireside. "You have, I suppose, received my letter, in which I proposed to give up my apartments to you-; I await your reply. I am now at the Tuileries. You may, if you like, reside in my rooms, where you wsa It lA i i m'' 158 A WILLING EXILE. would be in every way better off, than at the ' H6tel du LomTe,' and at a much less expense. I hope to receive another letter from you ; if you do not wish to accept my ai)artnients, I will fulfil your commission at the H6tel du Louvre. You can rely upon me, and you may rest assured, that you will be well and conveniently lodged, that your establishment will cost at least one-third less, than you would ',' spend at the H6tel du Louvre, and you will be much more pleasantly .situated. The servant, that I shall place at your disposal, was formerly waiting-maid to my wife. She is an excellent cook ; she is married to my coachman, who is coming to pass the winter in Paris with my daughter. 1 have no need of this woman, but I retain her through gratitude, because she took such "excellent care of my wife. She is so reliable and honest, that 1 am convinced, she will satisfy you to the smallest particular. I hardly dare to write the wish : ' soon to meet,' my dear child ; I fear to give way to the joy your return causes me ; it would be so cruel to have a glimpse of such happiness, and then to be plunged into grief by separation. " Poor darling, I love you with all my heart, and you will soon see, that you will always be my first affection in this world. " Ever yours, ^ " LAFERRlfeRE." Through the ingratitude of those, whom I had befriended, and the malignity of others, who hated to see me on the road to worldly suc- cess, it took me eighteen months to arrange my affairs. As soon as I had concluded my business in New York, I hastened, with all the yearnings of a mother's and a lover's heart to return to France. I took passage on board the Pereire, which sailed Nov. 17th, 1866, from New York for Havre. When the ship moved from the dock, I hoped that 1 was bidding my country an eternal farewell. Nothing could have given me more pain, at that moment, than to imagine Ihat I should ever see its shores again. ; ,; ;i. . t.r'i: vi ^ RETURN TO FRANCE. 159 CHAPTER XXXVII. AWAKING FROM A DELUSIVE DREAM. — SACRIFICED ON A FAMILY ALTAR. / When the steamer arrived at Havre, I found Laferridre's valet waiting for me on the dock. He handed me a letter, which read as follows : •' Palace of the TuiLERiEs, Paris, 27M of November, 1866. ** My CHERISHED ChILD, " When this letter is in your loved hands, the vast ocean will no longer separate us. I can hardly believe in my happiness. " The court is at Compi^gne, and I am obliged to be there nearly all the time. I will tell you what you must do, my child ; you must send a telegraphic despatch to me, at the Palace of the Tuileries, an- nouncing the time, at which you will arrive at Paris. If I am in Paris, you will find me at the station ; if I am at Compidgne, they will send me a telegram annv/uncing your arrival, and I will set out at once. '* If I am not at Paris, when you arrive, you will find my carriage at the station, and a servant, who will take charge of your luggage ; and you can come at once to your rooms, which you will find all ready for you. " Can you believe, that in a few hours we will be together again ? I cannot ; it is so great and unexpected a happiness ! :. " Ever yours, * '* LAFERRlfeRE." I contrasted my return to France, with my sad return to my own country ; and I became more than ever attached to France The Viscount was at the station, when 1 arrived in Paris. He caught me tn his arms, as I alighted from the train, drove me to my new home, and introduced, me to my servants. He came early the next morning, and offered me his carriage to drive, to the convent, where 1 found my child alone in the Superior's parlor, playing with a doll. I caught hold of her ; she cried out ; J i6o BRIGHT PROSPECTS " Who is it whc is it ? " I told her ; " Mamma ; " then she j. imped up on my lap, and covered my face with kisses. I wanted to take her home with me ; but she said she would not leave the good mother. I'o avoid a scene, the Superior said she .ould bring her to me the next day. She brought her, but the child had not been with me an hour, before she began to ask me to take her back to St. Mande. Laferriere persuaded me to let her go, as she would be much better taken care of there, than she would be with me. So the next day I took her back to the convent. The arrange- ment did not suit me ; but 1 yielded to the entreaties of the child and the advice of the Viscount. Laferriere had the distribution of the imperial boxes in all the the- atres and opera-houses of Paris. These were usually proscenium boxes, with drawing-rooms attached. We passed most of our even- ings at the theatre ; but if the play did not amuse us, we would re- tire and converse in the drawing-room. In that way we passed the few first weeks after my arrival, and those days passed away without a cloud. l"he Viscount introduced me to his family, and his daughter treated me like a sister. Every one knew of Laferri^re's devotion to me ; for he never sought to conceal it, not evt^n from his family ; and I was constantly receiving congratulations upon ray triumphal re- turn. r.Iadam O' Gorman was among the few who were displeased, and who did not congratulate me on my apparent prosperity. It grieved her, to see me sought after only by those who were seeking favors at court ; and she was sorry, too, that I should have accepted the apartments formerly occupied by Laferridre. She said, that it had given the Americans a chance to atte-ck me, and they were doing all they could to prejudice the new American minister. General Dix, against me ; which was the worst turn they could do me ; as it would injure me much, if I were not received at the American Legation. But as soon ?,s she heard how well I was received by the Viscount's daughter, she became less anxious, and hoped that I would soon become the Vis- countess de Laferridre. . ^ Laferridre and myself had never spoken definitely in regard to our marriage, although he knew, since my return, that I expected .to be his wife ; and he never discouiaged me from thinking so, but rather DISAPPOINTMENT. i6i encouraged it, by apparently concurring in all my projects and schemes for the future. One evening he called on me later than usual, and, for the first time since my return, he appeared downcast and sad. He told me, that he had just had a scene with his daughter ; that the rumor had reached her, that he intended to make me his wife ; and that some Americans had embittered her against me. He told me, that if we were married, it would separate him from his family ; that he would be willing to sacrifice, for me, all of them except his daughter ; and it was only on her account, that he hesitated ; and he asked me if I wished him to make such a sacrifice. His words and look pierced my heart. I loved him most devotedly, and would have sacrificed all things for him, save his love for me. He had supposed, that his age would have prevented me from ever becoming more attached to him, than as to a fond parent or to a devoted jud, on whom I solely relied for sympathy and protection. My niisfortunes had endeared me to him. He looked upon me, as some lone child, whom sorrow had driven away, and estranged from its native land, but over whom (rod had ever kept a watchful eye ; whose Providence had taken compassion on it, and had brought it to him, in order that he might solace and protect it. It was that very isolation, for which the world reproached me, that bound me to him ; and his desire to marry me was chiefly, in order to give me perfect protection. He felt grateful too, to Providence for having sent me to him, because I had filled the void in his heart, that the death of his beloved child had made. My disposition always diverted and amused him, while my misfortunes called fortli his most heartfelt sympathies. Yet our dispositions were totally unlike. The perversities o^ human nature, of which he had only been an observer, would inspire him with misanthropy and hate ; whereas I, who had ever been their victim, was ever ready to forgive, excuse, ano pit)\ He loved this in me ; for he attributed it to the noble impulses of a generous heart ; whereas it might only have sprung from a morbid insensibility, and from that exaggerated self love, which so absorbed my reason and my senses, that it rendered me incapable of peering as deeply as he did, into the depths of malice. I could oftentimes only laugh at and ridicule that, which would inspire in him hatred and dis- gust. His daughter, v^ho was his only child, had been an invaud fron^ I' !'l 162 THE viscount's DAUGHTER. I 11 ii if her earlier' years. The Viscount could hardly recollect of ever hav- ing opposed his daughter's wishes. Her physicians had lately pro- nounced, that one of her lungs was entirely gone ; although she had all the appearance of health. Her physicians had recommended di- version and excitement to recreate her mind. I, who had been her companion of pleasure, and who did not see with the eyes of the physician, could not discern anything in her condition to excite my compassion or sympathy. 1 assured I .aferriere, that he had killed all my desire to marry him, since I saw that he did not love me well enough to sacrifice every- thing for me ; and that if he loved me, as I loved him, he would never hesitate a moment on account of his daughter. He admitted, that what I said was true ; but he implored me to consider his years, and then ask myself, if it were possible for him to love with the ardor of youth. He said to me, that, if I could take twenty-five years off his head, nothing on earth would prevent him making me at once his wife ; but that he had reared and buried nearly all his family, one child alone remained ; and she too had but a short while to live ; and he felt it a sacred duty, to sacrifice his own inclinations and mine to his daughter's happiness. In my bitterness of soul I said : " You are sacrificing our happiness to your daughter's selfishness and pride." I fancied that I knew the chief objection, that the Countess de Bernis had to her father marrying again ; namely, that while she filled the place at court, that his wife would hold, she was exceed- ingly unwilling to cede it to any one. He said all he could to restore my confidence in his affection, and repeatedly called me his own dear child. For the first time, this ap- pellation of c/iiM chilled me, and I begged him never to call me iiis child again ; for it was ioo much ; — and yet it tuas 7iot enough 1 But he answered me, that I should ever be his child, and that he would ever be a father to me. He offered to do anything, that I asked, provided it did not interfere with his daughter's happiness. But what could he give me, to replace the illusions, which he had just taken from me ? From the moment I loved him, I had lost my ambition, and all I had asked was his love in return ; and I foolishly had thought, that he loved me with the same ardor, with which I loved him. For two whole years I had been living on that illi'sion. It had com- pletely changed me. I was no longer the ambitious, unscrupulous »iroman, that I was before we met. I began to love virtue, to loathe JEALOUSY. 163 vice, and to hate deception. My love for him had become a purify- ing flame, tliat had cleansed my heart ; and I loved him too, for having raised me to a higher and a purer life. He told me, that he believed, that, on account of the difference of our ages, we would be happier to remain as we were ; and it was only on account of the world and my isolation, that he ever wished to marry me ; that he loved me, as he would some fond child, whom Providence had sent to him, to bring back to his seared heart the fresh- ness of happier years. When he uttered these words, it seemed as though my heart's most cherished idol had changed suddenly before my eyes into a heart- less, icy skeleton. I hated him in that moment, and would not have married him for worlds. And yet, a moment after, I would have crawled at his feet, and have become his slave, his household drudge, if he could have only given me back my illusions ; and I would have felt happier to be with him, in such a sta^e, believing that he loved me, than I would to have become his bride, when 1 knew that he only loved me as his child. It is only sensitive, and impassioned hearts, that have loved, that can understand my feelings ; for they know, that love can only be satisfied with love. Offer it the whole world, in exchange for the heart, which it believes to be united and blended with its own, and the whole universe will appear worthless, comi)ared to the priceless value it sets upon that heart. There is nothing holier in nature, than a parent's love. But the parent robs nothing from his child, when he loves another. For the first time in my life, the demon jealousy en tered my heart, and 1 feared that, if he only loved me as his child, his heart was still free, and he could love another. I thought, that per- haps he did not love me, because of his love for his wife, who was in the grave. For an instant, a sort of frenzy took possession of me, and I imagined, that he loved everything else but me, and only loved me, because I consoled him for the absence of those whom he loved. I became jealous of the memory of his child, of his departed wife, and even of my own misfortunes ; for I looked upon them all as so many rivals, whom he preferred to me. My heart was so rent with agony, that it distorted my whole body, and 1 writiied in excruciating pain. He wa- me first and only being, that I had vcr really loved. In my childhood I had fallen in love with nature, while rambling alone [I s 164 A DREAM OF ILL OMEN. ft* ■'■' ■i rt over the hills of Amenia. But my guilty conscience soon divorced us ; and since that time until I met Laferridre, it seemed as though my JTcart had fed on what was most uncongenial to it. Others had thought, that they had won my heart ; but when I really loved, I could not tind courage to express my love. It was that want of courage, wliich had deceived LaferriSre, as to the ardor and depth of my attachment. It was ever my great defect to be too frank and too contkling ; and this was the last passion in my heart that Laferrigre thought I would have been able to conceal. When he left me that night, and I was once more alone, I felt like one who was forever wedded to sorrow ; — for it appeared to me, that I could never recover from this last blow, which seemed the moit cruel, that (jod ever dealt me. That night I could not sleep. I wept and sobbed for hours ; but, in one of the darkest moments of despair, that I had ever known, I remembered the dream I had had in the Champs Elysees, on which I had so strongly built my hopes, that I would be his wife. It came back to me, like a ray of hope. 1 began to be consoled, and to believe, that he really loved me. I reproached myself for having doubted him, and for having been so violent ; and I longed to see him, that I might ask his forgiveness. I recalled with delight the happy moments we had passed together, and the many times he had told me, that he loved me. I thought of his letters too, and then I was sure, that all would yet be well ; — that I would one day be his wife. For had I not seen his name in my dream long before we ever met ? I prayed God to give me another true dream, that night, and begged Him to let me know in it if I was really destined to marry Laferridre. It was nearly morning before I closed my eyes, and, when I did sleep, it was not with the sleep of peace, which refreshes. My rest was broken by a dream of ill omen. I dreamt, that the very same gypsy, who had told me, that I would never marry S , appeared, bearing in her hand a placard, on which was written dis- tinctly : Vim will never marry Laferriere. As I saw these words, I awoke, and became very sad. I tried to console myself by remembering the old adage, and taking hope, that it was a true one ; — that dreams always go by contraries ; just as I Bad done before in the Champs Elysees. ■ wmmmm I DISPENSE FAVORS. 165 CHAPTER XXXVIII. VANITY OF VANITIES, AND VEXATION OF SPIRIT, The following day, when I^aferrifire called on me, I could see, from the painful expression of his countenance, that he was suffering men tally, just as much as I. When I told him again how unhappy I was, that he did not love me as much as I did him, he earnestly assured 111c, that he considered his love for me far more lasting and less liable to change, than mine. He mentioned the qualities of my heart, on which his love and attachment were founded, remarking that there was too much passion and imagination mixed up in my affection for him. 1 asked him, how I should hold up my head, when the world would congratulate me upon my future nuptials, as it had often done. He replied : " So long as I live, you need not fear the world ; for I will bring it to your feet ; and when it is there, you will see how hollow and worthless it is : and 1 am sure you will toss it from you as you would an old programme of a play." From that hour, it seemed to be Laferrifire's constant study to make me happy. He showered everything upon me, that it was in his power to bestow. He never refused any favor, that I asked him to confer on my friends or acquaintances, that was consistent with his duty. And whenever a poor wretch appealed to me for assistance, I had only to recommend him to the Viscount, and he was sure to ob- tain relief. As soon as it was known, that I had so many privileges, those who had sought by every means to pull me down, were among the first to throw down their scalping-knives, and to pay court to me and besiege me for favors. I tried to oblige everybody ; but with those who I knew, hated me, and were obsequious only to use me, 1 would never associate ; and while giving thein whatever they asked, I would never permit them to express their thanks in person, if I could avoid them. I would at times have contentions with Laferr}Sre for giving tlie preference to the poor over the rich. Sometimes I obtained invitations to a court ball for educated and refined ladies, who were too poor to buy a decent court dress • and I W} i66 ENEMIES AND BEGGARS. 1 i :' «'l ^' I m[] ::! I II ' ?l ''^ ' li would have to dress them up in my own clothes, so that they could appear. These things would irritate Laferridre, for he never knew, he said, how far I might go. He once said, that he feared, that I would have people received at the Tuileries in the evening, whom the Empress would find the next morning domiciled in the Charity Hos])ital. At last he despaired of making me reform in this respect ; and once he asked my forgiveness, after having given me a reproof, and acknowledged, that -he was blaming me for the very faults, that en- deared me to him. He knew me so well, that, if I recommended one person more urgently than another, and appeared particularly anx- ious, he would remark : " I am sure it is an enemy or a beggar." I knew some correspondents of journals ; among whom were some ladies, who had families to support. Most of them had been slander- ing me both with tongue and pen. Laferriere had conceived an in- tense dislike for them, and implored me to have nothing to do with them. But their malice did not lessen my compassion. I once made Laferridre laugh by saying, when he was pressing me hard, that I pitied their poverty so much, that I was delighted, that they could make a little money by abusing me ; even though it were in order to gratify the malice of those, whose favors they sought. In less than three months, I became so cloyed with pleasure and amusements, that I could no longer enjoy anything. I tried to con- ceal my weariness, and to appear perfectly contented and happy ; but If five Years as a Novice and t\i'o Years as a Black Nim in the II6tel-Dieu NflHBry at Montreal." That at the time of taking out the saio copyright, and at the p^wl of printing and publishing the work aforesaid, shr was a minor without legal guardian or advisers, and had been born and educated in Canada, with no friends in the United States, and was entirely unacquainted with the modes of dojafebusiness. She believed that persons professing to be her friends had made som^n^ain for her in relation to the said work ; that she understood some profitab^>l|p"eement of that kind was made by the said George Bourne with Messrs. Dwight and Van Nostrand ; that this was known to the defendants, and yet they pretended to take out another copyright of the work under the name of " Awful Disclosures," etc., in the District of Mas- sachusetts, and published a large number of impressions from the plates, and issued the book ; and that they had large profits in their hands which belonged to the complainant. The prayer was: "And that the said James, John, Joseph W. and Fletcher Harper, and each of them, may make a full, fair, and unequivocal state- ment, and set for'"^ all transactions and bargains that may have been ..lade relative to the printing ai publishi;ig and sale of said work, and may lie directed to assign, transfer, and deliver over, under oath, to the guardian of your oratrix, or into this honoral)le Court, all sums of money and all property of every kind, and the evidences thereof that belong to your oratrix, with a full statement of all sales that may have been made of said work, with the amount received for the same. And that they may state and answer as to all matter charged in this bill, to be known to them, or either of them, with sufficient distinctness to enable this honorable Court to understand, and do that which in equity ought to be done." No appli- cation had been made for any injunction, nor was theie a prayer for one in the bill. The defendants gai e the following as some causes of demurrer : That the com- plainant did not show herself to be a citizen entitled to take out a copyright ; nor show a sufficient case for an account ; nor did it appear that George Bourne, AN IMPARTIAL EDITOR. 173 pub- The tmth of my sister's statement, that she knew my mother's book to be a lie, as my mother had told her so, is fully confirmed bj- the statement of Colonel Stone, the Protestant editor of the New York Cotnmercial Advertiser, who made a personal examination of the Hotel-Dieu Convent at Montreal. After proving the falsity of my mother's statements and the physical impossibility of the events taking place which she disclosed, he concludes his able refutation of the calumnies in these words : " But I weary in the exposure of impossibilities. Nor is it neces- sary to proceed farther with them. I might, indeed, write a volume, as large as her own, in the exposure of the multitudinous inconsis- tencies and contradictions of the * Awful Disclosures ; ' but ' the game would not be worth the candle.' I will therefore close this protracted statement by expressing my deliberate and solemn opinion, founded not only upon my own careful examination, but the firmest convictions of nearly the entire population of Montreal, embracing the great body of the most intelligent evangelical Christians, that her supposed trustee, showed any copyright in himself for her ; also, that said Bourne should have been a party, or a reason given why he was not ; that if the said com- plainant had the sole copyright, a discovery might make the defendant liable for penalties, etc., etc. . . . (Emerson and Fessenden in support of Demurrer ; Patten for Complainant. Vice-Chancellor : '* The bill does not seek t.ie preventive remedy by injunc- tion in order to protect the common-law right of the complainant as authoress, against the publication of her manuscript, or the violation of any copyriglit secured to her, or to any person for her use under the acts of Congress. That this Court would interfere in such a case cannot be denied. (Jeremy's Eq. Jur., 317.) " I consider it equally clear that when the object is to obtain redress for a wrong already committed — such as is alleged in this l)dl — such redress must be sought elsewhere. If, therefore, the complainant has .iny rights as authoress, either at common law or under acts of Congress, and the defendants have encroached upon those rigiits by the publication of her book, she must sue them at law for damages, so if they have possessed themselves of the stereotype plates which belong to her, an action of trover or replevin can be had. This Court will not entertain a bill for the purpose of restoring to her the possession of such articles of property, or of com- pensating her in damages for the deprivation. Nor does this bill, in my opinion, make a case for an account against the defendants of the profits derived by them from the printing and pu!>lication and sale of the work. It does not shew any privity of contract or dealing between the parties — no agreement expressed or im- plied !)) Vkhich the defendant can be held to account to the complainant for the profits of the work. It rather shows that, by fraud and wrong, the defendants ob- tained possession of the stereotype plates, and altering the title of theliook to that of 'Awful Disclosures,' etc., pubUshed it in defiance of her rights. If she has sustained loss by such conduct of the defendants, she must persuade a jury to give her compensation in a verdict of damages against them — when perhaps the merit of her 'Awful Disclosures' and 'Nunnery Unveiled,' and the motives of those who have promoted and prompted the publication, will be duly considered." Demurrer allowed ; and bill dismissed, with costs to be paid by the next friend of the con\plainant. s»;4 THE SUMMING UP. Maria Monk is an arrant impostor, and her look, in all its KSSENTIAL FEATURES, A TISSUE OF CALUMNIES. However guilty the Catholics may be in other respects, or in other countries, as a man of honor and professor of the Protestant fairn, I most solemnly believe, that the priests and nuns ARE INNOCENT IN THIS MATTER. — William L. Stone." CHAPTER XL. LAFERRI^RE and gibbon. THE LADIES OF THE HOLY FAMILY. THEIR HOME AT ST. MAND^. My sister stayed with me a few weeks, and then left France. I was heartily tired of the life, I was leading, and determined to leave Paris. I consulted Laferri^re, and told him how I was grieved to have lost my child's affection. He sympathized with me in my re- grets concerning my child, but he could not see, why I should not be content in other respects, as I had everything else, that my heart could wish for. He too readily forgot, that I had everything except just that, which was the one desire of my heart. The thought came to me, that I should go and stay with my child, as she would not stay with me. Laferrigre was much pleased with the proposal, and suggested, that I should stay in the convent for a month, while he went down to his chateau ; as he disliked to have me go to a watering-place without him, and his accompanying me, might give scandal ; while I would not go to his chateau, as I had never spoken to his daughter, since I knew, that she was the only ob- stacle to our marriage. My chief objection to go and live in the convent was, that I was full of prejudices against the Catholics, notwithstanding all that my sister had said to me in regard to the great wrong my mother had done them. I had no faith in them, and looked upon them as partly dupes, partly rogues, and partly hypocrites. It pained LaferriSre to hear me speak of Catholics as I did, and he tried quietly to convince me of my error, and that it was only my total ignorance, which made me so prejudiced. I tried hard to make Ititm AN UNHEROIC CONVERT. «7$ him acknowledge, that he himself had little or no faith, and that he was only a Catholic, because his mother had him br-ptized one. I thought, that I would have but little trouble m making him a proselyte to infidelity ; and I began to give him my Voltairian theo- ries, and I accused the Catholics of being narrow-minded, aAd of sti- fling the efforts of the intellect. 1 told him, that, if he would read Gibbon, I was sure that writer would convince him, that the first Christians were the greatest of imbeciles. At the mention of Gibbon's name, his face assumed the air of one trying to master his temper. He answered me, with great earnestness^ and decision, that he was more familiar with Gibbon, than with Bossuet, ' and that Gibbon was the least adapted to convince him of anything. Villemain's Criticisms on the writers of the eighteenth century lay on the table. He took up the second volume, and began to read, where the writer describes some of the early events of the skeptic Gibbon's life ; how he became a Catholic, not by chance, by poverty, or by caprice, as Rousseau did, but after having read the eloquent work of ]?ossuet on the Variations of the Protestant Churches ; and how his father, who belonged to the established church, was so displeased with the conversion of his son, that he sent him to Lausanne. In the words of Villemain : " Gibbon was here subjected to a pretty rough course of treatment, which brought him back, in reality or in appear- ance, to his old religion. His soul does not seem to have been ex- actly made for the practice of resignation to sacrifice, and resistance to undue pressure from authority." Gibbon himself says, that the life there was too sad, and that they set too bad a table ; both of which things hastened his re -conversion. Upon which Villemain remarks, that a man, who makes such a start in life and in the theological career, ^loes not seem to him well fitted to conceive a very disinterested enthusiasm for the martyrs. Laferri^re continued to denounce my favorite historian, occasionally referring to the book which he held in his hand. He was not willing, that I should even tolerate the principles of such an author, much less be prejudiced by them. He did not withhold his admiration for the intelligence and rare talents displayed in Gibbon's works, which, as Villemain had said, it was far easier to censure than to equal ; but he wondered how a person like myself, could be influenced by a writer, who was ever siding w^ith the executioner against the victim, and who kept all his enthusiasm for material greatness, while his. heart re- 176 HEARTLESS MOCKERS. mained colu, and his genius mute, before the sufferings, the combatay and the triumphs of the moral order. He could not, he said, conceive how an American could admire a historian, who looked upon the military despotism of the Roman em- pire as the master-i)iece of civilization, and whose great spite against Christianity arose from the fact, that it had succeeded in overthrow* ing the empire of the Caesars. There never was a historian, he said, so thoroughly destitute of sensibility as Gibbon, and he had often wondered how a being pos- sessing human instincts, could have so cruelly and heartlessly mocked and derided men, whose only crime was to die for their fidelity to con- science. " For my part," he continued, ** Gibbon inspires me with more hor- ror for his cold insensibility, than he does with admiration for his genius and learning. I for one cannot find it in my heart to weep over the monuments of tyranny and despotism, which have crumbled into dust at the feet of moral worth and religious truth." He continued to talk in this strain, until I put a stop to it by bring- ing in Voltaire a.id Rousseau. '' Rousseau," said he, and he caught up the book and threw it contemptuously on the table, — *' Rousseau al- ways used to put me to sleep ; and, as I don't feel like dozing in your charming society, we will throw him aside ; but Voltaire, who is the king of geniuses, and the prince of mockers, I always read in the same v/ay as I go to the theatre, to be delighted, amused, and inter- ested. But if I wanted to str ^then my mind, and to give it a force, that would enable it to withstand alike good and adverse for- tune, I would not go to Voltaire ; I would do better ; I would read the lives of the saints and martyrs ; which, my child, I would much prefer having you study, as stupid as you might find them, to seeing you infect and enervate your mind with the anti-Christian theories of the p'-.ilosophers of the eighteenth century. The next morning I called to see the Princess Sulkowska, who had become my bosom friend since my return to Paris, The moment 1 told her, that I thought of going to the convent to remain a few Vi^eeks with my child, she ordered the carriage, and we drove at once to St. Mand6. When I mentioned to the Superior my desire to board at the con- vent, she was startled at the thought of taking so worldly-minded a woman) and made every possible objection to my coming. The j M um iii ii A NEW-FASHIONED POSTULANT. 177 Princess overruled all her objections. The Superior changed het tactics, and tried to frighten me out of my design, by enumerating the stringent rules, which I would necessarily be subjected to ; from which , she could not exempt any one v/'thin the walls of the convent, as she herself had to be as observant cf the rules, as the humblest Sister. She told nie, that 1 could not receive any gentlemen except in the common parlor, and then only from two until five ; that I must be in- side the walls of the convent by nine, and could not go out alone, and could not look out of any of the front windows. Said I : " I subscribe to all that." " Oh ! no," she said, *' my dea» child, you would not be contented to remain here twenty-four hours," " My good mother, " I replied," I am thoroughly sick of the world, and long to get out of that constant whirl of excitement ; it is killing me." I spoke with an earnestness, that quite amused the mother ; for she thought, that I was incapable of having one serious thought. The Princess said, that she was willing to go bail, that I would be content- ed. It but made the mother laugh the more to see how I had suc- ceeded in persuading the Princess of my seriousness. She said, that it would be a moral impossibility for one like myself, who had never been subjected to any restraint, to be contented there, where no one, not even herself, could ever do her own will ; and she assured me, that it was on my own account, that she wished me ot to come, as she knew, that I would suffer ; and she too Avould be unhappy, that she cpuld not grant me any more liberty, than the rules allowed. I finally said, that if she would not let me come, I must take away the child ; which frightened the child so that she climbed into the mother's lap and wept, as if she were to be the chief sufferer by the mother's refusal. The Superior made the child take my hand and walk with me in the garden, while she stayed with the Princess. After some time they joined me, and by the joyous expression of the Princess's face, I could see that the conference had ended in my favor. The Superior had agreed, that I might stay there during the summer vacation, which would begin in a few days, and would last eight weeks. 1 coi'ld readily understand, that the Princess had brought the mother ^r with the idea, that there was a chance of converting me ; which the Princess had never despaired of, since the day she first made my acquaintance. She had always been praying for it, 3* ■.ftp*! 178 MY UNEXPECTED PARADISE. ?:;;' had even made novenas, or nine-days' prayers, for it, and was con stantly telling her friends, that, if I could only be converted, she .believed I would do a great deal of good. , The mother was not so sanguine in this respect ; in fact, she looked upon my conversion as almost hopeless ; for she was well acquainted with my aversion for the Catholic religion, as I had never attempted to conceal it from her. I had been equally frank with tlie Princess ; but she would never pay any attention to my railleries. The Superior conducted the Princess and myself across the street, to show us the apartments which would be assigned to me during my stay ; and, as we waited for the portress to unfasten the door, the lugubrious aspect of the street, with its high sepulchral walls on each side, made a chill pass over me. But the moment the massive door was opened, a magnificent garden spread itself before us. It was an enclosure of about twelve acres, surrounded by a high wall, the top of which was thickly garnished with broken glass. To the right, as we entered the garden, was an old chateau, which had for- merly been a country-seat of Fouquet, the minister of finance under Louis XIV. The grounds, which surrounded it, were artistically laid out in beautiful lawns and serpentine alleys, shaded on each side by lilac bushes, which had grown very tall, and were so thickly in- terlaced, that they formed almost as impenetrable a barrier, as the wall, which surrounded the whole enclosure. In the centre of a wide lawn, which lay in fropt of the chateau, stood a large tree, a cedar of Lebanon, of more than two centuries' growth. The wide- spreading branches of this beautiful tree, and its lofty head, which towered majestically above the chateau and the surrounding trees, amply justified the name, which the nuns had given it, of " The Monarch of the Garden." At the farthest end of this lawn was a walk shaded by sycamore trees, which led to a high mound covered with shrubbery, through which had been cut a winding path, by which we ascended to the summit ; where we found a dilapidated kiosk, which had been entirely hidden from our view by clusters of rose-bushes and grape vines. On reaching the top of the mound we had a most commanding view of Paris. These spacious gardens contained every variety of fruit, and plant, and vegetable. The grassy lawn and the borders of the walks wwe thickly ^ewn with violets of every hue ; and the gentlest breeze AN HISTORICAL MIRROR. 175 would impregnate the whole garden with their odor. The Princess and myself were equally taken by surprise, to find there so enchant- ing a spot, and we were enraptured with the beauiiful prospect. The chateau, which was to be my home till the end of vacation, was unoccupied. I was to have a suite of rooms, facing on the r^ar- den, consisting of a spacious parlor and bedroom, a dining-room, a room for the maid, a room for my toilet, and a bath-room. The saloon presented the sombre appearance of a past age. There were the antique mouldings and furniture, the high chimney-piece, and large fireplace, and immense mirrors. The mirror directly opposite the chimney-piece filled the space between the large windows. It was broken at the top. It was be- hind this mirror, that the papers were found which convicted Fouquet. It is said that when Louis XIV. used to go hunting in the Park of Vincennes, he would stop and refresh himself at the chateau ; and that he had often paced this very saloon. The convent grounds, which lay on the other side of the street, extended to the Park of Vincennes, and one of the entrances into the convent grounds was by a gateway through the park-railing on the west side. The Superior inquired how I would pass my time. The Princess told her of my fondness for study ; and the Superior offered to let me have, during the vacation, as many of the ladies to instruct me, as I wished. Laferri fire was delighted, that I had determined to stay at St. Mand^ during the summer. When I had described to him the furniture of the chateau, and told of my intended studies, he proposed to com- plete the latter by sending me a harp teacher from the Conservatory, and to send me a part of the furniture in his apartments, so that I might be as comfortable at the convent, as I was in Paris. It was in the first week of August, 1867, that I went to reside in this convent Chateau. The community was called : The Ladies of tht Holy Family ; Lcs Dames de la Sainte Famille. It is the educa tional brunch of the convent of the Sisters of Hope. lUO A SPANISH NUN. CHAPTER XLI. LIFE AMONG THE NUNS. »1 ..,' As the day appointed for my admission, as a boarder, into the con- vent, drew near, I began to realize the fact, that I could not be happy without Laferridre. On the day of our separation, when my heart was weighed down under a sense of my lonely position and depend- ence on another, for all that makes life endurablfe, Laferri6re proved himself the true friend. He encouraged me in my good resolution, and helped me to keep up my courage, by reminding me, that it would be oily for a short tinv , — three or four weeks at most. His tears fell on my hands, as he kissed them, when he helped rae into the carriage. Said he : " My child, you are doing what is right. God will reward you for it ; and I will never cease to love you." When I arrived at the convent, my child, who had been watching for me the whole day, ran towards me, holding in her hand a nosegay of violets, which, she said, she had gathered for her little mamma. She called the Mother Superior the good mother^ but me she always called the little mamma. The Superior was in the chateau, waiting to receive me. By her side stood a young Spanish nun, to whom she introduced me. It was Madam St. Xavier. After conversing for a few moments in her native tongue, we embraced ; and then, turning to the Superior, she thanked her for having chosen her to be one of my teachers. Madam Xavier might have been in her twenty-seventh year. She was about the medium height, of slender and delicate mould, with a face, that expressed all the sweetness and innocence of an angel, while it bespoke a firmness and a courage, which would have graced the brow of a hero. The convent bell rang, and the nuns left me. The garden ap- peared to me more lovely than ever, lighted up as it was by an August sunset. I began to run through it like a wild fawn, over the lawns and through the alleys, imagining all the while, that I was talk- ing to Laferridre. After rambling for an hour, I found m) self once more near the garden gate. By this time I was tired, and I took it into ray head to cross the street and talk with the Mother Superior, BOOKS FOR USE AND FOR SHOW. I8l But I found the massive door locked. I called in vain for some ono to come and open it. As I had never yet known locks or bolts to prevent my doing any. thing I wanted to do, my first impulse was to try to climb over the ■wall. I stepped back a few paces to see what my chances were ; but the wall appeared twice as high to me then as before, and the sight of its coping of broken glass made me recoil still more. 1 ran into the chateau. The thought struck me, that I should go into the basement and get out through a window. I found them all protected by a strong iron grating, that would hardly permit a cat to pass. I then went up stairs to the first floor, but found all the rooms, that faced on the street, locked. Then I remembered, that it was one of the rules of the convent never to look out of a front window, and I con- gratulated myself upon having escaped a violation of rules, into which I would have thoughtlessly rushed. I hastened to my rooms, feeling thoroughly checkmated, and I began to realize that I was in a convent. In packing up my books, to come to the convent, I had put all the infidel writers into a little trunk by themselves. This trunk I hid in a closet. But F^nelon's works and other, as I supposed, approved writers, I put out on the table. Among them were two little books which I had never read. One was called '* The Words of Jesus" It was given to me, before I was married, by a lady friend. The other was called ^'' Evidences of Christianity" It was given me by Mr. Elise Charlier, after the death of my husband. I had always intended to read " Evidences of Christianity" because M; Charlier, when he put it into my hands, had made me promise, that I would read it. " I am sure," said he, " that you cannot read that book without be- coming a Christian." I laughed, and told him, that I would read the book to please him, but I was sure, that no book would ever convert nie. Nearly fiv^ years had passed, and I had never had the courage to open it. The very title set me against it. I put these two books on the table, on account of their respectable titles, and to make thus a good impression on the nuns. Ever since I had placed my child in a convent, and had deter- mined to educate her in one, I had marked certain passages in Vol- taire and Rousseau, which I intended to read to her, when she would be older, believing that the reading of those passages would undo, in one day, all that the nuns would have effected in years. I had brought these books with me, as weapons of defence, in case the I m ic^. AN ENCYCLOPiBDIC NUN. nuns should attack me. I felt, that it was my duty not to bring con fusion into their midst, unless they should choose to bring it down upon themselves ; and that was my reason for keeping these bi oki «o well guarded. To my surprise, no one ever said a word to me about religion, unless I introduced the subject myself, and even then they appeared [ tather disinclined to converse with me upon it, I saw, that they were all happy and contented, and I soon became more curious to know their views, than they seemed willing to tell me. The day after my arrival in the convent the Mother Superior intro- duced me to a religious, whose name was Madam Marie de St. Paul. She was a fine scholar, well versed in history and general literature. • She seemed to me like a living encyclopaedia. She was always ready to answer any question or give any date, no matter how remote or obscure the fact inquired about might be. Sometimes she would sit down and instruct me in history, much in the same way as one would relate a story to a child, to impress the events more vividly on my mind. At the same time she would delineate the striking traits of character of the personages in the events of which she spoke, and she would do it more graphically, than any biographer I had ever read My friends thronged to see me in my convent home. Laferridre, before he left for his chateau, drove out nearly every afternoon. 1 had more peace of mind, than 1 had had since the night Laferridre told me, that our marriage must be deferred until after his daughter's death. Yet I was not happy, and, at times, I was miserable. In spite of all I could do, I found it impossible to forget my cruel dis- appointment, and every time, that the thought of it came to me, it would send an acute pain through my heart. I frequently received letters from Laferriere after he left Paris. In one of my letters to him I mentioned, that it was my intention to make the convent my home for at least a few months ; since, although 1 was by no mej^ns happy in it, yet I was far less miserable ihan in Lhe world. In reply I received the following philosophical answer : "Chateau de FLiicHfeRES, August 24/A, 1867. " My dear Child, ** I^ife is an incessant combat between good and evil — an eager struggle between our instincts and our moral principles. Nature seeks to drag us down, and divine law and social respect hold us back. What you fj^el in the icy atmosphere of your convent, I find CRUMDS OF COMFORT, 183 it in the midst of the smiling fields, and, in spite of iny rustic life, I have a void within. You are not here, and there is nothing, that caa take your i)lace. I try in vain to withdraw myself from your inrtuence ; it governs me still, and you remain a want, a necessity of my life. You are not the only one who suffers, my loved daughter ; like you I am stricken to the heart with grief and regret. Never- theless, you can always rely ui)on the delicacy of my sentiments, and may rest assured, that I will not try to oppose your resolutions. You will always do what pleases you best, and I will never ask you tc 'sacrifice your peace and your worldly reputation for me. As we cannot make the world over again, we must conform to its laws. It is hard, but it is necessary for a woman ; and you know I love you too much, not to hold your peace and reputation before all else. My poor darling, may the sacrifice we make ^^ive us calmness of mind and peace of heart ; and the thought, that you are, if not happy, at least peaceful, will console me a little for our sad separation. " My daughter is at present suffering such oppression, that she cannot lie down ; she is obliged to pass the nights sitting in an arm- chair. It is a heart-rending sight ; but, what makes it still more sad, neither time nor remedies can be of any avail. It is an organic dis- ease, which can only terminate with her life. You will understand how this saddens our home. You see, my dear child, that life is painiul for all, and one is wrong to think one's self alone in suffering. Grief is the universal law of humanity. " Continue to calm yourself, dear child ; be courageous and patient. You may strengthen yourself with certainty of my affec- tion, which will never change, and will watch over you under all circumstances. You are my daughter, my sister, my all — all that is sweet and good in4ife, all that attracts, charms, and consoles. May we soon meet again, my child; I already count the days, which separate me from you. " LXFERRlfeRE." One day I wrote to him complaining bitterly. In reply I received the following letter : "Mv DEAR Child, " I have just received your letter. It is so sad, that I hasten to send you a few words of consolation and encouragement. Do not grieve so, my darling : it is your loneliness, that makes you melan 1 84 CLOISTERED HAPPINESS. choly ; — do not allow yourself to be overcome by it. 1 nevtr told you, that a convent was a garden of joy and delight. 1 leave such exaggerated expressions to the Princess. I always looked upon your entrance into the convent as a severe and difficult trial. It is useless for :;he Princess, who is so ingenuous and good, to extol the delights and happiness of the convent : I do not partake of her religious admiration. Convents suit those best, who are brought up in them, in dread of evil and in horror of sin. The good young souls of the nuns believe themselves lost beyond the sacred walls of their cloister ; they have no idea of family life. I have no wish to make your refuge distasteful to you : I hope and pray, that you may find peace of heart and tranquillity of mind there ; but the struggle is not over ; nature is not yet crushed in you ; you have not yet overcome the flesh, — and you remain a woman to the very tips of your fingers 1 " My poor friend, you are right in loving your child ; this strong affection will give an aim — an aliment to your life. Like all other affections in this world, maternal love is subject to trials and decep- tion ; but the ingenuous smiles and sweet caresses of a child have power to efface many sorrows. I have known this happiness ; to-day I have only the bitter remembrance of it. " It would be better for you and for me, if we were m? "-ied and lived together ; but there are insurmountable obstacles at this time. I cannot ask you to sacrifice your reputation ; — it is natural, that you should not ; and since I cannot t. :rifice my family to you, let us wait awhile for better days ; let us draw the utmost advantage from the present situation, and, above all, let us love one another witi! perfect confidence. " If religion fails to give you resignation, call to your 2^^ your friends ^ the philosophers. They will all tell you, that tbtf highest proof of wisdom is to endure one's lot without repining or discouragement. "Try, my darling, to strengths o yourself, and to recover your energy, so that, on my return, I may find you well in body and in mind. " I have not forgotten your request. I am happy, my dear child, to oblige your friends ; and you may be assured, that, under all circ.um stances, your recommendation will precede all others. " Adieu, d'^ar child ; '* I am ever yours, •* LAFERRlftRK." ^iMimmiiammimmmSkt THE BREAD OF LIFE.' 185 I tried every means to attach my child to me ; tut, in sp te of all my endeavors, she always, preferred the Mother Superior to ine. She would sit on the mother's lap, and fall asleep with her head reclining on her bosc, 1, while with me she never seemed to feel at ease. Sometimes, while sitting on my knee, she would put her hand oa ny heart, and say : " Mamma, I wish you had Jesus there, then I would love to lie there." She had repeated the same thing to me so often, that I one day asked Madam Xavier what she meant. Madam Xavier then explained to me the real presence of our Lord in the Eucharist ; and she told me, that it was tliat bread of life, which they received' at the altar, that gave them strei:gth to re- main true to their vocation. ••'< ' ■ • - •r' ,' " It is s'mply your faith," said I, " that makes the bread and wine become for you the body and blood of Christ." " Ah, no," she replied '* for our Lord said : ' This is my body ; ' and ' This is my blood.' It is not a receiving of mere symbols of our Lord, but this most intimate personal union with Him, that gives us strength to overcome our nat- ural inclinations, to leave all and follow Him, and to be ready to die for Him, as the martyrs have done. No, it is owr Lord, whether I choose to believe it or not." Said I : " If I should receive it, would it be just as much the Lord to me, as if I were a Christian ? " " It would be the body and blood of our Lord to you," sh^ an- swered ; " but you would not receive the spiritual benefit unless you were rendered worthy to receive Him by the virtues of Faith and Charity. The possession of the latter virtue necessarily implies the cleansing of the heart from sin. And if we receive our Lord unwor- thily, we receive Him, as the Apostles tell us, to our own danmation." " What is sin ? " I asked. She replied : " Sin comprehends an infinity of evils, which I could never enumerate ; yet it may be sum- med up in the statement, that it is a violation of that law, which re- quires, that we should believe God, and love Him for His own sake, and love our neighbor for God's sake. And therefore when we injure our neighbor, when we nourish hatred in our hearts against him, when we refuse to forgive those, who injure us, and when we feel envious of those, whom it has pleased God to favor more than ourselves whether temporarily or spiritually, then do we sin also against God." "Well," I insisted, " I love my neighbor ; I hate no one, I fojgive everybody, I am not envious. Why should I not eat of this bread?' M i 1 86 WRESTLING IN PRAYER FOR ME. "I would tlat you could," she said, "for I can netrer be happy until you do. But you must love your neighbor for Gcd's sake, and must first beUeve, and love our Lord, before you can receive Him worthily." " But," said I, " I ,, v ■'-■'■■' I .- ^ '.'■•, ." •:■ THE WAY OF THE CROSS. . Madam Xavier in explaining the stations of the cross, gave me to understand, that this pious practice had its birth in the very cradle of Christianity. She related how, after the ascension of our Lord, it was the practice of the early Christians, who resided at Jerusalem, to visit the consecrated spots, which had witnessed the sufferings of our Saviour, and which had been sprinkled with His blood. " These •/isits soon became pilgrimages,", she said, " and for centuries, it was the constant practice of the faithful to visit the scenes of Christ's mission and passion. But when the Holy Land fell into the hands of the infidels, and became difficult of access, images were made emblematical of these holy places, so that the faithful, by kneeling before them, could make this journey to Ji lusalem in spirit, and thus be able to meditate on the agonies, that our Lord suffered for our salvation in the last hours of His life." " This devotion is known, as the Way of the Cross, and will be found in all our chapels and churches. We only make use of these pictures and images to remind us of our Lord's sufferings." It was the custom of Madam Xavier, before she started on the sorrowful Way of the Cross, to say the following prayer : " I^et us leave, O my soul, the vain tumults of this world, and lei us fly to the desert and into the sweet solitude of the heart of Jesus ; let v:s meditate on His sorrows and on His love : His sorrows, that we may learn to suffer all things for His sake, and His love, that we may despise all other love. k88 CHF.IST BEFORE PILATE. " O divine Master, on tne way to Calvary, imprint in my heart Thy sacred wounds, that I may weep with Thee and with Mary. May I ever seek Thy face and Thy pardon for my sins in the dolorous way of the cross ! and may I ever find Thee under the eucharistic vail| my daily bread, where, through love. Thou immolatest Thyself again, and, with a call that is full of heavenly tenderness, Thou invitest all mankind to come and taste of Thee ! How good Thou art, dearest Saviour, to say : ' Come unto Me, all ye, that labor and are heavy- laden, and I will give you rest ! ' *' Here I am, O Lord, because Thou hast called me. ' Thy ta- bernacle shall shade me from the heat of the day, and it shall be my covert to shelter me from the rain and the tempest of the night.'" (Is. iv.) She would then move to the right of the altar, and kneel before a picture, wliich represented the Saviour standing before Pilate, where He is condemned to death ; and she would say : " * O my soul, why art thou sad, and why art thou disquieted within me?' (Ps. xlii.) " Behold the Saviour of the world standing like a criminal, before His creature, who condemns Him. "In taking on Himself that sentence of death, which resounds with- out oeasing through my sinful being. He temj)ers my just alarms by a firm hope, and changes into a real life, that death of each day, the slow, dolorous destruction of myself, as He also will that final death in my last hour. He has assured me happiness and the resurrection of my soul. O redeemed soul, why art thou sad ? and why art thou troubled ? " I will ever remain near Thy tabernacle, and, uniting myself to Thy resigned and silent heart, which is sad unto death, I will ever say to Thee in all my trials : * Here I am, O my God, to do Thy will.' " (Ps. xxxix). At the second picture, which represented the Saviour receiving His cross, she would say : " There our beloved Saviour stands, inclining with love to receive the instrument of my salvation ! " It is thus, that he loves me ! O my insensible soul, to refuse sorrow, humiliation, and sacrifice ! O Lord Jesus, give me i^ ^ THE MOTHER OF SORROWS. 189 that cross stained with Thy blood ! that cross, that I have so often rejected with horror, or dragged after me so languidly, that I have left the heaviest portion to Thee. Whatever may be my cross of to-day, or my cross of each day, if it be necessary for me to crucify my body or to drink the chalice filled with bitterness of soul ; in union with Thy love, * Master, I will follow Thee whithersoever Thou goest.' " (St. John.) The third station was a picture representing the Saviour, where he fell beneath His cross for the first time. Before it she would kneel aiiisay: ;?;:v;: ^^jv'.:;,-. >;.%';'_'. ■v ■ " * Take pity on me. Lord, because I am weak,' (Ps. vi.) "Pusillanimous and distrusting soul, it is to raise thy dejected spirits, that Jesus succumbs under the weight of His cross. ** Why dost thou fear the thorns that beset thy path, since Thy divine Master, to encourage thee, has fallen on the sorrowful way ? Remember, that thy strength is in thy weakness. Count not on thy virtue, which is more fragile, than a reed shaken by the wind ; but know also, that Jesus has retarded His progress to tender thee a help- ing hand, and to receive thy repentance. " Yes, dearest Saviour, after all my falls, I will hope in Thee still. I will ever remember Thy sweet mercies, and I will say to Thee : ' It is well. Lord, that Thou hast humbled me.' (Ps. cxxiii.) 'But I can do all things in Him, who giveth me strength.' " (St. Paul.) At the fourth station was a picture, which represented the Saviour, where He meets His Mother. I will never forget the look of tender devotion, which this saintly soul cast upon this picture representing Mary following her divine Son on his toad of sorrow. She would then pray : ' ** Love is stronger than death, and Mary will follow her Son up to Calvary ; and all you, who are now committing evil on *the road of life, consider, if there was ever a sorrow, which equalled that of those two hearts here confounded in one mutual agony. "Afflicted Mother, dost thou recognize thy beloved Son, the sweet child of th)' peaceful home of Nazareth, with his face now smeared ndth mire and blood ? Ah ! this sorrowful look, which seems to invoke a nu^ther's help, has pierced thy soul 1 n:^ 1^ 190 THE CYRENIAN. "O Mary, Mother, pray for me, that T may weep with Thee, and that I too may ever meet that look mingled with iears, in the hour of temptation and sacrifice, and may it ever kindle in my soul a true contrition and a fervent love 1 " i -r When she came to the fifth station, which representfed Simon the Cyrenian helping Jesus to carry His cro'^s, she would use the follow- ing prayer : " ' And I looked in vain for one, that would grieve with me, but there was none ; and for one, that would comfort me, and I found none !' (Ps. Ixviii.) " Here I am, divine Jesus, moved and vanquished by the touching moan of Thy unknown love. I fain would raise that other heavier cross, which weighs so sorrowfully on Thy forsaken heart. It is the cross of my sins and my indifference. The Cyrenian, in being con- strained to follow Thee, drew light and life from one of Thy tender looks ; which teaches me, that I cannot be near Thee and walk under the shadow of Thy cross, without recognizing Thee and loving Thee. " In constant forgetfulness of myself, and in the silence of resigna- tion, may I soothe with an humble and disinterested charity those, who suffer, and may nothing escape from my broken soul, but the yfci/ of its submission and the alleluia of its gratitude ! " "The sixth station represented Veronica, the pious woman who broke through the crowd and wiped the Saviour's face. Before this painting the supplicant would exclaim : " ' Whosoever loves Me, him will my Father love, and we will come and make our abode withnim.' (St. John.) O sweet Jesus! O tenr der Jesus ! I will not leave Thee without consolation on Thy way to Calvary. I will approach Thee, Lord, and I will seek Thy face. I will raise Thy crown of thorns to place it on my proud and guilty head, while I wipe the sweat from Thy brow. O sweet Master, I dare to tell Thee, that I love Thee, and I will preserve forever in my heart the remembrance of Thy adorable face. But Thou wilt not leave me an orphan, and, happier than Veronica, I will not only possess Thy image, but I will receive Thy Sacred Heart in the Eucharist, which shall be my treasure during my exile, to refresh my hungry sout THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM. 191 " * The spaiTOw hath found herself a house, and th i turtle a nest, but I, O Jesus, will remain in Thy tabernacle, and shall be protected under the shadow of Thy wings.' " (Ps. Ix.) The seventh station represented our Lord falling for the second time beneath His cross. Before that sad picture she would say : " 'Even though He kill me, yet will I hope in Him.' (Job.) " In my foolish pride I forgot the benefits of my God, and I sought for happiness in myself and in the creatures of a day. Then bitter- ness attached itself to my steps. But I met my Saviour, succumbing under the weight of my ingratitude, and I recalled to my mind Hia mercy, and I said : ' Even though He kill me, yet will I hope in Him.' I will rise from my abasement, and I will return to my Father, as I am ever sure to find in His bosom sufficient love and pity to cure me ; and though I fall every hour of my life, every hour will I pour my misery into His heart, the abyss itself of pardon ; for I am filled with confidence by those sweet words, which ever resound from the depths of His tabernacle : ' I tell Thee and assure Thee, that even when a mother should forget her offspring, yet will I not forget thee.' " (Is. xlix.) Before the eighth station, which represented our Lord consoling the women of Jerusalem, this good woman would thus address God: *' ' The poor man cried, and the Lord heard him ; and helped him out of his troubles.' (Psa. xxxiii.) *' In an arid land, without a road and without water, my dejected soul refused to be comforted. But I remembered my God, and I said : ' Do not leave me. Lord, but hasten to help me ; lest I succumb and remain buried in the region of the shadow of death.' But I do not wish for such consolation, as will take away compunction : feed me rather with the bread of tears during my exile, and with the sighs of humiliated and repenting love. Oh 1 that the tears of my contrite heart might fall day and night on the eucharistic heart of my God, that I might hear in the night of my soul this word of life : ' Blessed are they who weep, and who weep for their sins, for they shall be com- forted.' " (St. Matt.) mfm^ ^g^^fssmnmm 192 A GLIMPSE OF CALVa.RY. Before the ninth station, which was a painting of our Lord, as He falls, for the third time, beneath His cross, my holy friend would exclaim ; "Jesus has now caught a glimpse of Calvary! He has counted my falls across the shadows of time. He has seen my perjured soul, defiled in the mire of earthly affections, and wearied in the way of iniquity. He has found me deaf to the call of His love, blind to the rays of His grace, insensible to the sword of His justice ; and, stagger- ing under the weight of my sins, my Saviour falls for the third time. But He still lives to raise me with Him. Yet He is wounded that I should ever have distrusted His merciful heart, that never despaired of my return. He has kept for me a place in the Sanctuary of the eucharistic banquet, and He bids me come, by these consoling words : ' Although the vestment of thy iniquities be as red as scarlet, I will make it as white as snow ; ' * The bruised reed I will not break, and the smoking flax I will not quench.' " (Is. xlii.) Kneeling before the tenth station, which represented our Lord being stripped of His garments, this spouse of Christ would cry out in agony of heart : "'The sorrows of death have compassed me.' (Ps. cxiv.) 'But He remained mute before those, who sheared Him.' Is. Ixxxv.) " The hour- has come ; that hour so ardently desired by my God. The pitiless executioners strip Him of the last robe, which covers His wounds. " Alas, O Jesus ! those stripes and bruises ! is it not mypassions, my guilty desires, my resistances to grace, which cause Thee this ig- nominy ? Ah, I pray Thee, make of my heart an altar, and immo- late thereon each day whatever displeases Thee in me. Oh, that I might alleviate the shame and indigence of my God, thus stripped of His seamless garment, and that I might enrobe Him in a vesture woven with my sacrifices and renunciations, so that in the morning of my days, when His eucharistic heart reposes in my own, I might say to Him, ' Lord Jesus, make of my whole being a Calvary, where nothing but ruins remain, that I may no longer live, but that Thou alone mayest live in me.' " (St. Paul.) The eleventh station represented Jesus being nailed to the cross* Here the devout soul would say : THOU HAST LOVED ME UNTO DEATH. 193 " * They have pieiced my hands a:id my feet, and they have num- bered all my bones.' ' I am without strength, 1 am i)oured out like water, and my heart is like wax melting in the midst of my bowels.' (Ps. xxi.) " P'rom the depths of my guilty soul, I hear resounding the blows of the hammer which strikes the holy Victim. Alas ! i)ride, vanity, and self-love, which involved me in the tortuous ways of iniquity, are the murderous nails, which attach Him to the cross I "May the blood of that Victim, who blesses and pardons, follow my obdurate heart, and may I draw joy from 'the fountains of the Saviour.' (Is. xii.) " O my crucifix 1 Consolation of my exile ! Image and remembrance of the spotless Lamb, which is each day sacrificed on our altars for my sins ! Always be my treasure ! In the hour of anguish, may it suffice for me to look only at thee to draw from the wounds of Jesus resignation and courage. And when by Communion He will come into my heart, may I apply to His wounds of love the balm of my obedience, the myrrh of my repentance and voluntary poverty, and with these three nails, that my repenting love has chosen, may I live crucified to the world, as the world is crucified to me." (St. Paul.) ( Jesus dying on the cross was painted on the twelfth station. Be- fore it she would thus pour forth her soul : " I * will dwell on the mountain of myrrh, and on the hill of incense, until the shadows of the night retire.' (Cant.) " In that dark hour of anguish on Calvary, a supreme blessing fell on my soul with the last look of Jesus. The soldier's lance has jnerced His heart. Ah ! is it not the spear of my transgressions, that • has given to my Saviour this last and cruel wound ? Bub He has asked pardon of His Father for me ; He has given me a mother, and in the distress and abandonment of His last hour He foresaw and wished to cure the desolation of my repenting soul. " O Jesus ! who hast loved me unto death. Thou art my ransom. 1 am the price of Thy blood. Remember me, and may my death resemble Tiine. Agai I hear Thy voice, O my Saviour, and Thou sayest : ' I thirst.' Y , dearest Saviour, I hear Thy cry, and from the depths of my s< aide 1 would be an apostle by prayer and suf- fering. I would offer to Thee souls, which alone can quench the 9 ■-'. ■j'.'.t 194 THE SEPULCHRE. burning thirst of Thy heart, — that heart, which I implore Thee to give me for my asylum and my home, so that when dying I may ex- claim with Thee, ' Father ! into Thy hands I commit my- spirit 1 ' " (Matt.) The thirteenth station represented Jesus being taken down from the cross and placed in the arms of His Mother. Here she addressed the Mother of Sorrows : " And Mary remained alone with her sorrow. O solitude of Mary ! who can tell thy desolation, O mother, when thy tears fell in silence on the face of Thy beloved Son, whose ear was deaf to a mother's call ? Suffer, dearest mother, my sobs of repentance to mingle with thy pious and holy tears. Oh, let me know more and more how bitter it is to live without Jesus. Alas, how often have I been smit- ten as grass, and my heart been dried up, because 1 forgot to eat my bread ! ' (Psalms ci.) " O my daily bread I my eucharistic bread ! would that I were abandoned by all things, and that Thou alone wert my only posses- sion ! Do not refuse this ! O Mary, Mother, to my fainting soul ! ' Give me at least the crumbs, that fall from the table of my Lord, and give me to drink of that living water, which springs up to everlasting life.'" (Matt.) The fourteenth and last station represented the burial of the Saviour of mankind. Here Madam Xavier made the following touching appeal to her Spouse and Master : " ' My life is hidden in God with Jesus Christ.' (St. Paul.) The stone is rolled against the door of the sepulchre. Come, Lord Jesus, come and bury Thyself in my soul : it will be less hard, than the stone of Thy tomb. Make of my soul a new and hallowed sepul- chre, cleansed from all impurities, and cut in the rock, thus making it firm and immovable in Thy love. Make it a glorious sepulchre, which the death of sin can never reach. " Take from me, one by one, my fragile earthly supports. Take back the gifts that Thou hast bestowed upon me, and which 1 abuse each day. May all crumble ! may everything disappear around me ! All I ask is one of Thy words, one of Thy looks, one pulsation of Thy hei^rt against mine, instead of earthly esteem and human aflFec- lions ; for the face of the earth passes a^yay, and everything thereon is GENERAL ROLLIN. 195 but vanity and falsehood. Buried in the tomb of this hidden life, may my purified and solitary heart unite with Thine own in the Eucharist ! " Give me the grace to live Thy life, and to die without ceasing Thy death, during the fugitive hour of my exile, and like a bird es- caped from che net of the hunter, I will Hy into the crevice of a rock, and there, forgotten, annihilated, a stranger to all, let me live and die forever hidden in Thee." • : 1;'^ '■ ' ''•■•'i.ii '.'lit ■,{>,.■ CHAPTER XIJII. ' GENERAL ROLLIN's ** AUNTS." — A STUMBLING-BLOCK REMOVED. When we left the chap»?l, and had returned to the garden, I said to Madam Xavier : " Some people call you idolaters for kneeling before these pictures." " Yes," she replied, " because they do not know our interior life : they only judge us from the exterior, as you did a little while ago. With us everything is interior, and therefore only interior minds can understand us." '; That afternoon General RoUin drove out to see me. The gen- eral was a man over seventy years of age ; he was adjutant-general of the palace, and occupied the first floor in the east wing of the Tuileries. He had always been a man of the world, and knew as little about his religion as many Catholics do. We were walking in the garden, when the thought struck me, that I would ask him how it was possible for him to believe in a religion so contrary to reason. *' General," I asked, " are you a Roman Catholic ? " He looked at me with astonishment, as if to see if I intended to insult him, and then, knitting his eyebrows, he asked me : '* What do you take me to be ? do you think I am a Huguenot?" Said 1 : "General, I don't wish to offend you ; but, when you see the priest raise the Host, do you really believe that Host to be the real body of Christ ? " He withdrew his arm from mine, struck his cane firmly to the earth, frowned more deeply, and then, in a most indignant tone, asked me : " Did these women teach you that / " " Yes, they did ; but, of course, I could not believe it." " Well," said he, *' you did well ; but you ought to leave this place, or they will make a fool of you. 1 never ivanted you to put yc ur foot here, and I told Laferridre to prevent 196 THE GENERAL'S LOVE. i ?i it, if he could ; for I know the nuns. Why, do you know, that I wai actually bred anionj; them ? 1 had tliree aunts, all professed nuns. Two of them were abbesses, and the other was procuratress. I tell you that I got enough of them in my youth to last me the rest of my days. They are crazy themselves, and they bewitch everybody who comes within shooting distance of them. " I once fell in love with a beautiful girl ; she was as sweet as a tlower, and she took it into her head to go into one of these places for a week before she would decide to have me. I was fool enough to consent to it, and, mou Dieu I that was the last I ever saw of her. It has given me an anti-cloister fever that I shall never get rid of. Besides, my mother used to make me go to one or the other of these old aunts to be taught the catechism, and it was the ugliest of the three, that prejjared me for my first communion. I have been through many a hard-fought battle, and would willingly go through them all over again, sooner than be obliged to submit to the drillings that she used to put me through." Said I : " General, speaking of your aunt, reminds me of the old woman who brought me up." '* Why," said the general, "did she teach you the catechism?" "She tried to," said I ; "and she suc- ceeded about as well with me as your old aunt, the abbess, seems to have done with you. Tut I think, that you and I resemble each other in this respect, that neither of us is piously inclined." "Oh, my dear madam," he replied, "don't trust to that disposi- tion for protection. If you wish to escape the influence of these women, you must clear right out ; otherwise they will have you, and, if they once get you, that is the last of you." " They have actually set me thinking," I rejoined, "and I ask myself: are they crazy or am I." " Oh," said he, " I see they are getting the best of you ; and I tell you to beware of that Spanish nun. She is one of the worst kind. I can see in her eye that she is bound to have you : she will stick to you night and day until she gets you. And you ought to know, that she is personally interested, for it would be considered a great tri- umph here, if she could wrest a lady like yourself from the clav.'S of the devil. That is just the view these women take of it. To hear my old aunts go on, you would think that a man was only born to die." " Well," said I, " by the rate at which our friends are dying off, it looks very much like it." . "Ah!" said he, "is it not dread- SURPRISED AT PRAYER. 19; fill ? There is my daughter, my son-in-law, poor Bassano's daughter, and then 'I'ascher's daughter, too, and now the duke's wife, all gone 1 I tell you, there is a fatality that seems to hang ovei the east wing of that palace." . - The old general wiped away his tears, and then continued : " It is the least, that a man can do, to try to console himself by making use of the good things in this life, without becoming a voluntary martyr." " But," said I, '* you are surfeited with the good things of this life, and yet they do not seem to console you." " 1 would like to know," he rei)lied, *' wliat there is on earth, that can replace or console us for the loss of those that we love?" •' The nuns say," I answered, " that they replace them with the hope, that they will soon meet again, ?'id they console themselves by still rendering them services by their prayers and their good works." The old general wiped his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, and said to me, in a most despairing tone : *' My dear lady, they have got you ; for when you said that, it sounded just like one of them ! " The next day I was strolling in the garden by myself, thinking I was all alone, when I entered a rustic bower. It was canopied by a d-insely leaved sycamore tree. To my surprise I found Madam Xavier there. In her hands she held her rosary, and by hqr side lay a delicate little nosegay. It was entirely comi)osed of violets of differ- ent shades, which she had so arranged, that the letter J could be dis- tinctly seen in the centre. The perfume of the violets, which scented the air, seemed to pervade my whole being, the same as the incense, that would rise from their altars, while the chapel resounded to the hymn sung by infant voices to glorify the Sacred Host, which they all adored. I could not help saying to her : '* Dearest, I feel, that it is good for me to be here, and that no other hand, but the hand of God, has led me here." She replied: " 1 knew, that our Lord led you to me, the instant I saw you ; " and she took the flowers and fastened them in my belt just beneath my heart, and began to speak to me of the Saviour's love. While she was speaking, I was carelessly toying with the beads, which hung from her girdle. I asked her what was the meaning of mumbling over the beads, remarking that I did not believe any good could result from such a silly practice. She told me that the Rosary, which is divided into three parts, each of which is called a chaplet, is a pious exercise introduced into the church by St. Dominick in the 198 THE ROSARY. pi thirteenth century. But tradition shows, that the practice of rising t)eads to count one's prayers was of a much earlier period ; for the virgin martyrs u;;ed to ornament their hair before going to death with a crown composed of coral beads, which served to count the prayers, tliat their pious hearts offered to God, before the time came for them to give themselves up for sacrifice. She then gave me a very interest. ing description of the simplicity and beauty of the devotion of the Rosary. '* This pious practice is," she said, " nothing more or less, than repetitions of the prayer, which God Himself has taught, and that other prayer, in which we repeat the address of God's angel to Mary, and ask her to use her powerful influence with her beloved Son. Associated with these repetitions of divine prayers, are medi- tations on th«. most prominent mysteries in theworkof man's redemp- tion. • :. *' It is the simplest of all our devotions," she continued; " so much so, that dissenters have often rejjroached us for our use of it ; because they find the form monotonous, being a continual reiJctition of the same prayer, and they pretend, that it should be the exclusive portion of Mie poor and the ignorant. But we find in this pious exercise of recuing the chaplet a mysterious unction, a true consolation, and a charm, which is always new. We feel that there are striking con- trasts enough, even in the house of God, between the rich and the poor, ind that we ought to be happy to have God see us before his altar by the side of his poor, with an humble chaplet in our hands, re- peating the same prayers with the same simplicity of faith." She then named to me the fifteen mysteries of the Rosary : " Tlie first five are the Joyful Mysteries. On the first decade, we meditate on the Annunciation ; and the fruit, which we wish to gather from out prayers, is Humility. We say one Our Father Sindiexi Hail Mary's. " Yes," I interrupted ; ** and so you pray ten times as much to the Virgil!, as you do to God." ** How can you say that," she replied, " when I assure you, that I am praying all the time to God, and am asking God to grant me the grace of humility ? But, one prayer I make directly to God, and, in the other ten, I beg the Blessed Virgin to assist me with her prayers; but I am praying to God all the time. "The second ;oyful mystery is the Visitation, where the Blessed Virgin visits her cousin Elizabeth : then we ask for charity. The tliird is tlie Birth of our Lord : we ask for detachment. The fourth ^W, THREE CHAPLETS. 199 is the Purification : we ask for the grace of purity, an fl obedience to God's laws. The last, and fifth, of the joyful mysteries, is the Find- ing of the Child Jesus in the temple : then we ask to always search for Jesus Christ. "Now," said Madam Xavier, "you see, we have said the chuple* through once. We begin it over again, if we wish to meditate on the Sorrowful Mysteries. " The first sorrowful mystery is the Agony of our Lord in the gar- den. Wlien we meditate on that mystery, we ask our Lord to give us contrition for our sins. The second of the sorrowfiilmystieries is the Flagellation : we ask for the spirit of mortification. The third is the Crowiiing.of our Lord with thorns : we ask for patience. The fourth is, where they place the cross on His sacred shoulders ; we ask for resignation. And the fifth is the Crucifixion : we ask our Lord, that we may be crucified to ourselves and only live in Him. " Now we have finished the chaplet twice ; and we recommence it again, to meditate on the glorious mysteries. The first is the Resur- rection : we pray for faith. The second is the Ascension of our Lord : we pray God to give us a desire for heaven. The third glorious mystery is the Descent of the Holy Ghost : we pray God to grant us the gifts of the Holy Spirit." I asked her, what were the gifts of the Holy Spirit. She replied : " Wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and the fear of the Lord. The fourth mystery is the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin : we ask to be united to the mother of God. The fifth, and last, mystery is the Crowning of the Blessed Virgin in Heaven : we pray for perse- verance." I asked her, what she meant by praying for a union with Mary. She replied, that it was only congenial and sympathetic spirits, that could unite and blend their hearts, souls, and minds into one ; " and," she continued, " as Mary was endowed with all the virtues, and was the great pattern of purity, humility, and charity, when we ask to be united with her, we implore our Lord to make us like her ; it is the same as asking Him to make us perfect in His sight." I inquired what did she mean by the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. She replied, thai, according to a tradition everywhere re- ceived since the beginning of Christianity, the body of the Blessed Virgin never new corruption : she arose some time after her death, ^nd was raised up, both body and soul, into Heaven, in the midst of 20O A POSY FROM BOSSUET. a concert of angels. This belief has, as Bossuet remarks, a particu- lar connection with the Incarnation of the eternal Word. " For, if the divine Mary once received Jesus the Saviour, it was but just that the Saviour, in His turn, should receive tlie Blessed Mary, and that, not having disdained to descend into her. He should afterwards elevate her to Himself, that she might enter into His glory. There- fore we should not be surprised, if the Blessed Mary rises with so much splendor, or if she triumphs with so much pomp. Jesus, to whom the Blessed Virgin gave birth, gives back a new birth to her, from gratitude, and, as a God should always be more munificent than His creature, although He only received a mortal life, it is His place to give a glorious one in exchange for it. Thus these two mysteries are allied to each otlier, and, in order that there may be a still closer connection, the angels intervene in the one and the other, and re- joice with Mary, to see, in her elevation to Heavei;, the beautiful continuation of the mystery, that they were sent from Heaven to announce." When she had finished, she asked me, with an air of holy joy and triumph, where was the superstition in saying the Lord's Prayer, the Hail Mary, and meditating on the leading events in the life of Jesus Christ and His blessed mother ? I told her, that I wished she could explain away all my other prejudices, as quickly and as thoroughly as she had the one I entertained but a moment before about the beads and the Rosary. *' Have patience," she replied, "and the Lord will finish His work in you. He led you here, and, believe me, He will not abandon you." CHAPTER XLIV. A SPLENETIC SPINSTER. Night after night I was thrown entirely upon myself, during those hours, which, for years, I had devoted to dissipation and pleasure. The religious would leave me about half-past eight, and I had never been accustomed to retire before midnight. The moment I wag alone, I would begin to think of Laferri^re, and wonder what he was nbout. 1 imagined, that he could not always be alone, in his palatial A PERVERSE NATURE. 201 apartment, and then I would be seized with a fit of jeak usy, which would render the loneliness of my position harrowing, ■-• ■; There too was my maid Josephine, who would have driven me frantic, had I noi been firmly resolved to resist her influence. She was a nominal Catholic, but one who had a hatred towards nuns. She was one of those Catholics, and the church is full of them, who pride themselves in the title of Catholic, but who disgrace the name of Christian. Hers was an odd and a strangely ])erverse nature ; for nothing escaped her, duf the good. The good she could never see ; for she belonged to that class of evil-minded people, who ever remain blind to the good, the true, and the beautiful, but will find evil everywhere, and in ( ything. They are ever searching for it, and they cannot fail to . J it j for they have the faculty of perverting everything that is good and beautiful, into what is bad and hideous. Josephine was always prying, to find something to tell me against the nuns. Her object was to make me dislike them, and to make my stay among them so disagreeable, that 1 should have to leave ; for Josephine's horror was the restraint, monotony, and loneliness of a cloistered life. She had siready been counting the days, that still remained before the vacation would end ; but when the Mother Superior informed me, that the Superior General had given permis- sion, that I might remain with them as long as I chose, and I had decided to make the convent my future home, her impatience turned into despair, and she raved like a mad-woman. There were two reasons for not discharging her : one was, that it was extremely diffi- cult to get a maid, who would reside in a convent \ as one of the rules, that applied to her was, that she should not receive male acquaintances. Josephine said, that she had none, and nobody doubted it ; but it would have been diflScult to find another girl in France, who could say as much. Another motive for keeping her was one of compassion ; for it would have been difficult for her to get another situation. To give an accurate description of this lonely and disconsolatt maid, who so much more preferred the din and bustle of Paris to a life of quiet and calm in a cloister, would be impossible. She never appeared twice alike ; but I have a vague recollection of her being 'vail, lank, and sallow, with protruding eyes. She always remmded me of some one, who had just escaped from the flames ; for she always looked frightened to death. And I hive a distinct recoliec* 202 A nun's revenge. tion of her waterftill, which seemed to justify my fancy ; for it resembled nothing on the earth, or in its supernal or infernal sur- roundings, as far as they are known to us, so much as a parcel of scorched rags twisted togetlier, covered with a net, and nailed to the back of her head. She looked about forty ; but she gave herself twenty-five. It was not, however, her awkward address and homely face, that prejudiced me against her ; for I was always too much of a woman, to be displeased with another woman on account of her being home- lier than myself. Josephine was always finding fault, or was angry with some one. She disliked everybody in the convent, except a Switzer, the gardener, who was the only man on the premises. She was the personification of curiosity and inquisitiveness. What she could not otherwise find out, she was sure to learn from the gardener, who knew everything that was going on ; and she was thus able to retail to me all the doings of the Sisters, laying always particular stress on the evil intentions, which she imputed to them. One day I was cognizant of a vile trick, that Josephine had been playing on a little old Sister, who was known as Sister Madeleine ; whom she accused of being a hypocrite, because she refused to resent it. In strolling through the garden I happened to surprise Sister Madeleine praying before a statue of the Blessed Virgin. She started, and appeared as confused, as though she were committing an offence. But the moment she saw that it was I, she told me how I had frightened her ; for she feared it might be Josephine for whom she was just praying. "What," said I, "were you praying for that rogue, who is the plague of the convent ?" '"I don't know of any one who needs it more," answered the Sister. ■ ..)',■:• :: ■' : .' . I began to sympathize with her, and told her that I was sorry for her. But she was not pleased with my remark ; for, in a determined tone, she said to me : " Don't pity me, but pity Josephine ; for, no matter what tricks she may have played off on me, I have always got the best of her." I was astonished to hear hei speak in this way. She noticed that I did not comprehend her meaning and continued : " No matter what she has done to me, God has given me the grace to forgive her ; and there I get the best of her. But, madam, she will not forgive me for forgiving her, and that is what makes me so wretched. I feel a little down-hearted to-day ; I don't know what RARE CHRISTIAN CHARITY. 203 more I can do in order to make her do better ; and I was just asking our Lord to inspire me when you caught me." At these words Sister Madeleine burst into tears. There was a lesson for me in Christian charity, which far exceeded anything I had ever imagined. As I turned away from the Sister and saw her humbly kneeling on the ground to continue her prayer, I asked myself: "What is there in this religion, that can bring souls up to such perfection ? " for 1 knew, that Sister Madeleine was thoroughly insensible to all the wrongs, that this perverse creature could do her, and that she only grieved, because the girl offended her Lord. CHAPTER XLV. POWER OF A child's REPROACHFUL LOOK. One day I asked the Mother Superior to permit my child to dine with me that afternoon. She at first hesitated, because a late dinner disagreed with the child. She took the child by the hand, and said to her : " My little dear, you may dine with your mamma this afternoon ; but you must not eat any dessert." The child threw her arms around her neck, and kissed her, as she replied: "No, good mother, I will not eat any." The Superior then turned to me, and requested me not to offer the child any, and I promised T would not. When the dessert came on the table, the child's eyes sparkled, for it was her favorite kind ; but, in an instant, her eyelids drooped, and she looked sad, for she remembered the prohibition of the good mother. I said to her : " I will give you some." The child shook her head, and said : " No, mamma, good mother does not wish it." Said I : " Never mind the good mother, she will never know any- thing about it ; " and so saying, I was about to put some on her plate, when she prevented me by raising her hand and pushing the spoon away, saying, as she did so : " Oh mamma, I would not dis- pbey the good mother." I dropped the spoon, and reddened with shame, that I should have given my child so bad an example ; but, thinking I could make it all right, 1 began to praise her obedience. While I was speaking, 204 PERVERSITY ITSELF. the child looked thoughtfully, with her eyes fixed on the table ; am) when I had finished, she looked up into my face, with an inquiring glance, and said : " If I am such a good girl for obeying good moth- er, why do yon disobey her ? " This time it was my turn to look down at the table. I was so humiliated, that I could have burst into tears ; for what reason could I give the child, if I spoke the whole truth, but to tell her, that I was perversity itself, and that was the reason why I disobeyed the Superior, and thus set her such an example. The child waited an in- stant for me to reply, and I was just going to speak, when she con- tinued : "If it displeases God for us to tell lies, mamma, why do you tell them ? for you told good mother, that you would not offer me any dessert." This last question was too much. I was com- pletely crushed. The moment the Sister returned to clear off the table, I made her open the gate, and, taking the child by the hand, I rushed over to the good mother, to whom I confessed the whole thing, telling her that my confusion and shame was only equalled by my gratitude to her for having brought up my child so well. The good mother embraced me. This seemed to delight the heart of the child ; for she had expected that I would be put in penance for my diso- bedience, and for having told a falsehood. I told the mother, that I never could have believed, that a child of that age could resist such a temptation. But the mother was not at all surprised at the child's conduct ; and she said, that all the little girls in the school were brought up in the same way ; and that the first thing, that a true Christian mother teaclies her child, when it leaves the cradle, is to love and fear God, and to keep His commandments. She then took the child on her knee, and excused me to her, tell- ing her that, as I was not a nun, it was no sin for me to disobey her. But the ciiild spoke up, and answered her : " But then- she should obey God, like the rest of us, and He forbids us to tell a lie : and you know, good mother, she promised she would not offer me any dessert." The mother found it harder to get out of that. But she still excused me, as well as she could. The child listened attentive- ly, and at last appeared impatient at the mother's ineffectual efforts to defend me. Then she sprang off her knee, looked up seriously into her face, and said : " I know, good mother, that manmia can- not understand these things ; for she has never been baptized." i I ' A MORAL. 205 " That is it,' replied the mother : " now go and kiss youi mamma good-night;" and the Superior accompanied me back to the cha- teau, laughing all the way at my child's ingenuous way of settling th« affair. From that day my child kept away from me more than ever, and I noticed, that she even sought to avoid me. It was the severest punishment I had ever yet had inflicted upon me for disobedience and falsehood ; for my child's rei)roachful look would cut me to the quick. I had read somewhere, that the best lessons on morality, that parents can give their children, are nothing compared to theii good example. But the case with me was now so strangely reversed, that, as far as my reading went, it seemed to have escaped the moralists. So I sat down and wrote out a moral for myself : Put together all the beatings and scoldings, the sermons and les- sons, that a perverse woman may have received during her whole life, to induce her to speak the truth ; and they will not have as much power to reclaim her, as one reproachful look from her little child. CHAPTER XLVI. THE PANTHEON. " SERMONS IN STONES." h Madam Xavier was with me a great deal. I loved to hear her talk of her native Spain, and explain the beauties of Catholic faith and practice. We had been passing one afternoon in the kiosk in the garden. She had been explaining to me the honor, that the church teaches should be paid to the saints. " We beg of the saints," said she, " to plead in our behalf. Hence it is, that we make use of two forms of prayer ; but they differ widely from each other ; for in speaking to God we say : ' Have mercy on us,' 'Hear us;' whereas in addressing ourselves to a saint we say no more than : * Pray for us.' " I objected, that I could not believe, that the saints could hear us. She then quoted the passage in Scrip- ture, which declares, that the repentance of a sinner on earth causes joy among the angels in heaven. "St. Peter," said she, "knew the :riminal deception perpetrated privately by Ananias and Sapphira 206 SUNLIGHT. (Acts V.) — and when feeble mortals can know so much by the mere light of grace, what is there not possible for them to know, when their spirits are freed from this dungeon of the body, and have the light both of grace and of glory ?" As we rose to leave the kiosk, we threw a glance over on Paris, which was resplendent in the fiery light of the setting sun. For a moment Madam Xavier remained silent, and appeared lost in thought before the brilliancy of the scene. At last she said to me : " This reminds me of Spain. It is like a Spanish sunshine." Said I : " I should think you would long to return to Spain ; for a Spaniard is seldom weaned from his native skies." " Ah," she replied, with a joyous smile, *' all lands are alike to me, since I have given myself to God. The land, that pleases me best, ie the iand, where I can serve Him most." Pointing to the sky she exclaimed ; " There is my country ; for it is there, that He dwells, whom I love." Said } : " I have always loved the sun, and I think, that I would have made a devout Parsee." And I told her how, when a child, I used to roam over the hills, through a wild woodland, and my signal to return home was the sun's touching the mountain top ; and as I went along leaping over the rocks, and through the bushes, while the sky was all on fire and the hills were lighted up by the sun's depart- ing rays, it filled my bosom with such warmth and rapture, that I felt, that I could kneel and worship it. ** Your bosom would be filled with a far greater rapture," she re- plied, " if you would but kneel and worship Him, who is called the Son of righteousness, the true light from Heaven, that enlighteneth every man, that cometh into this world, and is the Son of God. The solar light is but a faint reflection of the glory which surrounds His head. But the light, which He has shed over the world, we must, not merely admire, but follow." She pointed out to me the different churches in the distance, whose spires and domes, as the sun illumined them, seemed encompassed by a halo. At last I fixed my eyes on the dome of the Pantheon, which reared Hs head aloft above the rest, and sat like a crown on the brow of the great city ; and 1 fell to musing on the past ; for the Pantheon was associaLid with my first recollections of Paris. Was it not its dome, that had put the seal on the vision of bright hopes, that filled my bos 3m at the first glance I caught of the gay capital ? And had nol PETITIONS GRANTED. 20; its augury proved true ? I felt, that that happy vision had been ful- filled, and would never come again. Yet, while gazing steadily on the Pantheon, my hopes seemed to revive. I loved that beautiful dome, I could not tell why : there seemed to exist between it and me some hallowed mysterious bond. And I inwardly exclaimed : " Oh give nie peace ! give me hope ! Oh give me back again my joyful heart!" I had hardly offered up this mental prayer, when I instantly recol- lected having once prayed beneath that dome ; and, all at once, the beautiful altar, St. Genevieve's statue, the priest, the lighted can- dles, all came back to me ; and I remembered the petition, that I had offered to God, through the intercession of this saint. I remem- bered well, that I had asked without faith, and only to test if there were anything in Christian piety. A crowd of events, which had happened since, rushed through my jnind ; and, throwing my arms around Madam Xavier, I was so over- come, that I could scarcely speak. It seemed as if my tongue cleaved to the roof of ray mouth, I was so anxious to tell her all in a word. Pointing to the Pantheon, I exclaimed : '■'■ I do believe in ofie of your saints, — / believe in St. Geneviive ; for she has given me everything I asked for .'^ I was so excited, and spoke in a tone so loud, and so discordant with our former quiet musings, that Madam Xavier had not time to recover from her astonishment and ask me what I meant, before I told her how, nearly four years ago, when I first arrived in France, I had gone to the Pantheon to visit the tombs of Voltaire and Rous- seau ; how I had suddenly found myself in front of St. Genevieve's altar, and had asked her for something, just to see what a saint could do ; and that I had promised her a beautiful present if she granted my request. Said I : " She is a powerful saint, for she has obtained for me all that I asked. I prayed her, that I might have plenty of money, that I might be presented at court, and that the first men of the empire might be at my feet ; " and I began to count, by running over my fingers, the names of my different conquests. I have heard it said, that nuns never laugh. I wish those, who think so, could have seen Madam Xavier, after I had told her of my faith in St. Genevieve, and my connection with this saint. She laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. Said she : "We must go and tell this to the Mother Superior." She made me tell the whole story over again, and when the mother could recover firom her laughter, IV;^ MB I I INtW 208 MORE PETITIONS. ll . 'a she said to me, that it was evident, that St. Genevieve had taken nie under her protection, and she gave us permission to go the next day to the Pantheon and offer our thanks, telHng me at the same time, that I could put in the poor-box whatever I chose ; but she was sure, that the saint would be more pleased with my faith and my gratitude, that with any other present I could offer her. •' Yes," thought I, "probably more so, than the cure of the Pantheon." The next day Madam Xavier and myself started for the Pan- theon. As she had a great devotion to our Lady of Victories, we drove there first. She wanted me to see how the altar was loaded down with offerings. The walls were covered with marble slabs, on which were inscribed the i^ious ejaculations of praise and thanks, which faithfid souls had j)laced there in tes'''nony of the favors, they had obtained through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin. When we reached the Pantheon, we went straight to St. Gene- vieve's altar. Madam Xavier knelt in prayer. I stood leaning against one of the massive columns, and thanked the saint for her kindness to me. I then put a small suni of money in the poor-box. I felt, that it was almost a fraud to requite the saint so poorly ; for I was sure that she had assisted me. But I quieted my conscience by thinking over what the mother had said to me, that the saint preferred my faith and gratitude to any other gift. *' But," said I, '* one of these days, good saint, I will do all I promised." I was then ready to leave, and was impatiently waiting for Madam Xavier to rise, when the thought struck me, that I would ask the saint for something else, hoping she would intercede for me again. I knelt, and said : " Good saint, I believe you to be all-powerful with God. I am sure, that you can obtain for me whatever you like. Now do not refuse to offer up my petition ; and, if you obtain it, I will be good to the poor for the rest of my life ; and that shall be my offering of gratitude to you. I want to marry well ; and I want you to take away this pain from my heart." Then I hesitated a moment, to think what else 1 should ask for, when I happened to glance at Madam Xavier, who was kneeling with her body nearly prostrate to the floor. I knew she was praying for me. My heart went out in pity to- wards her in that moment. I shuddered at the sacrifices she was making to a mere delusion j for Madam Xavier was beautiful, refined, and accomplished. THE COLUMN vend6me. 209 Zt seemed to me, that she possessed every charm and grace, thar was lovely in woman. I threw a glance up at the statue of the saint, and, pointing to Madam Xavier, I said : ** Clood saint, // there is anythitii^ in this, J want to know it" I wished the saint to tell me, if the Catholic religion was all truth, and if the soul was eternally benefited by so many sacrifices made on earth for God's sake. Returning home we passed along the quay, that borders the left bank of the Seine. Madam Xavier called my attention to the statues of Voltaire and Henry the Fourth, and asked me why those statues had been raised to dead men. I wondered, that she should ask so childish a question. ** Why," said I, " they are there as tokens of the honor and respect, which are due to the memory of the men they represent ; — to keep alive in the minds of the French people the exploits of one of the greatest mon- archs, and the fame of one of the loftiest geniuses of their country." " Ah ! " she replied : " that was hardly necessary ; for they could read all about them in history, or they could attend the lectures at the Sorbonne or the French Academy." "Why, Madam," said I, " how many people pass those statues every day, who do not know how to read ? And how many of them ever heard of the Sorbonne or the French Academy ? How many, had not those statues been placed there, would never have heard or thought of Henry the Fourth or Voltaire ? " *' Well," she replied, " many of them would have been a great deal better off, if they had never heard of Voltaire." By this time we had reached the interior of the square of the Carrousel, ^d she pointed out to me the statues of the illustrious Frenchmen, whose names are perpetuated in the minds of the i)eople by daily seeing them, forming, as they do, a part of the ornaments of the palace of the Louvre. As she did so she said : " I am sure you would not have thought of these men at this moment, had you not seen their statues." When we reached the end of the Rue Castiglione, and approached the Column Vend6me, we saw that its base was freshly covered with immortelles, and the railing decorated with wreaths, and other tokens of affection. They had been placed there by the adherents of the Bonapartes, on the day of the Assumption, which is also the feast of the Napoleons. The moment we came in sight of the column I felt moved at the generous tokens which lay there in honor of the illustrious dead, and 2IO A PATRIOTIC NUN. I exclaimed : " I admire that enthusiasm. Is there anything, that' brings more strikingly before our minds the genius and triumphs of, the first Napoleon, than that monument ? How beautifully touch- ing are those wreaths of immortelles." ** Yes," she replied, ** it is very beautiful; but it does not move me in the least, although I know, that the whole column is moulded of cannon captured in bat- tle by the French armies, and it is embossed with scenes, which n-> present the victories of the conqueror.'' Said I : *• Talk about histories, and lectures ! when a peasant can read volumes of history by merely looking at that monument. That monument alone influ- ences the people mo' e in favor of the present Emperor, than all his partisan journals." " So I believe," said she, " and I admire the enthusiasm, which placed it there ; but I would, that that enthusiasm and gratitude were expended on a more worthy object, than an impious perjurer and tyrant. It is enough for the world to applaud his triumphs, but it is my place to weep and pray for his victims." I reproached Madam Xavier for her severity, and intimated, that her being a Christian ought not to make her insensible to talent and genius. But she interrupted me, and tightly clinched my hand, as she spoke : " Remember, that I am a Spaniard, and a religious, and that every true Spaniard and friend of Christ can never but execrate the memory of Bonaparte. I admire that column, as a work of art, and admire the generous enthusiasm, which prompted it ; but I have no sympathy with the man, whose exploits it is destined to commem- orate. I, a spouse of Christ, to be true and faithful tq||Him, must ever espouse His cause, and cling to its standard, which is the cross. And how can I venerate the memory of a man, who would seize that standard, to make of it a mere ladder for his ambition, or would trample it under foot when raised to check his perfidious course ? " After a pause, she continued : "As those statues, but a few mo- ments ago, served to remind you of the illustrious dead, so do the images and pictures, which represent our I^ord and His Blessed Mother, serve to remind us of them. The promptings, that impel the world to raise monuments to its great ones, spring from the same source as those which animate us, when we raise a statue to repre- sent Him, who redeemed the world. If a stone or a canvas bearing His sacred image, recalls Him to our minds, we should cherish it most dearly ; and nothing is unworthy of our affection, if it has the A PARALLEL. 211 power to help us to give one thought to God. There are our altars, which represent the tomb of our Lord. You were not iihockcd, a moment ago, at the wreaths of immortelles, that were strewed at the foot of a monument in honor of the memory of a man ; but you are Si'i the flowers you see me place on our altars, which are placed there, as an act of honor and adoration to our Creator and our God." When we reached the convent, the Superior insisted upon my telling her, what I had asked for this time, liut I refused to do so, and all she could get out of me was, that my prayer this tune was a slight improvement on the first. CHAPTER XLVII. AN OLD SOLDIER'S VIEWS. — SOCIETY IS EDIFIED. ' ' ' • i • ■ '^ General Rollin became my most constant visitor and confiden- tial adviser. My aged and honored friend thought it his solemn duty to protect me against the machinations of the nuns, especially Madam Xavier, "that Spanish one," in whose eyes the valiant old soldier thought he saw a fixed determination to rescue me from " the claws of the devil," and shelter me within the walls of a cloister. He would pass the whole time he was with me, trying to persuade me to leave them. >• v) ,i ;■ , ' I said to ^m one day : ** General, I wish you would explain the Mass to me. The truth is, that it always looks to me like a com- edy." ** Hush," replied the general, " I don't like to hear you speak so disrespectfully of the Mass." " Oh ! " said I, " I only do so to you, I would not dare to say so much to any one of these ladies. But it is die truth, and I cannot help feeling so. But do tell me about it." "Tell you?" he replied, "what is there, that you don't understand ? Why, it is simple enough ; the Mass, is — is — the Mass ! I have always attended Mass." "Yes; but explain it to me." "Why," said he, "there is nothing to explain. You can see it, and understand it, better than I can explain it to you ; that is all there is about it." I felt, that he knew as little about it, as I did. He begged me not to let my mind run too much on those things, for they would -^ 212 THE POPE AND THE EMPEROR. % never do me any good : he had heard them talked over so much< when he was a boy, that he had got enough of them then to last him the rest of his life. He then recommenced his persuasions, and tried to make me promise, that I would return to Paris at once. But, failing to obtain from me a decided answer, he gre v impatient, and told me, that I was as headstrong as the worst of them. " Yes," 1 replied, trying to find a change from his entreaties, "what powerful wills these ladies have ! " " Well ! " he exclaimed : ♦* you might as well try to reason with the thunder, or with the roar of the cannon, for all the effect it would have on one of them, when they once get * convent ' into their heads. It is a mania they never get over. They carry it with them to the grave." ''After all," said I, It IS a most fascinating kind of insanity." "Well," he sorrow- fully replied, "if you think so, I pity you; for it shows, that they are getting you. But just wait until T^ent comes, and you will see, that they will starve you to death. Don't I know them ? and have I not listened to them ? Just as though a man had nothing to do, or to think about, but to save his soul. They are moral maniacs ; that is the only name for them." "General," said I, "where were you on the 15th of August?" " Why, you know I was with the Emperor. We headed the cavalry, that marched from the Champs de Mars to Place Vendome, where we hung fresh wreaths around the column. AVhy do you want to know?" Said I, "The thought just struck me, that you preferred the monument to a crucifix ;" and then I related to him how beauti- fully Madam Xavier had explained away my prejudice against re- ligious images. The general frowned : he would have preferred, that she had chosen some other monument, to draw her comparison from, to teach me Catholic doctrine. ;.,. 1^. 4(- t.;- ••. Said he : " All these communities are opy.osed to anything that has the scent of Bonapartism. They never forgave the first t nperor for having arrested their Pope." " Their Pope 1 '' saicl 1, ' is he not just as much your Pope as theirs?" " When he behaves himself," said the general, " then I acknowledge him ; but when he refuses obedience and submission to the civil authorities, then I denounce him. Napole9n did right to arrest him ; for what right had he to interfere with the Emperor ?" "It appears tome," I replied, "that the Emperor interfered with the Pope.' " Interfered with him ? Ofi course, when he founvi hnn unmanageable, and when the Pope refused GENERAL ROLLIN ON NUNS. 213 to reijder to the Emperor lawful allegiance." "Yes," said I, "the Pope refused to obey Bonaparte when he ordered him to publish an embargo against his English allies ; he also refused to annul the legiti- mate marriage of Jerome IJonaparte. He further declined to hold the same position to the Emperor as the Archbishop of Canterbury holds to the Queen of England. Those were a few of the grievances that the first Emperor had to complain of, were they not ? " The general threw me an indignant glance, and replied : "/f thai the way these women teach you history ? " " Oh, no," said I, " I learned that before 1 came here." (Which was not true.) "Well," said he, " that has a mighty strong odor of the convent ; and I am surprised that you should have ever heard so much outside of one ; for I never did. I tell you these women falsify everything ; and whatevei facts, theories, or principles they lay down, you must believe just the contrary, and tlien you are sure to be right. When these women tell you that the Emperor was wrong, you may depend upon it he was right ; and when they tell you that man was born to suffer, I will swear that he was born to enjoy himself. I have even had them tell me, that a man's happiness depends on the mortification of his pas- sions, when / kno7V that he is only happy when he indulges them, I have always lived up to that principle, and I have always found it a true one." "So have I lived too, general," said I ; "but I don't think I am any the happier for it." " You think so now," said he, " because they are getting around you. I am tired of telling you to look out for them. I beg of you to be particularly 0:1 your guard against that Spanish woman ; for she is the most determined of them all. But they are all determined to have you, and there is no power on earth that can resist them. The only safety is to flee from them." "But," said I, "you seem to have resisted them pretty well." " Oh," he replied, " because 1 am a man ; and it seems to be a part of their vocation to repel the men and to draw the women. If 1 did not know them so well, I would not be half so anxious about you." We had just reached the garden gate, and the general was taking leave, when he started back, as though he had seen an apparition. " Where," said he, " did that woman come from ? " " That is my maid, " said I. "Well, she looks like a very hard case {mativais mjct). Who made you that present?" "She is not a gift," said I, "she is a lean." "Well," said he, "if I were the lender, I don't i-tass 214 FEMININE l?IilLOSOPHY. ;i fir think I should ever call for her. To whom does she belong?" "The Prmcess Sulkowska," I repHed : "but she will hardly ask for her again." " I might have expected as much," said he, " for it is only our best friends that will palm off their broken crockery on us." " Why, general," said I, " her bad looks are the only thing I can find to recommend her." " Oh, mon Dieu" exclaimed the general, " deliver me from a homely woman." " Deliver yoii, of course, because you are a man. But you know the old French pro- verb : Du temps immemorial femme prudente cfwisit singe coifee pour cofifidente et pour t ombre au tableau. (From time mimemo- rial, a prudent woman chooses for her confidant a dressed-up monkey to serve as a background to the picture.) The general's face lighted up : he retreated a few steps, took off his hat, and made a profound bow. " Madam," said he, " I congratulate you on your powers of resistance : these women haven^ t caught you yet." The autumn had come, and Laferri^re had returned from his chateau. His surprise was indescribable, when I assured him that I would njake the convent my home. He was not willing to let me make such a sacrifice ; but the more he opposed it, the more determined I was to remain. Such is the perversity of the human heart, when untutored by faith ; that, when we have suffered, we take pleasure in afflicting those, who have caused our sorrows, even though they be our hearts' idols. Laferri^re became miserable on my account ; for he felt, that I must be wretched there, as he could not conceive of anything more incompatible with my nature, than a cloister. Yet I was much hajipier there, than I had ever been since the night he sacrificed me to his daughter. He became more devoted to me, than ever ; which de- votion daily increased the number of sycophants, who sought my in- fluence. When it was known, that I was to pass the winter in the convent, it created a great deal of sympathy in my favor, and many began to feel, that they had treated me unjustly. I deserved no credit, however, for the sacrifice I was making. It was a mere stroke of policy on my part : •* Cetait retirer pour mieux sauter." (It was only drawing back in order to jump the farther.) But I soon found, that it was not so easy to keep my resolution, as it was to make it ; for the gay season had begun, and everybody was enjoying himself. As the season advanced I became more and more miserable. job's friends condole. 21!) Towards the middle of October, the evenings began to be intoler- ably long. Every afternoon would bring me some, votary of the beau monde, who, after relating to me her triumphs of the preceding night would then condole with me for not being there to witness them, and would wonder how it was possible to remain locked up in such a place. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE ANGELUS BELL : ITS CHIMES TOUCH THE DEADENED CHORD OF FILIAL AFFECTION. In the midst of the varied emotions of jealousy, weariness, and disappointed ambition ; while my heart raged with the most turbulent passions, and the devil not unfretiuently whispered in my ear self- murder, as the only panacea for all my ills ; there was one gentle soul, whose sympathy and consolation reconciled me to life, and snatched me from the power of the tempter. xMadam Xavier was, I firmly believe, sent in my way to rescue me from the depths of de- spair, and remove the clouds of prejudice and passion which hid from my view the sublime truths of revealed religion. She took occasion from the approach of the day of " All Souls," to explain to me the doctrine of praying for the repose of the souls of those who are gone before us into the realm beyond the grave. She pointed out to me the passage in 2 Machabees, ch. xii., ver. 46, which says : " It is therefore a holy and a wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from sins ; " and in the same book she read the passage where Judas Machabee, making a. gathering, sent twelve thousand drachms of silver to Jerusalem for sacrifice, to be offered for the sins of the dead. She then referred to our Lord's words, where he said that sins against the Holy Ghost would not be forgiven in this world or th?. next ; which shows that some sins are remitted in the next world. I begged her to explain to me what sin is considered blaspheming against the Holy Ghost, and therefore unpardonable. She told me that the Church teaches that there is no fault, how- ever great, but what can be pardoned ; for the mercy of God is always greater than the perversity of man j — and that no sinner 2l6 MORE lOWERFUL THAN GOD. ! 1 should ever despair of his salvation. But there is a certain disposi- tion, by which the soul wilfully rejects the light of grace, and glories in ils obstinacy, and even dies impenitent : it is this disposition, wiiich our Lord so emphatically condemned in this place. This dis- position consists in obstinately closing our ears to the voice of con- science, and in resisting the evidence of the known truth. Such was the disposition of the mind and heart of the Pharisees, and the ad- versaries of Jesus. It was a ])art of their fixed system to contradict Him, and not on any condition to believe in Him ; and, no matter what prodigies He might operate in their presence, they were re- solved in advance not to yield to any testimony in His favor. For when they could no longer resist the evidence of their senses, they cried out : " It is by Beelzebub, the Prince of Devils, that He casteth out devils." To despair of God's mercy is also considered a blas- phemy against the Holy Ghost ; for by it we underrate the infinity of God's mercies, and disrespect the innnense price paid for our re- demption. This explanation startled me ; for the thought struck nie, that it must be a terror to those, who believe in the Catholic doctrines, and yet, like the Pharisees, have not the courage to embrace them, on account of pride or interest or prejudice. And then I began to tremble for myself ; but I soon quieted myself by saying : " Oh, it is all a lie ! " 1 told Madam Xavier, that I did not believe, that another could in any way be benefited by our prayers. "What ! " said she, "do you doubt the power of prayer ? Why, it is more powerful than God Himself : for I/e canriot resist it. You say you have read the Bible ; but you seem to know nothing about it. Do you not remember, where our Lord cured the daughter of Jairus, and the servant of the centurion, in answer to the father's and master's prayer? The servant did not see our Lord, nor speak to Him, but his master went and pleaded for him. And did He not raise the son of the widow of Nain to life, just in answer to her tears. She did not speak ; but our Lord, seeing her weep, raised her son to life. " It would be one of the saddest thoughts to me in this life, if I believed, that I could no longer be of service to my departed parents and friends. It is one of the sweetest consolations, that I have it in my poM er to help the loved ones, who have gone before me." The first of November, being All Saints' Day, and a holiday of ob- '^ i;! THE BELL-RINGER. 217 ligation, Madam Xavier was free from the duties of the school-room, She passed the greater part of the day with me. The explanations which she had given me in the morning, made me see the Catholic doctrine of praying for the dead in a pleasing, and, to me, poetical light. At midday she left me to my own reflections, and returned about 2 o'clock with a joyful smile, as she announced to me a message from the bell-ringer of the parish church. St. Mand6's parish church ad- joined the convent just outside its walls, but was separate from the convent, and entirely independent of it. ; • - For several weeks back, I had been bribing the bell-ringer to ring the " A'lge/us" in the morning so softly, that it would not disturb me in my sleep. The religious were in the secret, and remonstrated with him, but to no avail ; as my money would always stifle any re- morse, that their words might have raised in his conscience. They became at last resigned, and would frequently laugh at a corruption, which they had not the power to prevent. Whenever I gave the bell-ringer money, the following morning it was barely possible to hear the bell at all ; but every succeeding morning it would ring a little louder, gradually increasing, until it would get to a pitch, that made me uncomfortable. Then 1 would send him more money. '' - ^-^ >':•' ■: ;':.;., ; ' ,■■,■■. Now I had sent the bell-ringer some money the previous day, and had gone to bed flattering myself, that I should not be disturbed; when, to my horror, the bell this morning had pealed louder and shriller than ever. I at once suspected that Josephine, who was my ngent in this negotiation, had kept the bribe ; but during the interval of the strokes I heard an angry murmur proceed from her room, which I regarded as a solemn protest of her innocence. I felt perplexed the whole morning and angry, not knowing what more to do, to abate the din of that bell. At last I resolved, that I would double the fee, when Madam Xavier came in, with her smiling face, to oft'er me tlie bell-ringer's excuses. It was All Saints' Day, and he had always had a great devotion to the saints ; and he feared, if he had not rung loud enough, that he might incur, not only their displeasure, but that of the cure himself, who would certainly have called him to account, as it was customary on feast days and other memorable occasions, to ring the morning Atige- Itis longer, than on ordinary days ; and to-morrow morning, which 10 2l8 THE ANGELUS. iM !■ would be All Souls' Day, he would be obliged to ring it louder and longer than ever. But he promised to compensate by ringing gently the rest of the month. Madam Xavier then explained to me the signification of the Angc lus bell, which in all Catholic countries, and in all religious comnui- nities, is rung three times a day in honor of the mystery of the Incar- nation. All devout Catholics, the instant they hear the AngehishiAX^ cease all occupations, for a few seconds, and offer up a prayer of thanks to (iod for having deigned to become man. That evening, when she bade me good-night. Madam Xavier begged mc to have faith in prayer, and not forget to pray for my deceased friends in the morn- ing, when I heard the Angelus ring. It was near midnight before I closed my eyes, and I awoke towards early morn. I had scarcely awoke when the church clock struck four. .,. - ■„„, ,„' ,,;i,,:-, , ,. I had been dreaming of my mother. I do not remember ever hav- ing dreamed of her before ; and it Was such a vivid dream, — I saw her so distinctly, — that the same feeling came over me, which I had often felt in her presence, when a child. It was a sensation of feaf and shame ; for, when the children in the street, or in the alleys, would point her out, and say to me, " There is your mother ; " I used to shrink at the very name of mother : but, if I saw, that she was not looking for me, shame would take the place of fear, and I would turn away, so as not to see her. As I awoke, the thought of my mother revived most bitter feelings ; for my dislike for her had increased with years. I seldom thought of her ; but there were times, when her memory would thrust itself upon me, like some weird phantom, and I could hardly realize, that the past had been a stern reality. I then fell to thinking over my troubled life, and I accused my mother of being the xuse of it all. I even hated her, because I could not wrest my h^art from Laferriere. I felt, that, if I had known a mother's, a father's, a sister's, or a broth- er's love and care, my heart never would have knitted itself to his, as it had done. That night too, the recollection of my mother humbled me, and wlien that sense of fejvr, and shame passed over me, I felt beneath Laferriere, and I wondered jiow I had ever dared to «spire to be his wife, when I was the child of suph ^ y^^oman ! Ther one by one those scenes, which I had witnessed in my childhood, came up before me \ but the sense of shame soon turned jntq rage 3Pd anger, and J i'i ':' ALL souls' day. 219 buist out into imprecations on my mother. Those scenes of drunk- enness and wanton cruelty appeared to me still more hideous, when I contrasted them with the daily examples of those, who surrounded me. The recollection too, that she had not only brought disgrace and misfortune upon her children, but had defamed, by wilful falsehoods, those holy beings, who were so many living monuments of self-sacri- fice and untiring devotion, — whose every thought and aspiration was for the eternal good of souls, — nearly drove me mad. I was furious at the thought that she had poisoned so many souls against them, who would never know the truth; when the only wrong, that any nuns had ever done her, was to give her shelter in her distress ! To know that this woman, this woman-monster, was my mother 1 And I stretched out my hand, as though I would have strangled her. I next turned to God, and began to upbraid Him for having given me such a mother. I asked Him, how He thought I could be good, with so much to struggle against ; and I kept on reproaching Him, until at last I burst into tears and cursed the day, that I was born. But my tears did not relieve my anguish ; — they only aggravated it. They seemed to bring back other recollections of the past, which began to crowd thicker and thicker upon me, and were coupled with the smitings of my guilty conscience ; until, maddened with remorse and despaii', 1 sat up in the bed and spoke to my mother, as though she were standing before me, and I said to her : " Uyou had not beer my mother, all this would not have been ! " '. ;• :: In the midst of my angry ravings the Angelus began to ring. I threw myself back upon my pillow ; but I was so excited, that its vibrations did not disturb me ; they rather soothed me, as I lay there quietly listening to its chime. I thought at once of Madam Xavier. I knew that she was in the chapel praying for her departed friends. The thought of her Wl-ought me comfort ; and, all at once, I recol- lected her parting words : " Have faith in prayer, and do not forget to pray for your deceased friends in the morning when the Angelus rings." An instant afterwards found me kneeling beside my bed, praying for my mother ; and my prayer kept cadence with the tolHng of the bell, as I three times exclaimed : " God forgive her 1 God forgive her! God forgive her!" I then lay down again, and listened in breathless silence, to the ringing of the bell. What a change had come over me ! All my anger, and all that 220 THE ATY OF MERCY. M hatred, which I had r d for years, had gone. My bosom was peaceful, and at rest id forgiven my mother. It was a great grace, that God bestowed upon me ; and it was as effectual, as it was lasting. More than six years have passed away since that merci- ful hour, and since that time I have never cherished, but kindest sen- timents of sympathy and regret for my unfortunate and erring mother. That awakening of pity, and affection for my mother is to me an evidence of God's unspeakable goodness and mercy ; and that He should have bestowed upon me such an inestimable blessing, at a moment too, when I was upbraiding Him, and rebelling against His Providence, makes me believe, that it was surely pleasing to Him, that I prayed for her. What else could have moved Him to so much compassion ? To me it is a proof that it is " a holy and a whole some thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from their sins." Infidel as I was, I was not unconscious of the effect of my prayers. I attributed it to my nature, and not to grace ; but I was so over- joyed, that I resolved that, henceforth, 1 would pray for my mother whenever I heard the Angelus ring. From that morning the ringing of the Angelus never disturbed me ; for I hailed it as a chime, that summoned me to a pleasing duty. If all those, who nourish hatred in their breasts against departed souls, will but raise their hearts to God and pray Him to forgive those souls, they too will feel, what I felt on that All Souls' Day, the first time I prayed for my mother, as the Angelus rung. CHAPTER XLIX. A FEMALE " INQUISITOR." The world of fashion had just returned from the summer resorts, and, nearly every afternoon, some one of its votaries would call on me. These visits had anything but a salutary effect. The moment I was left alone, I would brood over my solitary life, contrasting it with the gay and exciting scenes, of which they told me. These visitors would occasionally drop some word, that would ex- cite my envy and jealousy to such a pitch, that I felt like rushing out F - AN INTIMATE ENEMY. 331 at once into the whirlpool of fashion and pleasure. To give vent to Hiy violence, if one of rny visitors happened to remark, that she had 'seen or spoken to Laferriere, I would sit down and write to him in a reproachful and abusive strain. The following letter from him, in answer to one of mine, indicatel the state of my feelings at that time. . " Palace of the Tuileries, Paris, Nm. S^A, 1867. "My poor Child, " You are the most foolish and hot-headed little thing I ever met. On reading your letter, I asked nwself, if the cold had turned my brain ; for I could not understand a word of it. How could you give way to such absurd suspicions ? The lady, of whom you speak, must be stu]Mdly vain, if she supposes for an instant, that I paid any atten- tion to her. I beg of you, my dear child, not to write me any more such letters : they are unworthy both of you and of me. We ought to have unlimited confidence in each other, and to trample ujion all the petty spite of those, who only wish to estrange us. " Married women are jealous of widows. They cannot forgive them for being rid of their husbands. This sentiment is the only one, , that can explain their conduct. Do not then be so foolish any more, I beg of you. Never forget, that there is a sacred tie between us ' two, which nothing can break ; and do not add any imaginary tor- ments to the grief of our separation. You deserve to be punished for your unjust reproaches. You are a bad child ; but still I love you. You are ever too in my thoughts, the chief interest of my life. "I try to do what is best for your peace and happiness, and still you are not satisfied. You call me cold, uncivil, and tiresome. I grant you all that, my child. But you know I love you. You should have entire confidence in my affection, and not give way to jealousy. Although you say, that I do not know how to love, yet I only think of seeing you. " LaferriJire." Among this class of *' intimate enemies," as the French call them, was a Mrs. Sham, a recently married lady. She had formerly been a *' belle " in America. When I met her in Paris, she was a widow of thirty-five, who loved show, and had only a moderate income to sup-' port it. ■"•ffl ^'^S9 ^9 222 AN OBJECT OF CHARITY. I knew tJial she was dying to get married, and I was always giving her all the oj^portunities I could, by having her invited to the Tuileries and the minister! il balls, and sending her boxes for the theatre and opera. 1 knew, too, that she was extremely selfish, envious, and jealous : otherwise she would have sought to return my kindness, by trying to make me more i)opular among the Americans ; instead of which, she did all she could to keep them aloof from me, lest I should assist them too, and they might suspect who was her patron. lUit I despised her meanness, and would not permit it to influence me against her. I looked upon her, and treated her like what she really was, a dashing object of charity ; for she was fine-looking, clever, graceful, and refined ; and I felt it a pity, that so many natural gifts should not have a chance of success, since it was on them alone, that she relied for securing a husband. On account of her age, besides, I felt that no time was to be lost : so I did as much for her, as if she were the most serviceable friend I had. One day she came to me and confided ♦^^o me that she was engaged to a wealthy American, and shorty afterwa:ds she was married. At the wedding my friends gathered round me, and told me, that they expected that it would be my turn next, and wanted an explanation, why I deferred my marriage so long. Their inquiries brought back vividly to me my disappointment, and I almost wished I had not come to the wedding ; for I trembled lest some one should see my emotion. I concealed it, as best I could, by railing at the mar- riage state, and vaunting my own position, declaring that there was no condition in life so enviable, as to be young, wealthy, and a widow. I was loath, I said, to resign these advantages, and would only do so, when I had become surfeited of freedom ; which would not be very soon. I was glad, that my friend had succeeded so well, for her husband was immensely rich, and belonged to a good old family. Laferri^re escorted me home from the wedding, and remarke d, that he was glad, that she was married and out of the way ; for she was the most selfish intriguer he had ever met. He told me, that several old ladies had come up to. him, and warmly thanked him for all the favors he had showered upon Mrs. Sham, that winter ; and had talked to him condolingly. He divined at once what it all meant, that Mrs. Sham, my charming protegee, had made them believe, that he was in love viith her, and wanted to marry her; and he could see by the GRATITUDE ! 22.1 expression of her husband's face and his manner towards him, that he was most deluded of all. The Viscount had always tried to make me drop this lady ; but I would not listen to him, and frequently I would favor her, without his knowledge, asking him for tickets in some other name. But this time he touched a sensitive chord, when he intimated that she had made others believe, that he was in love with her ; for I was extremely jealous, that everybody should think, that I was the only woman in Paris, wliom he cared for, and that the delay in our marriage should be attributed more to me, than to him. No one knew, that I really loved him, except the O'Gornians ; for J. pretended to everybody else that I objected to marry him on account of his age. I was too proud to let any one suspect that he would not marry me in spite of his daughter. About the time 1 came to the convent, this lady and her husband went to Baden Baden, and other fashionable resorts. She returned to Paris elated with her success. She had captivated numberless crowned heads, princes, dukes, and so on, down to cavaliers. She was constantly calling on me and telling me how happy she was, and how her husband let her have her own way ; that she was as free as a widow ; and she wondered why I did not get married myself She was always sure to mention Laferri(ire's name, and her conversation would so upset me, that the moment 1 was left alone, I found the convent as gloomy as a prison-cell. I.aferri^re would beg of me not to listen to this lady, who was telling me these things simply to make me unhappy. "Why," I asked, *' should she wish to make me miserable, when I was the best friend, that she ever had." " For that very reason," he replied. " Do you suppose the woman will ever forgive you for patronizing her ? Never in this world ; Jlnd she only comes here now to take her revenge by tormenting you. I have noticed all my life," said he, " that you have to be extremely cautious about assisting some people, unless you are willing to create for yourself implacable enemies. Take a cold-hearted, proud, am- bitious woman ; and, if you could read her heart, you would see that the depth of her enmity towards you, is in proportion to the amount of benefits she has received from you." One Sunday in the middle of November the rain was falling in torrents. There was a bright fire blazing on the hearth. I was stand 224 A VISIT AND A COMEDY. I ing by the window amusing myself by turning now and then from gazing at the dismal autumnal scene without, towards the fire, which threw such a cheery and pleasant light on everything within. A Sister came and announced, that Mrs. Sham and her husband had arrived in an open barouche, and wanted to know, if I could receive them. The thought struck me, that they must have started for the races, but the storm having overtaken them had driven them to the convent for shelter. Besides, I was sure that she had conie to ask some favor of me. " Ma chire belle/" she exclaimed as she entered the room, "I don't think you have another friend in the wide world that loves you as I do. Only think ; to drive out six miles in this awful storm, just for the pleasure of embracing you ! " Said I : " How sweet of you, dearest ! But you know, that you have but one rival, and that is this solitude ; of which 1 am enamored. Bu*: the moment I see you, I become faithlc ; to it, and feel, that I still prefer solitude for two." "Tell me, dear one," she continued, "are you as hajjpy and as contented as ever?" "Oh, yes: this claustral life is what my soul has ever yearned for, and it is only after drinking long and deeply of its peaceful joys, that one can truly appreciate the boon of being immured with angels." (At that moment I would have preferred being in Paris among the demons.) " I saw the Viscount last week," said she, " at the opera, and he was looking so well ! I tried to catch his eye ; but he had his lorgnette fixed the whole evening on a beautiful blonde, who sat in the prosce- nium opposite. He seemed thoroughly oblivious to everything else." This time she wrenched my heart ; — but I burst out laughing as I exclaimed : " The poor old Viscount ! how glad I am to hear, that he was looking well, and that he was trying to amuse himself I it completes my happiness, to know that he is happy too." " You call him old. Why, he is the handsomest man I know ; nc doesn't look over forty." "Well," said I, "he always seems to me like an old papa. You know how it is ; after a man has been de- voted to you so long as the Viscount has been to me, we would get tired of him, if he were Apollo himself." The husband did not relish this remark ; for they both exchanged glances, and appeared confused. " Oh no," she replied, blushing up to the eyes : " that has never been my experience, and God for- bid, that it ever should be ; for, with me, it is just the contrary ; THE COMEDY CONTINUED. 22S each hour ncrcases my affection ; " and she gave her husband her hand, and he pressed it to his lips. *' Oh," said I, " I can under stand that, when we have once consented to wed a man. lint I mean these cavalieri serventi, these men who become our willing slaves, men whom we never intend to wed ; I believe, that as their love increases for us, we become tired of them." The husband remarked, that that was too hard on the men. '• Oh," said I, " they deserve it all, and even worse than they get, for their inconstancy." " Hut," said he, " it appears, that you think woman to be the inconstant one." " Only such women as your wife and myself," said I ; *' who have lived and learned ; but she has had better luck than I have, to have found one, on whom she is willing to risk all. " Your wife, however, has a far more confiding nature, than I have. The truth is, that I have been perverted by Italian literature. An Italian author says : ' Men are inconstant ; — inconstant in love, inconstant in hate, constant only in their inconstancy." My own experience made me an easy convert to this belief, which is the principal doctrine taught in my Cathecism ; and I have found in it an excellent spiritual exercise ; for, by making it my daily med- itation, I have succeeded in subduing my ingenuous confidence in the other sex, which formerly led me into so many errors." She appeared scandalized, and exclaimed : *' How can you use the phraseology of a divine to make such a confession ? " Said I, *' If it displeases you, I will come down to the common vulgar style, %nd tell you, that the only way to get even with the men, is to know them as they are, and not as they appear to be, and to deal with them accordingly." " What would the world come to," asked the husband, "if it were made up of such women ? " " What is it coming to," returned I, " filled with such men?" "Well, well," exclAimed his wife, " what an enigma you are I I always imagined yoii were dead in love with the Viscount." " How could you think such a thing, when you see me seclude myself from him, and persist in deferring our marriage indefinitely ? " "Your coming here," she replied, "was a stronger proof than ever, that you were beside yourself in love ; for I always looked upon this seclusion, as the master-stroke of an arch coquette." The harp was uncovered. " Do play me an air," said she : " you have so much time to practise, I am sure, that you play beautifully. My engagements, I am sorry to say, have condemned me to abandon lO* 22t MUSIC AND TA13LEAV. ■\ •if! my liarp altogether. Play me Laferridre's fa.orite." "Ah," said I, " he loves them all : it would be hard for me to choose. 1 will play you my favorite air, by Gounaud. It is taken from the parting- scene in the opera of Romeo and Juliet, whore the love-sick swain says : ** ' It is the dawn, it ''■, :hc lark; and Juliet replies : " ' Oh non, ce n'est pas le jour, ce n'est pas ie jour ; C'est le doux rossigiiol, qui ch.iute ses amours.' " While I was ])laying, my friend threw herseh listlessly on the rug before the lire, with her face turned towards me, and, in a half-re- «:lining posture, she assumed a careless artistic pose, as though she were listening enraptured to the music. The whole formed a pretty picture. The outlines of her graceful figure were delineated by the blazing fire, which made a most bewitching background. Her hus- band soon approached her. She reposed her head against him ; then slowly and languidly she raised her hand towards him, which lie clasped in his ; then curving her head gently backward, until their eyes met, they both remained motionless, as though spellbound by each other's glances, and lost to all the world beside. The picture now displeased me ; for I found the tableau too living. I nervously seized the strings, and by a spasmodic movement of my nands, two of them snapped in twain ; which instantly startled them from their revery. I sprang towards them, as though 1 could have killed them both, for having excited emotions in my breast, which made the convent seem to me a hell. In an instant she was on her feet ; and looking intently at me, she exclaimed : " Wh)', how you tremble ! the strings snapping frightened you, much as they did me." " I am superstitions," said I, " and whenever a string snaps amidst a train of thought, I look upon it as an omen, that my hopes are mere illusions." " But," said the husband, " how can you have illu- sions, when you have lost all faith in men ? " *' Oh," said I, '* I build them on everything else." " But," rejoined his wife, " what else is there worth building them on ? " I pretended not to hear the question : for I did not know how to answer it ; and we continued to converse, until the hrsband re- marked, that it was getting late and was time to leave. I accompanied her to the door. She placed her arm around my Hi ; I THE OBJECT OF THE VISIT. 227 waist, and drew me near to her heart, and then repeated : "^m reToir, ma belle ; how I wish you were as happy as 1 am ; and how sad it makes me to leave you in this dreary place." She had already descended three of the stone steps, when she turned around, aii though an idea had just struck her, and asked me, when the Corps ].egislatif would meet. "On Wednesday," said 1. "What," she exclaimed, " so soon ! " By this time she was back into the corridor. " How sorry I am," she continued, *' that I did not know it before ; for then I could have secured my tickets. But now it is too late ; for every ticket must be disposed of But how glad I am, that I happened to think of it ; for you, dearest, can always do impossibil- ities. I would not miss going for anything ; for I want to hear the Emperor read his speech. " I think it is one of the most beautiful sights in the world, to see that hall filled Avith the de])uties, senators, and the diplomatic corps, all dressed in their uniforms. Besides, how q'leenly the Empress looks, as she passes among them, wearing her long train ! and how gracefully she ascends the throne and bows : she must have practised several days in advance ; for it is impossible to manage such a tremendously long train, make such a short curve, and do it so gracefully and f?ult- lessly as she does, unless she has had some pretty sharp practice. Why, she does it so admirably, that one would think that the train itself was a part of her body ; — and she smiles so sweetly when she bows amidst the uproar of voices ! I don't know anything more exciting than to have your ears deafened by the cries of Vwe t Empereur 1 Vive V Imperatrice ! Vive le petit Prince ! And her figure comes out in such charming relief, as she stands in front of the Cent Gardes, who, with their steel trappings, look so ferociously beautiful. Be- sides, their brilliant armor shows off the Empress's costume to such advantage. " Do, dearest, see that I am not disappointed. See, that I have a ticket for my husband and myself, and, if it is possible, another for a friend. I know you will not disappoint me." " But," said I, " you know that Laferridre adores you, you have only to drop him a line, he will send thf tu instantly to you if he has any left." That remark pleased her so much, that it would almost have compensated for a disappointment. She looked at her husband to see, if he had taken it, but instantly continued, in a tone, that meant to convey to him, that It would almost be encouraging Laferri6re too much, if she made 228 THE AFTER-PIECE. such an advance. " No," said she, •' after all his kindness,- 1 teel that it would be indelicate for me to write to him. No, I prefer to depend entirely upon you, chere belle. Don't fail me this time ; for it would break my heart." ■ ■■' ■ —• • Said I : *' I will write to Laferri^re as soon as you leave ; and the strongest argument I can use in your favor is to tell him the claim you have on my gratitude ; for, really, to come out so far to see me in such a storm ! " " Yes," she replied, interrupting me, " the moment I saw the heavens cloud over, I ordered the carriage ; for I feared you might be lonely ; and our stupid coachman took the barouche, thinking we were going to the races." " Why," said I, " your beautiful costume made me suspect the same thing." " Oh, my darling," was the answer, " don't you believe that I would make as nuich display to call on you, as I would to be seen by thousands ? Your eyes are worth more to me, than all of them ; for I know you love the beautiful ; and what is there, that 1 would not do to gratify your taste for it ? But I don't know how you can stand it here, for it would kill me." And, after making me reiterate my promise, that I would not fail to procure her three tickets for the opening of the chambers, she embraced me tenderly, and we parted. As I turned to go into my room, I could hear the rain pattering without, and the wind moaning through the stone corridors of the chateau. My retreat never appeared to me so lugubriously sad. The blazing lire recalled the tableau, 1 had witnessed but a few moments betore, when I had seen my friend and her husband drink- ing happiness in each other's eyes. Envy, jealousy, anger, hate, and sorrow raged in my heart. The Storm without but too faithfully reflected the troubled state of my mind ; and, as I looked and listened, the same sad feeling as before came over me again. 1 uttered a shriek to relieve my heart ; and the shriek resounded through the whole chateau. My maid had gone to pass the day in Paris : no one was near to hear my wail, which made the loneliness seem more ghastly. I flew to my writing-desk, and began to write ; but my fingers pained me, and it was an effort for me to hold the pen. I looked at my fingers and saw that they were swollen — the result of having pulled with such force on the strings of the harp — when they snapped ; \ thing that I heeded not at the time. m^'^w^ FLYING IN THE FACE OF GOD. 229 But I soon became so furious, that 1 did not mind the pain, but kept on writing at a rate which cried to keep pace with my thoughts. Every other sentence was something to this effect : ' How I /laU that woman ! not because she is selfish ; not because she is ungrate- ful ; not because she delights to torment me ; — I forgive her all that ; but she has actually quarried the man she loves/ she loves her husband : — forgive her for that? never ! " It was the only bliss on earth, that I coveted ; and to think, that that woman should possess such an ad- vantage over me." " Talk about God being just," 1 said, " there is a specimen of His justice in that miserably selfish, cold-hearted, ambitious, ungrateful, intriguing, envious woman being able to marry the very man she happened to fall in love with ! " And I had the effrontery to declare, that I was her opposite, and that God had refused to a deserving child, what He readily granted to one of the most odious women, that ever w .'re born. I had supposed that she married so as to have some one to pay her debts. 1 never suspected for a moment, that she was in love with the man. I had never envied her, but now I envied and hated her ; and 1 took my revenge by writing to Laferriere to erase her name from the list, and to see, that her form never darkened that palace again. I related to him all that had passed ; how she had torn my heart by pretending, that she had seen him pass a whole evening admiring a blonde ; but what I dwelt upon most was the scene before the fire, 'vhich so exasperated me, that I had nearly dislocated my finger- joints, by wrenching the strings of the harp ; altogether I was the most miserable being on the face of the earth. I then wrote to Mrs. Sham, that 1 had just penned a letter to La- ferriere, expressing her wishes ; but it was useless for me to press him to oblige her, for, the moment he knew her desires, he would con- sider them as sacred as his sovereign's commands. Hoping that she would enjoy herself, and that she would not fail to command me, whenever she thought it was in my power to serve her, I remained, as ever, her most truly devoted, etc I knew, that it would make her furiously angry, if I threw all the blame on I^aferri^re. The Viscount answered, that, if Mrs. Sham was happily married, I ought to rejoice, instead of letting another person's health be the sick- ness of my soul. J. iii iijD i t irti i iritiff jBii Aj J ii^ i' l it!*^ J 230 THE POWER OF PRIDE. ^■d ■;.;..<( ■■■•^f . .- :• -f! ":.:;.,[ '^- \:;. .- •!•',::■•' <'■■■ '■;<■.: ■■ ■> - ,'^f- l^n^n ' .^!,^vtiVvi',s ':t.- ; . ,, .■ ^ ■ : ■, - ■,■.,-,■ ,,.;...;).;' : ,'t no. iv?:;« ■ ,'<^^-^\ ' ■■••' ; ' _'..'.. ', f , ^ . :{!"':-'» ( - . ■ ■ -' "■/,.■■ ■ i '• *f •'■../• "J ■■ ■; ' ■ CHAPTER L. A PEAL OF LAUGHTER SOUNDS THE RESURRECTION NOTE OF A SOUL LONG DEAD IN SIN. The peace and solitude of the convent ill assorted with the turbu- lent passions which raged in my breast. I felt as though I were in a prison, and every time I would go by myself to the top of the mound it required the strongest efibrt of my will to resist leaping over the ■wall and running back to Paris, It was my pride alone that pre- vented me ; for I had told everybody that I would remain, and I had already received the congratulations of my true friends, and the con- dolence of those who cared nothing for me. If I returned I was afraid that every one would suspect, that my weakness for Laferrifire was the real cause of my giving up the world, and I was afraid of being laughed at. I knew that my reign was forever over, if I once fell under the ban of ridicule. :, 1' l.p;: j^ r^; , ; ,, --oti'v .j ; ' I saw no alternative but to remain. . : .;;; iw;,'.' ^K; tv^ i ,: :ai J I then learned how envy, jealousy, and hate, can goad a mind on to commit the foulest crimes. At night, when all around me was as breathless as the tomb, the solitude and stillness would seem appalling, and the conjurings of my brain would make me desperate, I would imagine that, while I lay counting the long weary hours, Laferridre was chasing away the ennui, which my absence caused him, by the side of so.me coquettish debutante, and, in such moments, I felt as though 1 could have killed them both. My heart would beat so wildly, that I would almost foar the flesh from my side trying to seize it in order to quiet its throbbing. It was so full of pain and anguish thai it sometimes seemed to me that it would break. Sunday came. It was a bright, genial, autumn day. I was sur- prised that I had not heard from my friend, Mrs. Sham — and I was expecting her every moment. I passed the morning trying to devise some plan to crush her by a single word, and I was longing for her to come to give me the chance to do it ; for I was fully determined that she should go away as wretched as she had left me the Sunday before. Twelve o'clock came, and yet she had not arrived. As I impatiently nuns' laughter. 231 awaited her I tried to kill time by thinking over the past. But this day I was incapable of reflection. My bosom was so filled with fiery passions that they silenced reason ; and I was ready to commit any deed just to gratify them. My heart pained me incessantly. I could not drive the disappointment of my marriage froui my mind, and I. seemed to feel it that day keener than ever. . The convent clock struck one. A few moments afterwards, I heard the garden door slam heavily to. I was sure that my friends had arrived, and 1 rushed to the win- dow. But it was not they. It was some reHgious who had just en- tered the garden, and had come to pass their recreation there, ; I left the window disappointed, and went into my bedroom, where the sun shone brightly on the walls and floor. I looked for a second at the effects of the sun's rays as they streamed through the cedar of Lebanon, and for a moment I forgot all ; but my frenzy soon returned, and I sank back into a chair, almost powerless under the weight of so much mental agony. I remained there, suffering as I had never suffered before, until a peal of laughter from the ga/den awoke me from my re very of hate, and touched a chord in my heart which had never before vibrated. I sprang instantly to my feet, looked out the window, as another peal of laughter still merrier than the first greeted me, and saw the nuns, who had just entered the garden, and who were standing warming themselves in the sun directly under my window. There could be no deception in such laughter. I felt that it rang from their hearts, and I knew that they must be happy. I was just as much convinced that they were happy, as I was certain that I was miserable, and I cried out : " O God ! "what is there in the love of Jesus Christ, that it alone can give such joy and happiness, and can replace all things ? " f'-; ;i<,Ju;;;■i.^;Ji■ ., > . I threw a glance over my beautiful chamber, and compared it with the gloomy cells of the religious. Surrounded as I was by every hixury, I was wretched : they were happy. There was no denying it ; that peal of laughter alone spoke volumes to me of the true bliss that is hidden in *^he love of Jesus Christ. As I stood there, watch- ing them, their cheerful voices, their happy smiles, and the bright lunshine seemed to shed a halo around them, I looked up to the heavens and asked God what it meant, that 1 alone should suffer while every creature that surrounded me, and even Nature .herself seemed to rejoice ? 232 A PRAYER REPEATED. I I I ll I left the window and began pacing the room, and my eyes foil on the little book entitled " Evidences of Christianity," that Mr. Charlier had given me years before. I took it up, thinking that I might learn from it tli^: source from which the nuns drew their happiness. I opened the book at random, and read an account of the conversion of St. Paul. This miraculous conversion, the writer maintained, \va^: a sufficient evidence of the truth of Christianity. I was unable to re- fute him and thought to myself: " How well the fellow defends bin case ! " I tried to defend my own convictions against his assertions, but, being unable to do so, I grew impatient, threw the book on the table saying : " I know it is a lie." The argument was a forcible one. It had seized hold of my mind, and I could not drive it away. Again I took up the book, and again I opened it where it spoke of the conversion of St. Paul ; and I read how, from a persecutor, he became an apostle. That pleased me, and 1 knelt down and began to pray. Said I : '* Lord relieve my heart of this pain : if Thou wilt take it from my heart, I will believe that Jesus is Thy Son." 1 prayed fervently and hopefully ; but I did not obtain relief. I recommenced reading the same chapter. In a few minutes I knelt down again, and prayed more earnestly than I did before, making the same request ; but the pain did not cease. Up to this time, my thoughts were divided between the book and my friend, Mrs. Sham, whom I expected every moment. After I had prayed the second time, without obtaining relief, I took up the book and recommenced what I had abeadyread. At last I threw the book across the floor. My thought was, when I made that impetuous movement, that God must answer my prayer this time, or the whole thing was a lie, and I would never look into the book again. I knelt down the third time and implored (}od to take away the pain from my heart, and as soon as I had made this time the request, I promised Him that if He would relieve my heart I would be good. I wrestled for several moments with all the powers of my soul, and, after firmly resolving, if God would only answer my prayer, to lead henceforth an irreproachable life, I uttered a shriek, which seemed to rend me through and through, a.c I cried out : " If Jesus of Nazareth is the Son of God, and is as powerful as God, let Him remove this pain from my heart : then I will believe in Him, and will ever adore Him." As I pronounced those words, a moral light seemed to illumine THE PRAYER GRANTED. 233 my soul ; and it brought to me a conviction that Jesus Christ was God, — just the same as that peal of laughter, which had thrilled me but an hour before, told me that the nuns were happy. But this answer to my prayer was still more vivid and impressive, so much so that, for a moment, I was bewildered. As soon as I recollected my- self, and remembered what I had just been praying for, 1 rose to my feet, but instantly sank down again on my knees, and kissed the floor ; for my heart was relieved, and my bosom was filled with peace. My first reflection was that, ever since my husband had made me an Infidel, I had been deluded by a lie. I compared at once my present buoyant feelings with that light which 1 had distinctly felt go out of me the instant I consented to disbelieve, and I felt that it had just come back again. And as I stood there, trying to recall the past, and how dark everything had seemed to me since that tiuie when I ceased to ask forgiveness in the name of Jesus, I began to feel the same glow around my heart as 1 had felt in my uncle's cottage when as a child I used to read the Bible ; and which I had also felt for an instant, while 1 was praying, the night that Mr. Dayton died. All these thoughts and recollections crowded upon me quickei than I have been able to relate them. I ran out of the chateau and met the Rev'd Mother. 1 threw my arms around her and was so overcome that I could hardly speak. At last 1 said, *' Oh, good Mother, you don't know what has hap- pened to me." " Speak, my child," said she ; " I feel that you are no longer happy here, and that you are going to leave us." ' ;:• >.■'< ;h< " Never, good mother," I replied ; and I related to her all that I had suffered, and what had just happened to me in answer to my prayer. The Rev'd Mother observed : " All this, my child, is the grace of God." " What," I exclaimed, " is this the grace of God ? If this is the grace of God, 1 want more of it. Tell me, good mother, how I shall get it." *' Pray, my child, always pray as earnestly as you did then, and God will not fa'! to grant you all the grace you need." " Oh, if it only requires prayer, good mother, I am willing to pray all the time." I was so afraid that the ]min around my. heart would come back again, that I instantly left the Rev'd Mother, and entered the chA.teau and recommenced praying. But my heart and mind remained as calm and as peaceful, as though the storms of passion had never swept over them. d j T 234 PRAYER, WITH A "DISTRACTION." In the evening, I wrote to Laferridre. I did not explain to him the great change which had taken place in me : I merely told him that I had forgiven Mrs. Sham, and that he would please me by doing any- thing he could to oblige her.^ , , • > .> • .■ I :U \ I ;■,:. CHAPTER LI. "diamond cut diamond." I FOLLOWED the Rev. Mother's advice, and prayed continually. Whenever I felt a sentiment of envy, jealousy, or hate, I would instantly resort to prayer, and continue to pray until I felt that love and charity had taken their place. Prayer became to me like an invin- cible instrument of defence against any evil passion that rose in my breast. I would resort to it, just as a man seizes hold of a weapon to defend himself from a blow. The aching pain around my heart returned ; but, by pra)'er, I could assuage it. Whenever I thought of Laferri^re, 1 felt it acutely. I was always trying to drive him from my mind : but his image con- stantly intruded itself upon me. Even in my prayers, he would come up before me like a by gone sorrow, or a future hope. My first appeal to God usually was : '* Lord, take the memory of him from my heart." I soon discovered that my success di(' ^ot depend on the length of my prayer, nor on my words or my t ' depended more on a secret movement in the interior of my he which was produced from my faith in God and by an act of my owi > ill ; and I have some- times felt that my prayer was answered before I knelt down — but this was rare ; for the effort it requires on the part of the will, to i^roduci this effect in the inverior portion of the heart, is almost a superhuman oi>e, and it requires the strongest opposition to our own natural in- clination ; and even then we can do nothing unless assisted by di- vine grace ; which I was not aware of then ; for I supposed I did it all myself by the force of my own will. From the day I had experienced my change of heart, I had been hourly expecting a call from Mrs. S/iam ; but she never came. I feared that she was angry with me : so I decided to call on her. A WIFE'S PHILOSOPHY. 235 I fo\ind her by herself, and low-spirited, and my presence alone seemed to put her in a worse humor. I remarked at once her de jected mien, and told her that I was not prepared to be met with i frown, for 1 expected to find her happy. "Happy!" she exclaimed, ^'' quand jc niennuiel Ah ! que je riennuie! Happy! when I am wearied to death!" "What?" said I, " it is hardly fair that you should suffer with eiinuie during the honeymoon. There will be time enough for that during the other moons, — what is the name the French have for them ? — les limes d' absinthe {i\\Q wormwood moons). 1 suppose _j'<7« do not believe in them, as they have not risen for you yet." " Hush," she replied, " this nonsense. Wiiy have you prevented Laferriere sending me boxes? Ah, que je tn' ennuie / " "Upon my honor," said I, " I even implored LaferriSre to do so ; but he will not. You talk about being wearied? Why, I actually thought that you were in love with your husband." " In love with him ! " she exclaimed : "do you take me for a big ger fool than yourself, to fall in love with any man. I would like to know how you would expect me to manage him if I did." " Well," said I, "I was sure that you were in love with him; how you looked at each other, and how you dallied with him when you were on the rug before the fire in my room." " O mon Dieu !" said she, "that was all //// on." " What," I exclaimed " do you mean to say that that was all a farce ? " She burst out laugliing, and I laughed too as I thought to myself, " The rogue, the rogue, how she fooled me ! and how I hurt my hand for nothing." . -' "< " Why," she asked, "did you suppose that I could ever fall in love with such an old man ? Now you know how it is yourself: these old fellows are sensitivissimi. If you don't happen to respond to all their* tenderness, they inlagine at once that you are tired of them, and then you'll have a pretty time, if they once get that into their heads t for they are sure to cage you up like a bird." , "Why," said I, "I did not suppose that your husband was much^i plder than yourself: he doesn't look so." *" " Well," she replied, " without wishing to tell you my age (yet I don't ".are what age you take me for), I will tell you in confidence : he is more than twenty years older than I am." Said I : " The old deceiver ! Does he dye ? " " All," said she, with a sigh, " he will neve i die ! but 236 MARRIED BLISS. i 1 1 i i you hold your tongue, and don't ask me any questions. I nianaj^e hiui just as you do Laferridre. But how you fooled me ! I used to think you were dead in love with him. 1 can now understand how you can injniure yourscll", for I feel sometimes like doing it myself I get so tired of hearing his insipid endearments ; and I am wear) to death of his attentions and caresses : A/i, qtieje tn'ennuie /^' ** I should think so," said I, " if that is the way you pass your time ; for toujours du plaisir iC est point dii plaisir, (Pleasure all the time is no pleasure.) But when are you coming up to see me ?" She did not reply, and I repeated my question, and, as she hesitated, 1 said to her : ** I don't suppose I shall see you any more, now that I cannot prevail on Laferri^re to patronize you." " Ah," she quickly replied, ^Uhat is not it." "So," said 1, " then there is a reason ?" She did not deny it, and I urged her until she intimated that her husband was displeased with me, and had refused to drive her out to see me. She then began to scold me. Said she : "Why did you go on that way before him, and show out just what you are ? You might have known the effect it would have upon him. That is the way you create so much opposition ; you are always throwing yourself open to criticism. You cannot imagine the bad impression you made on him." " Then," said I, " I suppose he is afraid to have you associate with me, for fear I might corrupt your morals ? " She seriously as- sented by a nod of the head. This provoked me to a fit of laughter, which made her look into my face inquiringly, to know what 1 could find to laugh at. Her husband made his appearance, and she instantly resumed her mask — by showering upon him epithets of endearment, and treating me with a cold, haughty reserve. I thought that the comedy had now reached a pitch where my part was the most disagreeable one to play : so I took leave, without either of them inviting me to call again. Since that day 1 have been slower in envying other people's happiness. A MISSIONARY BISHOP. 237 .. , CHAPTER Lir. , ,. , A MAN OF GOD. — THE AUTHOR OF SPUilTUALISM. During my residence at St. Mand6 I was accustomed to attend Mass regularly every Sunday. Although I had no faith in the doc- trine of the Real Presence, yet the solemn grandeur of the ceremonial and the happiness and peace of mind, plainly visible on the coun- tenances of the nuns, produced an im[)ression on my mind, and be- got in it feelings of reverence and hope and a hitherto unknown confidence in the goodness of God. One Sunday Mass was celebrated by a strange ])riest. He was a tall old man, who looked worn out with age and hard labor. The expression of his face inspired veneration, while his whole attitude bespoke the most perfect humility. After Mass Madam Xavier and 1 took a stroll in the park of Vin- cennes. On entering the convent garden, which joined on the park, we met the Lady Superior, who introduced me to Bishop Semeria, the venerable celebrant of the morning Mass. He was an Italian, who had resided for many years in the Indies as a missionary. He was the Bishop of Olympia, Vicar Apostolic- of Jaffna in Ceylon, and was a member of the Society of Oblate Fathers. After the Rev. Superior introduced us, we exchanged a few words and then parted, never expecting to see each other again. The next morning, I told the Rev. Mother that I would like to talk on religion with Monseigneur. She consented reluctantly, as she told me she was sure that, in all his travels, the Bishop had never met with such a character as I was. She was certain that neither of us would be gratified. "You remarked," she said, "his humble bear- ing ; but you did not perceive those piercing eyes, so deeply hidden in their sockets.* " Excuse me," said I, " I did notice them i)er- fectly, and I am not afraid of them. I am in search of truth, and I know very well that a man with such a bearing, and with two such eyes in his head, is neither a fool nor a hypocrite. I want some one strong enough to master me. I cannot talk to the nuns; for I think it would be wrong to repel their instructions by using npy infidel bat- \eries. But that man can defend himself, which I am not so sure kis 238 A GOOD LISTENER. ' that any one of your religious could, if I set myself zealously to work to attack them. The truth is, I want to be convinced, but 1 don't think it is possible to convince me ; and I cannot be convinced with out telling my reasons for disbelieving, which I will not tell you oi any of th<; religious." " I respect you the more for it," she answ;red ; " for, although we all heiievc ourselves invulnerable and inaccessible to a doubt, I would not like the religious, nor would I wish mys(^lf to hear the pernicious teachings of infidels, the sworn enemies of out Lord. You are right, my child, never to let us hear them ; for like l)oisoned arrows they are dangerous even to play with. -, ' . '• f.;,. " I will make known your wishes to Monseigneur Semeri.i. If he will consent to give you religious instructions, you must consider it a very great favor, because his health is feeble, and his mind and body require repose." The following day the Superior brought the Bishop to the chateau. The moment he entered the room 1 felt the ascendency of a lofty and cultivated intellect, tempered by an humble but impassioned soul. His manners were grave but perfectly simple, divested alike of familiarity or reserve. We had hardly sat down and opened the conversation, before I be- came embarrassed ; for he was a goo{/ liste7ier, the first one I had met on the continent. His silence at last became so provokingly annoy- ing, that I sto))ped suddenly short and begged him to speak. " No," s^id he very gently : " I have come here to try to convert you, you are not going to convert me." " But, inon Dieu / Monseigneur," I ex- claimed, " how do you expect to convert me, unless you speak to me?" "Gently, gently, my child," he replied, "before I try to sow any seed, I want you to jiermit me to examine the soil." He begged me to continue. I said that I would give worlds to believe that the Roman Catholic religion was true, but I kncAv that I never could be- lieve it, because it was so contrary to reason and common sense. "Please," said he, "tell me what you know about the CathoHc re- ligion." Said I, " I know nothing in its favor; but I know everything against it." " You are like the majority of mankind," he replied. I then quoted passages from Voltaire and Rousseau, and, to my surprise, he did not attempt to refute them. I tried to draw him into an argument ; but he persistently avoided it. After 1 had dwelt on the writings of Voltaire, and the sayings of Jean Jac(jues, he cast upon me a very significant glance, and mildly asked me how I admired the MY IDOLS UPSET. 239 Jiiy lito Ion [on Ihe lives of these two men, and if I were a man, would I like to live and die as they had Uved and died, and as a woman, if I would like to have had Voltaire for my husband, or Rousseau for my fixther. I retlcctcd for a moment, when my admiration for my two favorite philosophers was instantly changed into horror, and I wondered that the facts had never struck me before. " Monseigneur," I exclaimed, " don't let us speak of them any more ; for I am one of the most jealous women on the face of the earth, and Voltaire would havo driven me mad. Why, he used to change his lady loves as often as he did his religion.' The Hishop was unprepared for this outburst, and, in si)ite of his gravity, he smiled, " Rousseau," said I, " the heartless monster ! the brute ! Why he put his five children into the Foundling Asylum as soon as they were bom, and that v/as the last he ever heard of them." This fact, for the first time, struck a sensitive chord in my heart, and I buried my face in my hands to conceal my emotions, as I thought of all that I had sutfored for having been called an illegitimate child. I thought of the miserable existence of these five innocent beings, born under the ban of society, and under the dis- grace which is naturally attached to the violation of her laws, re- maining all their lives with the stigma of such an origin, wandering and proscribed, to languish in humiliation and vice. Said 1 : " I hate Rousseau this moment more than you can ever know." "If you can hate both these men, then you have sutfered." ' ''''■^•* ^^ Suffered / " I repeated after him: "I have been bred upon suffering. I have hardly ever known anything else ; and this moment I would sooner die, than to have such a husband as Voltaire or such a father as Rousseau." " You are right," said the Bishop : " It is just as impossible for a bad tree to i)roduce good fruit, as it is for a bad man to write good works. These two writers are the most to be dieaded and feared, because they are witty and subtle. Their style ia brilliant and fascinating, and without the assistance of supernatural light, they would seduce the saints themselves ; but it has only been the proud that their works have ever corrui)ted, for God always has a watchful eye over the humble, and he will not, permit them to be led astray. There is Fenelon, why have you not read his works ? " " Oh ! " said I, " I know them by heart, and I love F6nelon ; but I have often wondered how such an intelligent man could have been a Catholic." " It was just because he was intelligent," said the Bishoj), "and his intellect was guided by profound wisdom, that he wjtg ■sfORnmsBVI 240 A SHORT BIOGRAPHY OF SATAN. one." I then asked him how was it possible to disbelieve Renan ? "The only time," said I, "I ever wept over the sufferings of Jesus was when 1 read Kenan's life of Him." "Renan," said he, "has made a simple mockery of Christ, for sensitive women to weep over. Jt requires very little intelligence to see how this pantheistic novel- ist, by his sentimental phrases, ridicules Christ and everybody else. But," he asked, " who taught you to understand the passion of Christ ? " "I tried to teach myself," said I, " and I never was moved half so nnich by reading the Testament as I was by reading Renan." " Well," he replied, " if you had no one to teach you, it is no wonder that you did not understand it, and were not moved by it. If I re- main in Paris long enough I will devote a whole day to reading it and exi)laining it to you, that you may at least understand thoroughly that most important part in the plan of man's redemption. You must n(»t expect me to be as sentimental as Monsieur Renan. " If I teach you the passion of Christ, I shall teach it to you accord- ing to the Catholic Church, as all her children are taught to under- stand the arrest, the trial, and the crucifixion of their Saviour." " But,'' said I, " there is another evidence against your church. I have k ;n the spirits themselves to declare that Catholicity is a lie. I believe in spiritualism ; for I have seen it tested, and I know it to be a fact that some invisible and intelligent agency communicates with the visible world." Said he: "That is the devil." "Oh," said I, " I know very well that you Catholics try to put the thing down by calling it the devil ; but I don't believe that it is the devil." "Well," said he, "I know that it is the devil, for I caught him at it myself." " What," said 1, " such a man as you have anything to do with spiritualism ? " " Why not," he answered, " as well as any one else ? " " liecause," said I, " I have very seldom met serious-minded men at these circles." " Well," said he, " I have ; but I never saw a well-balanced mind whose convictions were shaken by them. I have given spiritualism a fair test, and I pronounce it nothing moie or less than the machinations of the devil." After a pause he con- tinued : "You have read the Life of Jesus, by Renan ; did you ever read the life of Satan, by Jesus ? " " No," I answered, and I looked at him to see if he was serious. " Well," said he, " I have. It is very short, and is summed up in very few words; for Jesus said that the devil was a liar, and the father of lies. Now, tell me, do you believe our Lord spoke the truth when He called the devil a liar ? " THE BISHOP ON SPIRltUALlSM. 241 " Ah," said I, " everybody knows that the devil was a liar from the beginning." "Yes," continued the Bishop: "he was not only a liar from the beginning, but he is now, and ever will be. Knowing the character of the devil so well, I discovered that spiritualism was one of his powerful agencies in this century. He has tried it before. Read Josephus ; (and I think he told me that there were passages in the Bible that referred to these manifestations). He has tried it in different ages ; but he never succeeded so well as he has in the nine- teenth century, for the reason that the morality of the masses has never reached a lower ebb. Satan always triumphs on the ruins of morals. I attended frequent seances, and I discovered that the spirits would make predictions that never came true ; that what one circle would affirm another circle would contradict ; that they inculcated the disso- lubility of the marriage vow, free love, suicide, repudiated every tie, both social and divine, and attacked the very fundamental principles of every well-regulated society. They called our Lord a liar, for they deny His divinity, and they denounce His church. Setting aside our Lord and His church, I found that they lied about trivial things ; therefore how can they be relied upon and believed in preference to our Ivord Jesus Christ ? " There can be no doubt that spiritualistic manifestations are the work of some supernatural agency. Now the only supernatural intel- ligences which can understand or reply to questions are God and His angels, and Lucifer and his imps of hell. I wfll not insult your intelligence by supposing for a moment, tliat an infinitely wise and good God would hold himself at the beck and bidding of every me- dium, or permit His angels to reveal to them the secrets of the past or the ni) steries of the future. The only supernatural intelligence then which can be ])resent at seances and make dupes of the pro- selytes of spiritualism is the devil or sotne of his demoniac fellows.. The spirits who commune with spiritualists can never tell the truth except to serve some bad end. " Spiritualism allures men's souls to destruction, by first flattering their sensuality and giving free scope to their passions and appetites. At times it assumes the garb of Itiorality. By occasionally retailing out righteous truths and sentimental sayings, it leads numberless souls astray. The devil first gains men's confidence, the same as he did mother Eve's, and then their fall is easy, almost certain. How can you, an apj^arenlly intelligent woman, risk the salvation of your soul, ir '>' fi f ^' 242 SPIRITISM AND THE CHURCH. » by pinning your f^iith to any revelation coming from a source which teaches disunion, discord, disobedience to God's laws, which is in con- stant contradiction with itself, never to be relied upon, which has never produced any good result, but whose adherents become morally and physically enervated and depraved ? Yet how many there are, besides yourself, who would sooner go to seek truth and light in such a maze of contradictions, than in Christ's church, where alone can be found that universal faith, which is all truth, all life, all light, all union ! This church was given to us by God, and He did not give it to us to deceive us. Its divine Founder gave it a doctrine which gathers together in one common fold, and in a most admirable union, all souls and hearts, who adhere to its creed, adapted, as it is> to all ages, all peoples, and all degrees of civilization. Yet how many thou- sands of souls there are besides yourself, who close their ear to its teach- ings, while they nre willing to listen with attention to every vain sophis- try concocted by Satan and his followers. CHAPTER Lin. i 1 MORAL INDEPENDENCE, — PRACTICAL ATHEISM. I TOLD the Bishop what had occurred on the day I had promised God that I would believe that Christ was His Son, if he would take away the pain from my heart, the extraordinary light which I had received, and how changed I was ; for I went at once and confessed to the Rev. Mother faults which my pride would not have permitted me to mention a few moments before. "The grace of God," he remarked, "makes us humble ; it is only our own nature and the devil which puffs us up with pride. God granted you an extraordinary grace, my child, and believe me that (jod alone will be your Master ; for your mind is so warped, and so distorted by bad associations and bad literature, that God alone will ever be able to straighten it. It would take a skilful psychologist at least ten years to undo your bad education ; and I have not the time, for I must attend to the duties which brought me here." " But," said I, "you will teach me something, will you not, before you go?" "I can teach you," he observed, "but I never could convince you NO MORALITY WITHOUT GOD. 243 of anything, unles!5 God Himself would come and verify it for me, as He did when He gave you that extraordinary light." Said I : ** I never could believe that it was necessary for a person to profess any religion in order to be saved. I believe in moral in- dependence, and that if a man lives up to the dictates of his con- science, he is just as pleasing tb God as those, who are always going to church." "Moral independence, my child," replied the Bishop, *• is nothing more or less than practical atheism." Said I : " 1 beg your Lordship's pardon, but that is not true ; for one can be morally independent, and yet believe in God." "No," said the Bishop, ** those who call themselves moral independents make use of God's name, but they discard God entirely ; for they chase Him from their hearts, they try to drive Him from their consciences, and they would exclude Him from everything and put themselvec in His place, if they could. What else is it but renouncing God to declare morality independent of Him ? For by separating morality from God, we separate it from its root, which is God. If there is a God, He is our Creator, and if He is our Creator, He is our Supreme Legis- lator, and if He is our Supreme Legislator, He is our Supreme Judge : God is that, or He is nothing at all. *' After you have done right, where do you find your sanction, and where do you seek for satisfaction ? " Said I : " I seek it, and I find it, in my self-respect." " Therefore, you make your own self your judge and your God. I am not surprised, for in doing so, you re but practising the teachings of one of your favorite masters, Mons. Renan, who, after denying the Divine Son — was soon obliged to pet aside God the Father ; for he says that he does not believe that there is in the universe a superior intelligence to man. But one of his collaborators, who was not quite as far advanced as himself, was slightly scandalized by such an assertion, and he answered him, ' My dear friend, we ought to call things by their name. If there is no being in the universe superior to man, there is no God, — I mean there is no other God besides man.' There is just where your moral independent system leads to, and I now repeat that no one can be morally independent without being a practical atheist." Said I : " I nave met many men who did not profess any religion, and I have found them more honorable and virtuous than I have half of the men I know who were canting scripture to me from morning until night." ** Well," said he, '* when yon meet any more of these upright nieii, 244 MORAL OBLIGATION. f without Faith, and without Hope, say to yourself that these men are better than their principles ; and when you meet bad men who pro- fess to be Christians, believe me that their principles are better than they are. Christ commanded us to profess His Holy Name, and what Christ commanded us to do is what God commands us. The Christian religion is not a mere matter of opinion. Religion commands ; it obliges man ; and that man who recognizes no higher law than that which he finds within himself, what guarantee have you that, when he is tempted, he will not fall ? Remember, I am com- paring the moral practical atheist with the practical Christian." Said I : "I would trust one as far as I would the other;" , .< ./ . " I would not," answered the Bishop, " and my long experience has often proved to me that I am fight ; for the Christian carries within his soul a law which God has placed there, and he recognizes its author, and does not pretend that that law is independent of God. The moral independent, on the contrary, who recognizes no higher law than his own sense of right and wrong, and seeks no higher satis- faction than his own self-respect, what has he to protect him against the two great enemies of all morality^ our interests and our passions ? Do you suppose that the voice of duty, which becomes so cold and cheerless when it separates itself from God, is going to have sufficient control over him to make him resist the alluring voice of interest and passion? No, my child, that control cannot be maintained, unless there is over man, over his interests and his passions, an authority which commands the sacrifice. But let me explain to you the con- sequences of the system you propose to follow, that each man shall create his own moral law, and be his own judge. All distinction then between good and evil would cease ; for morality would become as variable as the character of each individual. We would soon see the criminals when brought to Justice, making their defence by defining their own sense of right and wrong, and trying to convert the judges to their code of morality. The criminal would have just as much right to honorably discharge himself as the judge would have to con demn him. We must nqt arrogate to ourselves what we will not per- mit in others. Morality founded on such a system, having no centre of unity, would degenerate into an infinity of divisions, discords, and implacable hates. God intends all of us to be subjected to one law, tvhich is immutable and absolute, and that law can only be found, in its perfection and completeness, in the doctrines of the Catholic Church/ ROME— DEMOCRACY. 24S ;■. I ' >. I :-;■.', ' •■> CHAPTER LIV. THE VAGARIES OF SCIENTISTS. — THE WISDOM OF RELIGION, The next day, when the Bishop came, I told him that some of my countrymen, who had just returned from Rome, had called on me that morning, and had decried the very thought of believing that the Catholic Church was the only true church. They told me that I ought to go to Rome and see for myself, for " Chi non vede non crede, e chi vede perde la fede." (Who sees not, believes not, and whoever sees loses his faith.) " I have read Josephus's history of Jerusalem," said the Bishop, " and I have passed a greater part of my life in Rome, and I do not believe that Rome ever approximated to Jerusalem in corruption, dis- cord, and filth ; nor do I believe that the condition of Rome could ever be compared to the infamous practices, wanton crimes, and social depravity of the Jews during the reign of the Herods. Yet what did Jerusalem contain? The only Temple of the living God." " But," said I, " the spirit of your church, and the spirit of the American people are directly antipodal. You know that the lower classes in my country are more enlightened than they are here, and they would not brook the restraint which the church imposes upon the minds of her adherents. Our American motto is 'Excelsior' and freedom ! They look upon the spirit of the church as oppressive and opposed to democracy." " That entirely depends," said the Bishop, " upon the definition the American people give to the word democracy. If the Americans define democracy to be those principles which tend to improve the conditions of the lower classes, by aiding them to develop their moral being and assisting them to use legitimah influence in politics, the church is not opposed to democracy. In this sense the church haft always been, and always will be, the firm advocate and supporter of democracy. But if the American people define democracy to be the tyranny of an ignorant, impious, blood-thirsty mob, who boldly pro- cliim the abolition of religion, and of all civil authority, except that 246 FREEDOM AND LICENSE. I . which is constituted by themselves ; who belie /e that the proprielor is a thief, and the servant is the lord ; who congregate by stealth in hid- den corners, to concoct plans for the destruction and total extinction of all legitimate rules; — if that is the kind of democracy they mean, they are right : the church has always made war upon it, and always will ; but that is the only kind of democracy to which the church has ever been opposed. And as for your mottoes, excelsior and free- dom, the church has always had them for hers since she was created. But our excelsior means divine progress, onward, upward, and ^o God ; we have freedom too, but not license. That which half of man- kind calls freedom and liberty, is nothing more than license. They think they are free, when they falsify and stretch their consciences, and when they do a thousand acts which religion condemns ; and they think themselves enslaved when they are forced to do their duty. But the contrary is precisely the truth." "Yes," said 1; "but the church has its own despotism, of course a little more refined than the democratic tyranny you have just described. It dictates to the colleges and universities what science, what phi- losophy, and what literature shall be taught : it even prohibits the laity from making a candid investigat'on into the researches of modern science, philosophy, and literature; and how then is any one to know whether the old system of things is right and the new one is wrong, unless he compares for himself the one with the other?" " It is in view of the present and future happiness of her children," answered the Bishop, " that we look after their mental and moral training, and in doing so, we are actuated by the same feelings that prompts a fond parent to watch over his child. Our enemies may call it tyranny, despotism, what they like. We cannot prevent their calumniating us, any more than they can prevent us condemn- ing and ostracizing all systems of science that turn against their author, and all morality which separates itself from its root, which is God. " The Catholic Church has always honored and encouraged those sciences, which ravish from nature her secrets, in order to ameliorate and perfect the conditions of material and civil life, as well as those moral sciences which demonstrate that true happiness and prosperity, in order to be real, to be lasting, must be based on correct principles, acknowledging God for their author and their aim. The church has FALSE SCIENCE. 247 always rendered homage to those sciences, for she has always found them in harmony with revealed truth. But she will never willingly look on and suffer her children to polkite their minds by the so-called * sciences ' and pliilosophy of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, whose result is to extinguish the light of true faith in the minds of the people, by their atheistic and materialistic suppositions, and whose propagandists call it progress, when, after laborious researches, they discover man, who was made after the image of his Creator, to be nothing more or less than a mere animal, a perfected monkey, with- out a soul, there being no immaterial substance distinct from the body, since the soul is a mere function of his nervous system. ** The church condemns the science which teaches the rising yoiith to adore man and not God ; which maintains that the only distinction between right and wrong is that which 6very man chooses to define for himself; which declares that the time has come to finish with those anarchical and retrogressive ideas introduced by Christianity, as religious ideas, no matter in what shape they are produced, are permanent causes of family divisions and disorders in the State ; which says that a human being is but an aggregate of fibres and pores, secreting and absorbing ; that the will is a necessary expression of the state of the brain produced by exterior influences ; that there is no free will ; that an idea is the production of a combination analogous to that of formic acid ; that thought depends on the phosphorus con- tained in the cerebral substance ; that virtue, devotion, and courage are but the currents of organic electricity ; and that the substance of conscience is matter. " The men of this science," continued the Bishop, " define con-. science to be a piece of mechanism very simple in its kind ; and, by analysis, they have discovered it to be a sort of mainsprmg of the nervous system, which they, no doubt, suppose can be wound up by an impression, and left to run down of itself, like the mainspring of a; well-regulated piece of machinery, as a clock or a watch. In perfect keeping with this theory is the assertion, that what we call the sotilis but a combination of animal functions ; and they have faither proved — to themselves — that virtue and vice are mere productions, like sugar and vitriol, or like positive and negative electricity. And what do they proclaim to be the honorable aim of all their laborious researches ? That they wish to • liberate the human mind from HYPOTHESES AND SUPERSTITIONS,' such as the belief in a God, and 248 GOD liKSl CAUhb. in a soul ; for they look upon the belief in God as tyranny upon free thought^ and no sh'ght impediment to the movement of that 'mainspring/ conscience. "These pseudo-piiilosophers and their deUided followers call the church despotic, tyrannical, and anti-progressive, when her clergy exclaim, ' May God deliver the rising and future generations from such sciences, such dogmas, and such philosophy ! ' We are willing, indeed, to suffer anything sooner than to fall back into such moral and intellectual barbarism." " They declare," said I, " that one reason which makes the church prevent the people from investigating for themselves is, that modern science has proved the fallacy of miracles." " Yes," answered the Bishop, " these harlequins of science deny a first cause, because there is a second cause. If we say that God has sent a plague or inundated a city, to punish the sins of the people, to try to bring them to repentance, or to test the faith and virtue of the righteous, they laugh at us ; because they cannot see beyond a second cause. They will demonstrate how and why a city was destroyed by an earthquake, by proving to you that it was unavoidable : they will show you that the cholera is a microscopic insect producing a miasma in the air, and that the wind blew it to us from Asia ; that the city was flooded by too much rain, caused by an excess of vapor, which rose from the surface of the water, and afterwards condensed into clouds ; and they will go on explaining by natural laws everything that happens in the universe, and they declare that science would be at an end, if God had power to do anything which could not be de- monstrated to be the effect of natural causes. But has not the action of God something to do with the laws of natural science ? Do not these laws derive their force from God ? Are they not the mere ex- pressions of the divine will ? We, Catholics, ask these gentlemen, ^Vho made the insects ? who caused the earthquake ? who created the natural laws which govern the wind, the thunder, and the clouds ? These modern discoverers are not willing to admit that God has the power to do what man can do himself; for man, assisted by his know- ledge of m 3chanics and chemistry, is constantly acting upon the laws if nature. He does not change them though, any more than I do the law of attraction, when I raise a stone from the ground. The law subsists the same as it did befi// ; therefore the motive, the intent to do wrong, the man is responsible for. God judges us by our mo- tives and intentions, never by our actions : it is by our motives and intentions that we are condemned or justified." . " That may be well enough," said I, " to apply to the man who has the evil intent ; but what satisfaction is it for the man who re- ceives the blow ? " Said he : " Every man has the right of self-defence ; but only a justifiable self-defence ; for he has no right to commit a sin in order to save his life. If he is a Christian, he will defend him- self like a Christian, and, if he is overpowered, he will submit in silent resignation to the will of God." "But," said I, "why should God permit the wicked to ovefjjower and scourge the righteous ? " " God sometimes makes use of the wicked to chasten the just, in the same way as a father takes a rod and beats his son, but afterwards he breaks the rod and throws it into the fire. So God does with the wicked ; when they have served His purposes, in chastening the righteous. He casts them into hell. An evil man may injure you, and that injury ma)' give you an opportunity of acquiring great merits before God, by accepting it with resignation, knowing that it could not ha»e happened to you without His permission; by bearing it with patience, forgiving the one who injured you, — nay, more, return- ing good for evil, even loving the action that stung you, as it has been the cause of giving you an opportunity of acquiring so much merit before God ; and by praying God to forgive the man who com- mitted the sin, fAe evil intent, which was the cause of the action, and loving the man because, like yourself, he is one of God's creatures. Therefore the man has not really harmed you, the injury has proved a blessing ; and so it is with everything that happens to us that the world calls misfortune. If we could penetrate into the secret motives of God's divine Providence, we would see that whatever happens to us is always for our good. We have but one thing to dread or to fear, and that is sin ; it and it alone can injure us." "Now I understand," said I, "the true meaning of Christian charity. The word always seemed like a mockery to me before, I have seen so much wickedness done in its name. I now understand where the religious get their peace, their patience, and their resigna- tion." "Yes," said the Bishop, "they enjoy true peace; for they know that nothing can happen to them, unless by the permission of Jhe holy will of God. But oftentimes God interferes, and will not \ THE SANCTION OF LAW. 251 permit the wicked to strike the righteous. We have thousands and tens of thousands of proofs in cases where the righteous and just man has been shielded from the evil designs of the wicked ; but that is • what the modern scientists say God has not the power to do. They deny that God has anything to do with the universe, leaving it to be controlled and governed exclusively by natural laws. But we say that God does protect those who love and fear Him, and when H chasteneth the righteous man, he knows that it is for his good, and * kisses the rod that strikes him. Job is our great model, and shows us how God tries those He loves in the furnace of affliction." "Yes," said I, "but Job had a good time at last: he was well re- warded for all he suffered, for he received tenfold more than he lost. But how many Jobs there are who die in their sores, without even a winding-sheet to wrap around them ! " "My child," said the Bishop, "virtue and faith would lose their merit, if they were always sure to receive an earthly recompense. God has never made prosperity in this world depend on the practice of supernatural virtue. Christ would not have taught us to believe that the righteous should be rewarded after death and the wicked doomed to everlasting punishment, if punishments and recompenses were to be meted out to each one in this life, in proportion to their merits or demerits. Such a view of the case would be unworthy of man's spiritual and immortal nature, and, consequently, unworthy of religion and of God; for it would reduce religion to mere worldly prudence, and the atheists and the materialists would be so far right. " We are enjoined to have faith ; and what is faith but the founda- tion of that full confidence in God which receives everything that comes from His Almighty hand with filial gratitude, whether it be joy or sorrow, knowing that God is our P'ather, and that no father is more of a father than God. Why are we enjoined to hope, unless it is for that future reward, which we are to receive from Him, as the recompense of our faith and perseverance in virtue ? Why, too, are we enjoined to have charity, unless it is that, without it, we can have *no part' in God, it being the fulfilment and end of all things? If a man holds a pistol to your breast, and tells you he will kill you unless you reveal to him your neighbor's faults, and you prefer death rather than to sin against charity, you die, but you triumph over sin and you triumph over death. But God is sure to overtake you both. He will overtake the sinner in His justice and the righteous in His goodness. i 252 JUSTICE AND MERCY. " No one ever yet has escaped the goodness or the justice of God, although we often doubt them both when we see the prolonged pros- perity of the wicked, and the continual oppression of the just. But because CJod is patient, we should not complain. God can bo jjatient, He can wait, because He is eternal." "But," said I, "if you tell the world that everything happens by the permission of God's will, it will ask you why you rush to the rescue and the relief of the afflicted, when calamities and misfortunes overtake them ; it will tell you that your conduct is a contradic- tion to your teaching ; for is it not thwarting God's designs when you interfere, if He sends those calamities to punisli the crimes of the wicked, or to give the righteous an opportunity of acquiring virtue." r ' *' My child," said the Bishop, '' when God imprinted on our minds a true knowledge of His justice. He told us not to forget His goodness; for we often can appease the one by imitating the other, and the affliction that may be sent by God to scourge the sinner, may also be intended to give the good an opportunity of sanctifying them- selves by acts of charity, and winning the soul of the sinner. Those who are filled with such charity, recoil not from assisting such as are afflicted or in distress, though it be at the risk of their lives, but never at the risk of losing their souls, for sin is so hateful to God, that no act of virtue is sutficient to atone for it ; and although He is always ready to pardon us when we repent, yet we have no right to presume on His mercy, any more than we have a right to despair of it. •'•^' " It is the Christian's duty to implore God's mercy for those who are in sin, even when he knows that the hand of God is striking them. Do you think that a father would be displeased with his son, if he came to him and implored forgiveness for the one he was punishing because he had disobeyed him?" I told the Bishop that I could not believe that God was the cause of all things, for I believed that many things happened by chance. I'or example, if I met a maniac, who struck me a btow, which never would have happened had I gone another way. " Believe me," he answeied, " tliat God ordains everything but sin. Why He allows the effects of sin is one of the mysteries of Divine Providence. But all things work together for good, for them that love God. For example, the master of a household sends one of his servants to a certain place : the next day he despatches another messenger to the same place ; the THE MYSTKRY OF SUFFERING. 253 two messengers meet by chance ; but it was not chance, for their master had designed it for their mutual good. So it is with every- thing that happens to us. God sent you here ; and He brought nie here to try to instruct you, — and believe me, my child, it is only by being convinced of this great truth, that our hearts can ever be fiUciJ with Christian charity for our neighbor. "We must believe that God never permits anything to happen un- less it is for our good, or we can never be true Christians ; for if God makes use of another man's evil motives to try your faith, or to pun- ish you for your sins, you must not hate that man, since, were it not for your good, God would have warded otf his blows. One of the saints says to those who get angry at their neighbor when he has injured them, that they are like a dog at whom a man throws a stonq : he leaves the man to run and bite the stone. It is just 50 with us when God sends us mortiftcations that we may expiate our oins ; we try to revenge ourselves upon our neighbor, when it is the hand of God which sends them to us. The only thing we should hate in that njan, is the bad motive which prompted the action, and we should only hate that evil, because it is displeasing to God, and not because it brings tribulations on us ; for the evil effects of sin could not reach us, without God's permission. It was this mystery of suffering, in which word I will condense all our woes, that baf- fled the genius of the pagan philosophers to solve ; nor could it be solved by that imperfect light, which nature alone diffused in our minds : it was necessary for God Himself to come and reveal the ex- planation of it to us ; for until the coming of Christ, the human mind had never been able to penetrate its true meaning. It was Jesus Christ who came and gave to suffering its signification. This is a great part of what we mean, when we say that Christ was the tnie light that came into the world to illumine men's minds; for the human mind was still in darkness, until the comi ig of Christ. It had never been able to solve the greatest c>f all mysteri«'s, sufifering. But Jesus Christ gave to suffering a real cause, a true sjnse, and a reason , and He not only explained it, but He gave to it a sublime dignity, by surrounding it with a halo of celestial light, that man might rejoice amidst trials, infirmities, persecutions, and calamities. What spectacle is more worthy of the attention of God than that of a man struggling with misfortune? What heroism, what courage, and what force can be compared to those which a soul acquires from the 254 A REBELLIOUS MONK. graces it receives by a steadfast faith, a firm hope, and a fervent' charity ? These become so many chains which Hnk that soul to God. It is then that we can exclaim : Behold the supernatural man 1 And such a man really is supernatural ; for when he has conquered himself, it is no longer he who combats, but it is God within him." CHAPTER LV. N THE MOTHER OF CIVILIZATION. I ASKED the Bishop why is it that the clergy are not all supernatu* ral men, when they are so well instructed ; " For they must know," I said, " as well as you, what you have just taught me ; and you will not pretend that they are all as good as yourself? " *' I am the most unworthy servant among them all," said the Bishop. I begged to differ with him, and told him that I had read the history of the Reformation, and I believed that the church had bad men among the clergy. " Yes," replied the Bishop, *' we will admit that ; but we also know that Martin Luther was among the worst of that class." " Why," said I, " he kft the church on account of tlie abuses that had crept into it." "But," said the Bishop, "that is t"he last thing he should have done, — to abandon her, and make war upon her in her distress. It was his duty, as a Christian, to remain and aid his brethren in religion to reform these abuses which he complained of, instead of becoming a rebellious monk, and pretending to reform the church ; for the church never needed reforming in doctrine. " The church remains to-day the same as Christ created her. She was established to give man the means of sanctification by the use of her sacraments and belief in her dogmas ; and those sacraments and dogmas have never changed ; — they are now what they were when our divine master Jesus Christ instituted them." ♦' I cannot understand that," said I. " No," said the Bishop, " and I will not try to explain it to you. for you would nc as yet, have faith in what I would tell you. But the cur6 of St. Mand6 has accepted the task : he will try to teach you later what is essential for you io know." \m FREE WILL. 255 I begged him to explain to me why Martr Luther was wrong in leaving the church, when he was convinced that it was full of abuses. The Bishop answered : " No one deplored those abuses more than did the pastors of the church, and so far from countenan'^ing them, she used every possible means to remedy them, as is proved by the decrees of the Council of Trent, concerning those very abuses against »vhich Luther so loudly bellowed. " Had Luther directed his invectives against the abuses in the church, and pressed the necessary reformation in a canonical way, he would have been right, and would have deserved praise. " But he began by attacking the abuses, and then proceeded to attack the doctrines, the divine institution and power of the church itself; which showed that he was instigated and directed by the devil, not by God, — by pride, and not by charity. And believe me, my child, abuses in the church are never reformed by the proud who rebel, but by the humble who suffer, with patience, until God, in His niercy, gives success to their legitimate efforts to obtain relief" " But," said I, " even Catholic history has spoken and condemned the conduct of certain priests. Why are not the priests perfect?" " Because," he replied, " they are human beings, possessed of theii free will, like everybody else. If they were not subjected to the same trials and temptations as other men, they would merit less, and their crowns would be less glorious in Heaven. God gives the clergy greater graces than He does the laity, but those graces are in propor- tion to their responsibilities. The graces and responsibilities are dis- tributed according to a most equit ole measure ; so that the free will of every individual may remain intact, while he has yet the power to accomplish all his duties. It would have been a great hardship, to have deprived the men to whom He confided the governnient of His church, of that most inestimable gift, which He has granted to all men, — free will. God preferred to have His divine graces in impure hands, rather than deprive a human being of his free will, and the more unworthy we find some men, who are employed in God's service, the more we ought to admire His magnanimity and goodness in bearing with such servants. The world is apt to be too rigorous and too rash in its judgment of the clergy ; for a man may have great merits before God, without being exempt from his defects of char- acter, which only prove the weakness of human nature, even when surrounded by so much spiritual assistance." "But has not the M) 356 FAITH WITHOUT WORKS. church " said I, " always been accused of too much indulgence in regard to individual morality, so long as the individual submissively professes her doctrines ? " " That is another base calumny algainst the church. For the church has never admitted, either in theory or practice, that faith exempts us from good morals : on the contrary, she teaches that the grace of faith augments our responsibility, and increases our duty to be virtuous. She teaches ihat faith withoat works is dead, that he who does not believe .vill be condemned, and that he who believes and does not practise will be condeiuned also. Is it not a historical and widely known fact, that in the sixteenth century the church preferred no longer to rule in vast countries, which formerly submitted to her doctrine, rather than retrench anything of her declaration in this respect. In- deed, she has often had to weep over the abandonment of her children, because she would not consent to subscribe to, or permit them to believe in, such a fundamental error in doctrine as that faith was suf- ficient in itself for salvation, without an active morality full of good works. " The church has always been more indulgent towards those faults, which only injure an individual, than she has towards those faults which strike at the rights of God ; for when we injure a person in his individual rights, we do not strike at the celestial inheritance of faith and truth, which is the common patrimony of all mankind ; whereas, in losing our faith, we lose our moral light, and the clergy being penetrated with this conviction, it is natural that they should forgive more readily personal offences, which can be wiped out by repent- ance, than those faults which tend to diminish the light of truth -and justice." I told him that I had often heard that the material prosperity of the cantons in Switzerland, of the small townships in Germany, and also in other countries, where Catholicity was the dominant belief, was far inferior to that of those places where the Protestant religion had the ascendency, which proved that the church was retrogressive, and did not contribute to the material prospeiUy of a country. Said b° : "I have visited a few of those Catholic cantons, aiid I am sure that, were it not for the influence of the Catholic faith, half of the population would be bandits, and *he other half vagabonds. But God is good ; in denying these people that genius and spirit of enterprise which serve to improve the conditions of civi^ life, He has THE MISSION OF THE CHURCH. 257 not deprived them of that treasure of faith, which the true Christian prizes beyond all earthly prosperity. Instead of giving them palaces, and the \nultiplied cares and anxieties which naturally attend human grandeur, He lias given tliem faith a?Kl contentment. They are good, honest laborers, worthy of respect and sympathy, carrying with courage the burden and heat of the day, earning by the sweat of their brow the bread for their families ; sober, frugal, and temperate, good husbands and good fathers. Take away their religion, do you believe they would be more virtuous and hapjiy ? No, it is not the Catholic religion that retards civilization in these cantons and cities, but it is the Catholic religion which has prevented the people from becoming savage. " When the enemies of Catholicity reproach the church with being retrogressive, they only show their ignorance of her true mission. She is ever conservative, and never an innovator. The church is our mother, and we ought to believe that she has the affections and instincts of a mother. She is divinely progressive, she leads human beings from earth to heaven. She is no more obliged to fill the offices of society than a mother is to fill the office of her son. She combats evil with spiritual arms, such as prayer, divine grace, and spiritual truths, and such arguments as reason deduces from them. But she leaves society to combat evil with material arms. For the church has always maintained that principle of distinction between itself and society, reclaiming for the pastor of souls that which be- longs to God, and leaving to the laity that which belongs to Caesar. What would the Christian people, the laity, who constitute the body of the church, have to do for the good of humanity, if it was en- joined upon the men of the sanctuary to invent and to discover, and to perfect the conditions of material life ? The church is not obliged to go beyond her mission ; and although she may let herself be sur- passed in external glitter, by the triumphs of hmnan progress, yet she is always true to her own mission, which is to preserve intact those divine truths which the Lord handed down to her^ through the hands of His apostles. The church is always our mother, ever vigilant, and so long as her children do not deny her, nor persecute her, she shares with them theii different destinies, miserable when they are miserable, and glorious when they are glorious ; and in all conditions her mission is ever the same, to instruct, to fortify, and to cansole. 258 "THE MOTHER OF MY LORD. "There is scarcely a page in history on which is not emblazoned the beneficent and civilizing influence of the church. If nations and in- dividuals would only be guided by her, and obey her coinmandments, we would have a civilization far superior to the Utopia of Sir Thomas More. CHAPTER LVI. MOTHER AND SON. I cour.D not understand how the Bishop could claim divinity of origin for his church, since I had always heard that Catholics had de- throned Jesus Christ and had put in His place the Blessed Virgin Mary. At our next interview I asked the Bishop why the church honored and paid so much devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and, if God in- tended that she should receive so much honor, why did He not reveal it in the scripture. " God honored her," said the Bishop, " by choosing her among all wonjen, to be the mother of His Son. The archangel Gabriel hon- ored her and saluted her, ' Hail, Mary, full of grace.' The mothei of John the Baptist, her cousin Elizabeth, honored her, when inspired by the Holy Ghost, she exclaimed, * Blessed art thou among women : whence is this to me that the mother of my Lord should come to me ? ' And Mary herself prophesied that by the will of God, she shall be glorified on earth, whence she exclaimed : * From hence- forth ALL nations shall call me blessed.' *' Christ himself honored hei by performing His first miracle in com- pliance with her request, at the wedding of Cana, where the ' water saw its God and blushed.' "While in His agony on the cross He says to John, 'Behold thy mother,' and to Mary, ' Behold thy son ! ' In that moment, Christ, Mary, and His church were united for the redemption of mankind. The world until then had God for its Father, but Christ bequeathed to it a AFothei, in the person of His own Mother, the Virgin Mary, who was the spouse of God. And did not Mary share the sufferings of her Son ? Did she not follow Him to Calvary ? Did she not Btand for hours at the foot of th« cross? an - as she not crucified A mother's anguish. 259 with Him ? I appeal to all mothers^ whether Mary was not crucified with her Son ? For what greater crucifixion has the world for a mother, than to see the beloved and only child of her womb ruthlessly stripped, thrown down by merciless hands, and stretched out naked on a cross — to stand by and to hear the strokes of the hammer as they hit upon the nails which pierce his flesh ! Every blow falls on her heart. When the sounds of the hammer cease, she can hear the brutal voices of His murderers, as they raise the cross to plant it in the earth : what a spectacle for a mother to behold the virginal body of her son exposed to the public gaze, and to see the blood trickling from His hands and feet ! "Jesus sees His mother in her affliction. He casts upon her a com- passionate look, and recommends her to the care of His beloved disciple. " What could fill a mother's heart with greater anguish, than to feel that her child was pitying her, while he writhes in mortal agony. " But still another and a greater agony awaited her. He cries, * I thirst ! ' and she must stand and hear that cry ! Yet she cannot moisten His dying lips, but must see His murderers hasten to- wards Him surfeiting their vengeance, even on His last breath, and placing vinegar to her beloved child's mouth to quench His dying thirst ! " Mary had never sinned ; she was pure and holy, honored by God, by angds, and by man. She was intended by God to have her share in the redemption of mankind, as Eve, the first woman, co- operated in its fall : she suffered for our sins, and was crucified with her Son. For woman there exists no greater suffering than that which Mary underwent. " Christ intended that His mother, who had shared His suffering, should share His glories also, and that she should henceforth be associ- ated with His church in the redemption of the world. Was it not but right ? and was it not but just ? Who will deny the prerogatives of Mary ? and who that loves her Son will refuse them to her ? " All Christian nations, from the beginning of the church, revered her ; and every time we honor Mary we honor God. We implore her, as we do the saints, to present our petitions to Him, which is acknowledging that God is above them all. Whenever we ask Mary to pray for us, we make an act of humility, for it shows that we trust in hei inter :ession more than in our awn unaided prayers. 26o A RULE OF INTERPRETATION. " It is false," continued the Bishop, " for our enemies to accuse us of confiding more in Mary than we do in God. But we do confide mora in her prayers than we do in our own ; for, as St. Bernard has justly said, ' No one has ever liad recourse to her protection or sought her mediation without obtaining relief.' " CHAPTER LVII. "THE DIVINE TRAGEDY." — THE PRAYER OF OMNIPOTENCE. ill: I r 4 Bishop Semeria did not forget what I had told him about Kenan's vivid word-painting of the passion and death of Christ, and resolved to give me a Catholic reading of the divine tragedy on Calvary, and Catholic interpretations of scripture. I was eager to see if the Catho- lics perverted the interpretation of scripture as much as the Pro- testants accused them of it. He gave me to understand that no one could fully comprehend the passion of our Lord unless he knew something about the history of the age in which it transpired, any more than a man could understand the Old Testament unless he was familiar with the age and the circumstances under which each prophet spoke ; for his visions and his symbols tend only to throw the mind into a fantastic world, and a person is exposed to fall into illusive dreams ; as has often happened to vivid imaginations, which have undertaken to go over these regions with the exclusive help of their faith and their personal inspirations. The Bishop first read the sixteenth chapter of the Gospel accord- ing to St. John, containing the promises of Christ to His disciples — and said that the words of the last verse, which are as it were the last farewell of Jesus to His apostles, have perpetually armed the soul of His disciples with an immovable faith in the success of their mission. " In whatever difficulties they may have found themselves, or what- ever obstacles they may have had to surmount, they have ever recalled this word of their master, * / /lave overcome the world ; ' and this magical word has given to them that heroic courage, which has led them forth to brav€ the most violent persecutions, the most infamous calumnies, and the most insulting disdain. After these words Jesus lifted up His eyes to Heaven and addressed to His Father thistouch- i !3Bi THE PRELUDE OF THE SACRIFICE. 261 ing prayer, which is, as it were, a prelude to the consunimation of His sacrifice : (Chap, xvii.) " ' I Father, the hour is come ; glorify thy Son, that thy Son also may glorify thee : "'2 As thou hast given him power over all flesh, that he should give eternal life to as many as thou hast given him. " * 3 And this is eternal life, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent. "*4 I have glorified thee on the earth: I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do. " ' 5 And now, O Father, glorify thou me with thine own self with the glory which I had with thee before the world was. "'61 have manifested thy name unto the men which thou gavest me out of the world : thine they were, and thou gavest them me ; and they have kept thy word. " ' 7 Now they have known that all things whatsoever thou hast given me are of thee. " * 8 For 1 have given unto them the words which thou gavest me ; and they have received them, and have known surely that 1 came out from thee, and they have believed that thou didst sendine. " * 9 I pray for them : I pray not for the world,' — No ; for He came to destroy that world, which He designated as the incarnation of evil, and of false maxims, and as the kingdom of Satan : — ' but for them which thou hast given me ; for they are thine. " * ID And all mine are thine, and thine are mine ; and I am gloii- fied in them. "'11 And now I am no more in the world, but these are in the world, and I come to thee. Holy Father, keep through thine own name those whom thou hast given me, that they may be one, as v('e are. " * 12 While I was with them in the world, I kept them in thy name : those that thou gavest me I have kept, and none of them is lost, but the son of perdition ; that the scripture might be fulfilled. " * 13 And now come I to thee ; and these things I speak in the world that they might have my joy fulfilled in themselves. " ' 14 I Ha/e given them thy word ; and the world hath hated them, because they are not of the world, even as I am not of the world. "'15 I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil. V. 262 THE GOSPEL OF LOVE. « < i '\: rljlj , 1 6 They are not of the world, even as I am not of the world. ** * 1 7 Sanctify them through thy truth : thy word is truth. ** ' i8 As thou hast sent me into the world, even so have I also sent them into the world. " ' 19 And for their sakcs I sanctify myself, that they also might be sanctified through the truth. " * 20 Neither pray I for these alone, but for them also which shall believe on me through their word ; "'21 That they all may be one ; as thou, Father, art in me, and 1 in thee, that they also may be one in us : that the world may believe that thou hast sent me. " ' 22 And the glory which thou gavest me I have given them ; that they may be one, even as we are one : " ' 23 I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one ; and that the world may know that thou hast sent me, and hast loved them, as thou hast loved me. " ' 24 Father, I will that they also, lA'hom thou hast given me, be with me where I am ; that they may behold my glory, which thou hast given me : for thou lovedst me before the foundation of the world. '"25 O righteous Father, the world hath not known thee ; but I have known thee, and these have known that thou hast sent me. *' ' 26 And I have declared unto them thy name, and will declare it : that the love wherewith thou hast loved me may be in them, and I in them.' • ** During the course of His evangelical career, Jesus had publicly addressed Himself several times to His Father. But in no other prayer does Christ display that penetrating softness, that all divine tenderness, which we find in these words, which rise from His glow- ing heart immediately before the consummation of His sacrifice. His sublime language has no longer anything earthly, and He ex- presses in a loud voice His wishes for His own, because this prayer is intended as a lesson in which can be found a summary of the n'hole spirit of Christianity. " The union of men with God, and the union of men with each other, — that is what Jesus asks of His Father ; and it is that twofold love which it is the object of the religion of Christ to propagate over the earth — to love God and our neighbor. Therein is the whole gospel. .' , ■?. m r THE GARDBN OF AGONY. THE AGONY. 263 ;he " After Jesus had addressed this prayer to His Father, He went with His disciples beyond the torrent of Cedron. The ravine where this torrent flowed is now called the valley of Jehosaphat. This valley served as the dividing line between the tribe of Judah and that of Benjamin. It was near this torrent that, every year, they sent forth the emissary-goat, which threw itself down the precipice at Zuk, twelve miles from Jerusalem, in expiation of the iniquities of the people. It was also near this ravine that they used to make the red cow pass from the mountain of the Temple to the Mount of Olives, where it was immolated for the sins of the people. Jesus, who was to fulfil in Himself all the symbols and figures, as well as the prophecies of Holy Writ, crossed this torrent, and drank of its waters, on His sorrowful way, as the prophet had spoken of Him. Thence he went to the foot of the Mount of Olives, into a place called Gethsemane. In this place was a garden, whither Jesus had often resorted with His apostles and disciples. As He entered this enclosure, He said to His disciples : " * Sit you here, till I go yonder and pray ; and jjray ye also that ye enter not into temptation ; ' and taking with Him Peter, and James, and John, the same who had witnessed his transfiguration on Mount Thabor, he began to grow sorrowful and to be sad, and he said to them : ' My soul is sorrowful even imto death ; stay you here and watch with me.' Then, going a little further, he fell upon his face, praying and saying: 'My Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from me ; nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.' *' While Christ was thus a prey to the repugnances of the flesh, and to the loathings which nature had excited in his desolate soul, an angel appeared to him from Heaven to strengthen him. This celes- tial envoy doubtless expressed to Him the will of His Father, the infinite merits of his sacrifice, the salvation of men, attached to the sufferings which he was to endure, and the glory that He would derive from His humiliations. These thoughts make Him impa- tient to give his life for mankind ; but the combat which had risen in His soul, between the inferior and the superior part of His human nature, still continued. In that struggle or agony, He ])ros- trates himself on the earth, refloublcs His prayer, and rei;)eats the 264 THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD. request He first made to His Father. He had told us of His eager desire to suffer His bloody baptism for the salvation of men. lint now He jirays that this i up of agony may be made to pass away from His lips, that He may not drink it! We may well imagine that, overwhelmingly as He permitted His inferior nature to appre- hend the pain and the shame and the i)hysical agony, yet this was the smallest and least bitter part of the draught He must drink. Love such as His might have made light — as it had done — of all this ; but it could not endure, without a deathly struggle, the ingra- titude and indifference of men, and, still worse, the uselessness of His suffaring for so many, who would be lost in spite of His suffer- ing and death. It was this which caused that mysterious and un- hedrd of sweat, which covered His whole body, and fell in bloody drops upon the ground. "Jesus arose after this prayer, and, coming to His apostles. He found them asleep. They, too, were cast down by sadness, and had not the strength to watch and pray, as their master had charged them to do. Jesus, however, could not refrain from reproaching them, because the circumstances in which they were placed were so grave that they should have overcome the weariness of nature, and He said to them : ' Why sleep ye ? Arise, and pray that you may not enter into temptation ; ' and He said to Peter : ' Simon, sleepest thou ? Couldst thou not watch with me one hour ? Watch ye and pray that you enter not into temptation. The spirit indeed is will- ing, but the flesh is weak.' By these last words he wished them to 'mderstand that we are all zealous in making generous resolutions, but, when it is necessary to execute them, we are Aveak and power- less, if the grace of God is not there to aid us. After saying these words He retired again to pray, for the second time, ' My Father, if this chalice may not pass away, but 1 must drink it. Thy will be done.' This was the accent of the most absolute resignation, ^e came again to His apostles, and found them still sleeping ; for their eyes were heavy. Leaving them, he went and prayed the third time, repeating the same prayer. Then He returned to His disciples, who still slept. He had compassion on their weakness, and He opoke to them gently, saying, ' Sleep now, and take your rest : behold the hour is come when the Son of Man shall be betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us go : behold he is at hand that will 'betray me.' , "•■H,; THE traitor's KISS. 265 THE ARREST. " In social catastrophes it always happens that the good people, who should be the defenders of right and justice, keep themselves aloof, retiring quietly into their houses and satisfying themselves by making energetic i)rotestations, which they have not the courage to sustain by vigorous action. While they sleep, the conspirators are employing all their activity. They meet, they concert together, they arm them- selves, and when they are ready, they march with ardor to the execu- tion of theii" designs. So it was with Judas. While the other apostles were sleeping, he did not lose an instant from the time he went out of the supper-hall. He went to fmd the chief priests, who had given him the price of his treason. He look their orders, and the spot was agreed upon where he should betray his master to them. He assembled quickly a band of hirelings, who enrolled themselves under his direction, in order to aid him to consummate his crime ; and tliey started at once for the garden of Gethsemane. " Jesus, who knew all that was passing, had hardly announced the arrival of the traitor, when Judas Iscariot appeared. The chief priests and the Pharisees had placed at his disposition a cohort, which was formed of Roman soldiers and satellites. These satellites were a class of ruffians, without profession, who were always ready to do any foul deed, and to execute any order that was given them. The servants of the chief priests, and of the other persecutors of Jesus, also joined the gang. The satellites were armed with swords and staves, and presented the barbarous aspect of undibciplined and irregular troops. This mob was guided by the light of torches and lanterns which the servants of the scribes, the elders, and the chief priests carried before them. The traitor Judas knew that some of the disciples that were with Jesus were armed ; for it was then neces- sary, as it is to-day, for travellers in the East to arm themselves. Iti was for that reason that Judas did not wish to enter into the garden of Gethsemane, unaccompanied by an imposing troop. He marched at the head of the soldiers and satellites, and said to them : ' Whom- soever I shall kiss, that is he': hold him fast.' The signal and the design were worthy of the same man. Forthwith, coining to Jesus, he said : * Hail, master ! ' and he kissed him. Jesus, with inexpressi- ble sweetness, said to him : * Friend, wherefore art thou come ? dost 12 * IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /q ///// /^ ^^i^e iL /MA. 1.0 I.I l^m |2.5 1^ 1^ 112.2 IM 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 -* 6" - ► <^ y] A Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STKHT WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) •72-4S03 fS ■^ <> rv O^ ^.1^ ^' ^ '^ n>^ r ^HH a » i ' i « i wt ii ""i " "ii» 'i 266 THE LAMB AMID THE WOLVES. thou betray the Son of Man with a kiss ? ' That word, which wai sufficient to shake the most obdurate heart, must have made an unpression on the ruffians who accompanied Judas ; for, instead of instantly seizing him whom the traitor had designated,-they remain- ed motionless. Jesus, far from seeking to avoid them, advanced towards them and said : * Whom seek ye ? ' They answered him : ' Jesus of Nazareth.' Jesus said to them : * I am he ; ' and, as soon as He had said the words, * I am he,' they went backward, and fell to the ground. Judas had retired into the midst of them, and when he saw Jesus advance, he too fell with the miscreants who had made themselves his accomplices. "Jesus wished to give them a sensible proof of His power, in order to engage them to reflect on the enormity of their crime ; which might bring them to implore His pardon. But this warning had no effect upon them ; for when they arose, Jesus asked them again : * Whom seek ye ? ' and they said : ' Jesus of Nazareth.' Jesus answered : ' I have told you that I am he ; if therefore it is I whom you seek, arrest me ; but let these go their way.* He designated His disciples, and he made this reserve in their favor, that the word which He had spoken to His Father might be fulfilled, * Of them whom thou hast given me, I have not lost one.' " The satellites ot Judas then approached Jesus, seized him, and took him into custody. This was the moment for tue disciples to show the ardent zeal with which they said they were inflamed for the defence of their master. Those who surrounded him, understood per- fectly what was going to happen, and ihey cried out, in their fright; * Lord, shall we draw the sword ? ' Simon Peter, who was armed, without waiting for Jesus to reply, drew his sword, and struck the ser- vant of the high priest, and cut off his ear. Jesus at once checked the indiscreet zeal of His. apostle, and said to him : 'Put up again thy sword into its place ;' and He even mira '.ously healed the wounde 1 i;ar. After having repaired, by an effort of His divine power, the evil that the inconsiderate zeal of the first of the apostles had done, He profited by this circumstanc«, to remind them that they were not to resist violence by violence, and that His doctrine was to triumph over the sword by gentleness and persuasion. Jesus therefore said to Peter : ' Put up thy sword into the scabbard ; for all that take the sword, shall perish by the sword. The chalice which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it? Besides, thinkt'St tl^ou that I need liel)!, aiid ABANDONED BY HIS OWN. 267 chat I cannot ask my Father, and he will give me presently more than twelve legions of angels to deliver me from my enemies ? But if I oppose the violence that is done me to-day, how then shall the scrip- ture be fulfilled, which says that I must drink this bitter chalice which is prepared for me, and thus submit to the will of my Father ? ' " The arrest of Jesus was altogether contrary to the Jewish law. According to the law in force at that epoch, the chief priests, aftei being furnished with a regular bill of indictment, should have met, iu order to see if there was cause for apprehending Jesus. If they were .satisfied with the indictment they should render a first judgment, in accordance with which, they would have given a warrant for His ar- rest, to men who were charged by the law to execute it. But, instead of following this juridical proceeding, they employ agents whom they send as deputies to spy into His conduct and words, and to try to make Him say something which might lead to an accusation. Not having succeeded in this, they assembled together, not to examine if He was guilty, but to devise some means by which they could seize Him by stealth. One of His apostles having presented himself, and offered to deliver up His master, they bought the traitor's service, and so began their judicial proceedings by an infamous treason. The troop which they sent to arrest Jesus, was a band of cutthroats and slaves, who came with swords and staves, and who could not be con- sidered as the representatives of law and order. In giving Himself up to these vile men, Jesus turned to the chief priests, and to the elders, and to the keepers of the Temple, and said, reproaching them for thus treating Him as an outlaw : ' Why ! have you come, as to a robber, with swords, and staves, to apprehend me ? I was daily with you in the Temple teaching, and you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour. The moment is come for the power of dark- ness to act. All this is done that the scriptures may be fulfilled.' At that moment the cohort, and the tribune who commanded it, as well as the men, who had been brought by Judas, seized Jesus and bound Hi 11 like a criminal ; at which sight the disciples were filled with fear, and they all fled, abandoning their Master. t, mid THE TRIAL. " The soldiers brought Jesus to the house of Annas, father-in-law to Caiphas, who was high-priest that year. Although Annas was the falher-in-law of Caiphas, he had neither title nor right to interrogate 268 SEEKING CHARGES. Jesus, /t was one more irregularity in the proceedings, to bring th« Saviour before him, as he was not invested with any official function. But Annas was a man well versed in business, and they no doubt brought Jesus to him, in order to profit by his lights and experience, that he might question Him, and then indicate the means to be adopted in order to condemn Him, without having their proceedings appear in too flagrant opposition to the law. " Peter and John were the only apostles who had the courage to follow their Master. John, who was known to the Pontiff, came into the yard ; but Peter remained at the gate. John looked for him, and begged the portress to let him pass. They were warminf, them- selves in the yard, near a large fire, with the servants and satellites, who had arrested Jesus, when the servant, who watched the door, ap- proached Peter, and after looking at Him attentively, said : * Art thou not also a disciple of this man whom they have just arrested ? Thou wert with Jesus of Galilee, it seems to me that I recognize thee.' " Peter, disconcerted by this question, which exposed him to the insults of the soldiers who surrounded him, denied his Master before them all, saying : ' Woman, I know him not, neither do I know what thou sayest' Peter then went into the vestibule, where he heard the cock crow ; but he was so confused that he did not mind it, nor did he recollect, in that moment, the prediction that Jesus had made a few moments before, that ' before the cock would crow twice, he would deny him three times.' During this time, Annas was interrogating Jesus about his disciples and his doctrine. Ac- cording to the Jewish law, he should have made known to him the bill of indictment, and asked him if he were guilty or not guilty. But they had not yet succeeded in specifying any charge, and, at the very moment that they were arresting Jesus, they were still engaged seek- ing for an accusation to make against Him. It was for this reason that Annas continued to put to liim captious questions, in order to ensnare Him. " Jesus does not fail to make him understand the illegality of the proceeding, and He said to Annas : • I have spoken oi)enly to the world, I have always taught in the synagogue and in the temple, whither all the Jews resort, and in secret I have spoken nothing. IVhy askest thou me ? Ask them who have heard what I have spoken unto them : behold they know what things I have said,' This was, in fact, the only course to follow ; for, according to the law, when AN ILLEGAL TRIAL. 369 jmy one was accused of a crime, whatsoever it might be, he wai called before the tribunal of the elders, and they read to him the charges brought against him ; then they made the witnesses appear before him, who were to certify to the identity of his person, and to depose as to the month, the day, the hour, and the circumstances of the crime. " Jesus asked Annas to be treated according to the law ; but the instant he expressed this legitimate wish, one of the officers who were there took His demand for an insult to the Pontiff, and he gave Jesus a blow, saying : * Answerest thou the high-priest so ? ' The right of self-defence, which was always sacred among civilized people, and which the Mosaic law had surrounded by so many guarantees, was then most wantonly violated. But Jesus did not utter a complaint : He merely said to the wretch who had committed this brutality : ' If I have spoken evil, give testimony of the evil; but if well, why strikest thou me ? ' " It was impossible to answer this dilemma, and Annas, finding him- self embarrassed, sent Jesus bound before Caiphas, at whose house the elders, the priests, and the doctors of the law were assembled. Regularly this high-priest could not be judge. He had made him- self the accuser of Jesus, and, before he had seen Him, he had judged Him worthy of death, because it was he who had said, in open couiv cil, to his colleagues, that it was well that one should die for all, and, by one, he meant Jesus. The law also prohibited, under pain of annulling the suit, proceeding with a trial at night, or condemning any one on a festival day. It was not only night, but they were in the midst of the festivity of the Passover, which was the greatest so- lemnity of the year among the Jews ; therefore they should Lave de- ferred judgment. But the enemies of Jesus wished a prompt con- demnation and an immediate execution. They took care not to stop at these questions of technicality, for fear they should not succeed in their designs. However, Jesus having demanded witnesses, it was impossible to refuse Him the application of this juridical form, if in- deed they wished to have the case bear any semblance of justice. The chief priests, the elders, and all the members of the council, sought for false witnesses, whose depositions would furnish them a pretext to condemn Him to death. It was not difficult for them to find a crowd of miscreants, willing to depose against Jesus. These probably repeated all the falsehoods that were suggested to tbem; 'm m I " ! i 270 FALSE WITNESSES. but, whether, in the precipitation with which the business was con* ducted, they had not taken time to compare and arrange their testi- mony, 01 their gioss ignorance must have prevented them from un- derstanding what they had been directed to say, their testimonies were contradictory. The Jewish leaders began to despair of their case, when they brought two false witnesses who declared that they had heard Jesus say, * I can destroy the Temple of God, and build it in three days,' and again, *I will destroy this Temple built by the hands of men, and I will build another in three days, which will not be made by the hands of man.' In reality Jesus had not said these words. He only said, * Destroy this temple, and I will build it in three days ; ' which signified. Supposing you destroy this temple, I will build it again in three days : besides, He did not designate, by these words, the Temple of Jerusalem ; He had reference, according to the remark of St, John, to His own body, and, to make the Jews understand that He did not refer to the temple of Jerusalem, He added of His own accord, ' I will build another which will not be made by the hands of man.' In any ca?e, if He had even wished to speak of the Temple of Jerusalem, there was nothing therein that could have justified his condemnation to death. They could have accused Him of being presumptuous, but there was nothing in His words that could be construed into sedition or sacrilege. The high- priest, feeling that there was nothing conclusive in these testimonies, arose and began to question Jesus, saying : ' Answerest thou nothing to the things that are laid to thy charge by these meni'' These depositions refuted themselves. There was no need of Jesus answer ing, so he remained silent. '* The high-priest, the elders, and the doctors, who knew that Jesus had often proclaimed His divinity before the whole world, cross- questioned him on this point, thinking that he might give testimony of the /r«M, and that that would ;;;ive them an opportunity of accus- ing him of blasphemy. So they began to urge him with questions, saying : ' If thou be the Christ, tell us.' He said to them : * If I shall tell you, you will not believe me ; and if I shall also ask you, you will not answer me, nor let me go. But hereafter the son of man shall be sitting oii the right hand of the power of God.' ' Then,' exclaimed they all, * art thou the son of God ? ' And the high, priest, assuming a tone of authority, said to him ; ♦ I adjure tl'ce, by the living God, that thou tell us if thou be the Christ, the son of the ti & CONDEMNED TO DIE. 271 esus you, Dn of hen,' high' e,by blessed and eternal God ? ' Jesus answered : * Thou hast said it : J am. Nevertheless, I say to you, that you shall see the son of man, who to-day is so enfeebled and humbled, — hereafter you shall see him, sitting on the right hand of the power of God, : nd coming in the clouds of Heaven.' " Then the high-priest rent liis garments, saying : ' He hath blas- phemed ; what further need have we of witnesses ? Behold, now you have heard the blasphemy, what think you ? ' They all answered ; " He deserves death ; we have no need of other witnesses, we have heard him ourselves ; ' and they all condemned him to die. *' This judgment of Caiphas was the judgment of a violent, pas- sionate man, such as Josephus has painted him to be. He went so far as to imjjose upon the accused an immoral oath, which put him in the alternative of either perjuring himself or accusing himself, a thing that is contrary to all the rules of jurisprudence. When Jesus has spoken, he pretends that there is no need of further witnesses, although the law exacts them. He does not wish any further in- quiry, he declares that sufficient information has been given in the case, and, instead of remaining calm, as a judge should be, gets into a rage, tears his garments, and in the midst of these transports, he is the first to pronounce pain of death against the accused, wishing to draw, by his example, the suffrages of the other judges. The fury of the high-priest is communicated to the assistants, and this iniquitous sentence is followed by the most barbarous violence. " Jesus had remained bound while they interrogated him : they not only took away his right of liberty of defence, but they even deprived him of his physical liberty. He was treated like a felon, even before they heard him. When he had spoken, and the high-priest had pro- nounced him guilty of death, those who were present began to cover him with outrages. They spat in his face, and those- who had hold of him struck him with their fists and mocked him. The seivants band-; aged his eyes and buffeted him, and others struck his face with the palms of their hands, saying to,him as they did so : ' Christ, prophesy unto us, who is he that struck thee ; ' and they showered upon him every species of blasphemy. Jesus submitted in silence to all these outrages. THI -'.NIAL. " During this time Peter was sitting outside in the yard. When they had led Jesus from the house of Annas, he had followed him timidly 273 PETER'S REPENTANCE. ' t at a distance, until he reached the house of the high -priest. After he entered he mixed in with the servants, and sat down near the fire which was lighted in the midst of them. One of the servants of Cai- phas seeing him, pointed him out to those that were present, say* ing : * He too was with Jesus of Nazareth.' The cowardice of the chief of the apostles increasing with his danger, he replied : * I know not the man, I know not what thou sayest.' Another maid, in the same nistant, asked him the same question ; but he pretended not to hear her, and remained silent. Some of the soldiers, having joined them, ask him : ' Art thou not among the disciples of Jesus ? ' But he denied it with an oath. About an hour passed since the second time he had denied him, when a servant of the high-priest declared that Peter was a disciple of Jesus. * He was certainly with him,' said he, ' because he is a Galilean.' ' My friends,' replied Peter, * I know not what thou sayest.' * What,' replied the servant, * did I not see thee with hiui in the garden of Gethsemane ?' Upon which the other servants joined in and said : ' Surely, thou canst not deny it ; thou art also one of them ; thou art a GaUlean, thy accent be- trays thee.' The weak apostle, overcome by all this testimony, broke out into imprecations, like all those who have nothing better to answer, and began to curse and swear that he knew not the man ; and inmiediately the cock crew. At that moment they were leading Jesus to the underground prison to pass the night, to wait for the break of day, when they intended to conduct him to Pilate. As they led Him through the yard. He threw a glance ujjon Peter. Then Peter remembered the words that his good Master had spoken to him, when he was making such ardent protestations of devotion and love : * Peter, before the cock crows twice, thou shalt deny me three times.' He then understood how great was his fault, and he went out and wept bitterly. f THE traitor's DEATH. " The examination of Jesus at the house of Caiphas was more of a preparatory deliberation than it was a final judgment. In order not to rouse the people, thejchief priests felt that they must give the sen- tence at least a legal appearance. Until now nothing had ever been more irregular than their proceedings. " In order t) remedy all illegalities they brought Jesus out of the underground prison where they had placed him, in the house of Cai THE Di:SPAIR OF JUL AS. 273 pbas, so that he might appear, at the break of day, before the San- hedrim. This was done so as to silence any objections that the mul- titude might make against the irregularities of the previous judgment, liefore the Sanhedrim there was neither hearing of witnesses nor dis- cussion. They accepted all that had already been done, but they gave it a legal appearance. Consequently their proceedings remained stained with all the irregularities and defects with which their con- duct could be charged from the commencement. When the morning was sufficiently advanced, Jesus was brought, bound, and delivered up to Pilate, that the Roman governor might ratify the sentence of death which the Sanhedrim had just pronounced against him. Judas, who had betrayed his master, having heard that he was sentenced to death, repented of the crime he had committed, took the thirty pieces of silver which he had received as the price of his treason, and brought them to the chief priests and the ancients, who had given them to him, saying, as he offered them : ' I have sinned, in betray- ing innocent blood ; * but they said : ' If^Aa/ is that to us i That concerns thee.' " That scene, no doubt, passed in one of the halls adjoining the council chamber where the chief-priests assembled before the even- ing and morning sacrifice, because the gospel adds that, after saying this, Judas threw the pieces of silver into the Temple. He then de- parted, and hung himself in despair. This miserable creature then im^erstood the enormity of his crime, but he was not happy enough to reflect, at the same time, on the infinite mercy of God, and, instead of weeping bitterly, as Peter did, and obtaining pardon by repentance, he thought that there was no possible salvation for him. So he crowned his career of avarice and treason by the most frightful of crimes, that of self-destruction. The chief-priests, having taken the pieces of silver, said : * It is not lawful to put them into the alms-box, because they are the price of blood ; and after they had consulted together, they bought with them a potter's field, to be used as a burying-place for strangers.' For this cause that field was called Hiceldama, that is, ' the field of blood,' even to this day, says the scripture. PILATE. " Since the dethronement by the Roman Senate of Archelaus, one »f the sons of Herod the Great, Judea had been annexed to the 12* 274 THE PHARISEES' SCRUPLE. I \ I L i : l)rovince of Syria, and placed under the direction of an administrator, who had the title of procurator of Cnesar. This administrator's prin cipal business was to levy taxes and to give judgment in hscal causes, but, occasionally, the Romans granted to him the right of examining and judging capital cases. Such was the power of Pontius Pilate, appointed by Tiberius administrator of Judea, in the place of the governor of Syria, who was at the head of the whole Roman province, with the title of president (prajses). By the right of con- (juest, the power of life and death had i)assed out of the hands of the Jews into those of the Romans. They usually kept to themselves this right in all the countries that they conquered, because it gave them an opportunity of extending an equal protection over all their subjects, and it also helped them to repress at once any revcU, on the part of those who felt impatient of the Roman '-jke. It was for this reason that, after the Sanhedrim had given a verdict against Jesus, it was still necessary to bring him before Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, in order to have him ratify the sentence : and thus was the prediction made by Christ when he left Ephrem fulfilled : ' Behold, we go up to Jerusalem, where the Son of Man shall fall into the hands of the chief-priests, and the doctors of the law, who will condemn Him to death, and will deliver him over to the gen- tiles.' *' Jesus was brought into the judgment-hall ; but the chief-priests, and the ancients of the people, and the other Jews were scrupulous about going in, because they imagined that they ought not to put their foot into the house of a pagan on a feast-day, lest it should defile them. This prohibition was not to be found in their law ; but it formed a part of the superstitious traditions of the Pharisees, who wished to appear too conscientious to even place themselves above such a trifle, while it did not cost them anything to shed innocent blood. Pilate, doubtless, had known for a long time how jealous tne priests and doctors were of Jesus, and would have preferred not to interfere in this matter. He considered it a religious quarrel, of no importance to the Roman empire, whose interests alone touched him. He went out of the judgment-hall, accordingly, and said to the Jews : * What accusation bring you against this man ? ' They answered him : ' If he were not a malefactor, we would not have delivered him up to thee.' Pilate replied : * If you believe that he is guilty of death, take him, and judge him according to your A NEW CHARGE. 275 law.' But the Jews cried out : ' Thou knowest well that it is not lawful foi us to put any man to death ; that right is reserved to thee.' ** Power over life and death being the attribute and principal sign of sovereignty, the Jews, in making this avowal, acknowledged that the sceptre had gone out of their hands, into the hands of strangers, and that the time marked by Jacob for the appearance of the Messiah, had come. Moreover, if Christ were judged by the Mosaic law,^ He would have been stoned, whether He had been condemned as a false prophet or found guilty of blasphemy. In order that He should be condemned to die on the cross, as the jjrophets had predicted, it was necessary that He should be delivered to the gentiles. When they brought Jesus before Pilate, the Jews changed completely their system of accusation. They no longer accused him of blasphemy, as they had done up to that moment ; because that accusation would not have produced any impression on Pilate, who was a pagan. But they substituted for this reproach a new indictment, a political accusa- tion, a crime against the state. ' We have found this man,' they said, * perverting our nation, and forbidding the people to pay tribute to Caesar, and claiming that he is Christ the king.' " Here was an abominable calumny ; for the JeWs had gone to Him themselves, to ask Him if they ought to pay tribute to Caesar, and they knew that He had asked of them a piece of money, and, while looking on tlie effigy of Caesar, He had said, before the people : 'Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's.' Far from agitating the nation, and from perverting it by inspiring it with seditions sentiments, He had sub- mitted to all the laws and customs of the country, and had also taught His disciples- to observe those laws with care, whenever there was nothing in their fulfilment which was contrary to the law of God ; and by word and example He had taught them to respect in all things the authority of the magistrates. ** When the Jews accused Jesus of arrogating to himself the title of king, they charged Him with a political crime, to which the Roman governor could not remain indifferent without compromising himself. For that reason Pilate was obliged to take up the accusation seriously. He re-entered the judgment-hall and had Jesus brought before him. ' Art thou the king of the Jews ? ' As this was a new question, en- tirely different from those which had been addiessed to Him at the '^ ¥ '' ^^ll I 276 PILATE'S QUESTION. house of Annas and Caiphas, Jesus replied : * Saycst thou this thing of thyself, or have others told it to thee of me f ' Pilate answered : 'A.11 1 a Jew? Thy own nation, and the chief-priests have delivered thee up to me : what hast thou done ? ' " Jesus wishing to make Pilate understand that the whole of this new accusation rested on a false interpretation of the word king, and that the royalty which He had attributed to Hunself, in saying that He was 'king of the Jews,' had nothing in common with the Roman empire, said to him : ' My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would certainly strive that I should not be delivered to the Jews ; but as no one fights for me, It is evident that my kingdom is not here below.' " Jesus having declared that the royalty which He attributed to Him- self was purely spiritual, it was evident that His justification was com- plete, as the Roman law had nothing to do with a power which was not of this world, and which made a profession not to interfere with the empire of the Csesars. Nevertheless, in order to understand His thoughts more clearly, Pilate insisted : ' Thou art then a king ? ' Jesus answered : * Thou sayest that I am a king. For this was I born, and for this came I into the world, that I should give testimony to the truth. Every one that is of the truth heareth my voice.' Pilate asked him: 'What is truth?' The question then ceasing to be a juridical one, and having taken a doctrinal character, the Roman governor, without waiting for Jesus to reply, went out of the judgment-hall again to the Jews, and said to them : * I find no cause of condemnation in this man.' " When the Jews heard Pilate pronounce these words, they feared that their victim would escape them. The chief-priests and the an- cients of the people began to overwhelm him with accusations. This fury alone proved that they acted only from passion ; but before a tribunal it is not sufficient to accuse, one must prove what one ad- vances. Jesus, seeing that his enemies proved nothing that they said, et them contradict themselves without making the least reply. This generosity and greatness of mind astonished Pilate at first, and he said to him : * Dost not thou hear how great complaints they allege against thee ? \nswerest thou nothing ? BehoM in how many things they accuse thee.' Jesus, seeing that he was in the presence of a judge who was suflficiently convinced of his innocence, but who dared not, tlirough weakness, acquit him, ard considering, on the A TIME-SERVING POLITICIAN, 277 Other hand, that he had to do with men who were obstinately deter mined upon his death, looked upon it as a useless thing, to under- tai 1 to justify himself. But the chief-priests became more earnest, and they cried out : ♦ He stirreth up the people, teaching throughout all Judea, beginning from Galilee to this place.' Thus the whole crime of Jesus, whom they had at first accused of being a blasphemer ami a disturber of the peace, reduces itself to his having instructed and enlightened the multitude, and attached the people to him, by preaching to them a consoling doctrine, and to his unveiling the pride and avarice of the. who domineered over them. This was the cause of the spite which the Pharisees and the chief-priests had against him. But Pilate did not find that that was a sufficient reason for him to condemn him ; his position, however, was embarrassing ; he wished to save Jesus at the same time that he was not willing to In- cur the hatred of these influential men. FROM HEROD TO PILATE " Among the clamors of the Jews, Pilate heard the word Galilee^ and that word brought with it a ray of light. * Thou art from Gali- lee ? ' said he to Jesus ; and upon his response in the affirmative, Pilate hastened to throw off the responsibility of the case, and he sent him to Herod Antipas, the tetrarch of that province. " rierod exercised, by the consent and at the pleasure of Caesar, sovereign authority over all the inhabitalits of Galilee, who were mostly composed of Israelites belonging to the ten tribes. He had the right of judging all causes between his subjects, even in the capital of Judea, when he was there in person. Pilate had not always acknowledged this right ; for, on a former occasion, during another solemnity, he had seized and condemned, several Galileans, without apprising the tetrarch, which had caused an enmity to spring up between them. But in the case of Jesus, Pilate was only too glad to recognize the jurisdiction of Herod, because he saw an opportunity, by doing so, of getting out of a difficulty. ♦* This was not acting courageously, but it appeared to him adroit conduct, and that was all that was necessaiy in the eyes of the Ro- man governor. Herod was enchanted by the deference of Pilate. This was the same effeminate and voluptuous prince, who had not the strength to hear the truth from the mouth of John the Baptist, tvhom he, in so cowardly a manner, sacrificed to his pleasures. 278 A FREE-THINKING TETRARCH. Fioni the moment of that deed, he had continued to lead an easy licentious life, affecting great indifference to all matters concerning religion, and opposing to all miraculous events, and to all moral doctrines, an absolute skepticism, which he no doubt considered strength of mind. Sephoris, uls capital, which he had called Dio- cjesarea, was not f from Nazareth ; but he had come to Jerusalem for the feast of th*. issover. He had often heard Jesus spoken of, and had heard of the miracles he wrought, and he also knew the great influence he had over the people. For a long time he had wished to meet Him, as he desired to see for himself some of the prodigies which people attributed to him the power of working. Herod was overjoyed, when they announced to him that Jesus was there ; for he hoped that his curiosity would be satisfied. But Jesus did not employ His power in order to amuse the leisure moments of the great of this earth. As he was well acquainted with Herod's disposition, he knew that the prince only desired to see a prodigy that he might contest it, and that he would not profit by his words. This is the reason he remained mute before hini. Herod questioned him in vain, and tried by a flow of words to draw him out of his silence ; but he did not obtain the least rep !y, although the chief- priests and the scribes were there perpetually repeating their accusa- tions. Jesus did not say one word to justify Himself. ',' *,; H i" . " Herod, not knowing what to do, derided Jesus and treated him like an idiot. He made them put on Him a white gannent, which was a dress that fools always wore ; and, in that guise, he sent Him back to Pilate. The result of this event was a reconciliation between Herod and Pilate. Vj^i.tjiV^ -_..-!. If;' ., •»,: • ,. ; •, jO .::''' t' "l.V'tjr^n.i^r-: , ;. THE CHOICE. r, ., , • . , " While they wer^ leading Jesus to Herod, Pilate infonned himself more particularly concerning the accused. He was convinced that it was only through envy that the chief-priests had delivered him into his hand., and that all their complaints were merely partisan accusa- tions. What is more, while he was on his seat in the tribunal, his wife sent to him, saying : * Have thou nothing to do with that just man, for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.' " These words made a profound impression on Pilate, because the Romans in general were very superstitious, and attached a gr^at '■''^llfciv. SCOURGING THE INNOCENT. 279 importance to dreams, particularly the dreams of women. Pilate was also struck with the noble and assured countenance of Jesus. The consequence was that he was deeply troubled when Herod sent Him back to him. Calling together the chief priests and the magis- trates, and the people, he said to them : * You have presented unto me this man as one wl.o'perverted the people, and behold I have examined him before you, and I find no cause in him in those things wherein you accuse him. No, nor did Herod either deem him guilty ; for I sent you to him, and behold nothing worthy of death is found against him. I will chastise him, therefore, and release him.' " This judgment was not very logical. Pilate proclaimed Jesus innocent, and he concludes that !ie will send him away, after having chastised Him. This punishment was only a concession which he made to the delirious multitude, hoping thereby to calm its fury. But the expedient not succeeding, he devised another. ,' j f:;,:: " The Roman governor was obliged to deliver, during the feast of the passover, the prisoner whom the people might demand. This was one of the conditions that the Jews had made when they were subjected to the Romans. They wished by it to commemorate the dv'iverance of Israel and their departure from Egypt. The pro- curator of Caesar had yielded to their wishes, and granted that, diving the passover, a prisoner should be delivered to them who was condemned tc death. Pilate thought this conjuncture a favorable one to apply to Jesus the benefit of the law. There was in the prison a notorious robber named Barabbas. He had been arrested and condemned for sedition and murder. The people having pre- sented themselves to the governor to ask of him the favor that was accorded to them each year, Pilate said to them : * In truth it is the custom that I deliver unto you a criminal each year, at the feast of the passover. Which shall I deliver to you, Barabbas or Jesus, who is called Christ ? ' He knew that Jesus was detested by the chief-priests and the principal personages of the nation, but that He was beloved by the people. But Barabbas, on the contrary, was a robber, the terror of the country, whose release no one ought to desire. In proposing to the people the choice between Jesus and this miscreant, Pilate thought that they would not hesitate to pro- noimce in favor of thrir Christ ; but he did not count upon the influ- ence that the enemies of Jesus exercised over the people. The chief- Mi I f 2«o :" RELEASING THE GUILTY. priests and the ancients of the people persuaded the multitude to ask for Barabbas, and to demand the death of Jesus. ;. <■ » '• " That multitude of men without any profession, being no doubt seduced by the brilliant promises that were made to them by the chief-priests, began to cry out that he should deliver Barabbas. Pilate could hardly believe what he heard, and he put the question to them again : * Behold, which of the two do you wish me to deliver to you ? ' And they all answered : ' Barabbas : deliver Barabbas to us, and put the other to death.' n : - " It was for Jesus the height of ignominy to see Himself compared with a robber, and to hear the people prefer that wretch to Him. Pilate, beside himself, cried out : * What shall I do with Jesus that^ is called Christ ? What do you wish me to do with him who is called King of the Jews ? ' The populace redoubled their clamors, and cried out : " Crucify him ! crucify him 1 ' The governor then said to them, for the third time : * Why, what evil hath he done ? I find that he has done nothing worthy of death. I will scourge him and then send him away.' " Pilate, who desired to save Jesus, returned to his first plan of escape, which was to make a concession to the people, by inflicting upon the accused some punishment, after which he would set him at liberty. But the people cried out the more : * Crucify him ! crucify him!' --v -,,^^,.. ,.^,..•. ,.,,. ..«..,.,.• ......,.,, .,-,.,-„-.,,,,..., ..,,„. BEHOLD THE MAN ! iti-Kryi:; " Pilate then took Jesus and ordered Him to be scourged. This torture, which generally preceded tne crucifixion among the Romans, was intensely cruel. They struck the sufferer with a whip, formed of several straps of leather, at the end of which were attached small pieces of lead or iron. To increase the sufferings of the unfortunate man whom they forced to undergo this torture, they obliged him to present himself naked to the waist : his body was bent, and his hands were fastened to a ring in a stone column, about half a yard in height. Jesus, in this position, let them tear and mutilate His body, without making the least complaint. This barbarous punishment, which they inflicted on the greater number of criminals, was not sufficient to satisfy the hatred of the enemies of Jesus. They wished for hinj an exceptional torture, and they added to his sufferings the most revolt- ing ignominies. Pilate's soldiers took Uinii and led Him into tl»c A PROPHETIC HISTORY. 2M yard attached to the judgment-hall, and, as they knew that He was accused of making Himself a king, they devised among themselves how to make of Him a theatrical king, so as to overwhelm Him with outrage and confusion. The whole cohort were assembled there. They took off His garments, and dressed Him in a purple robe, and jilaiting a crown of thorns, they put it upon His head, and in His light hand they placed a reed, in the place of a sceptre. Then, turn- ing to deride His royalty, they knelt down in His presence, and, while railing and blaspheming, they mockingly cried out : ' Hail, King of the Jews ! ' Then they slapped His face, and taking the reed which He held in His hand, they stnick Him with it, and pressed down the crown of thorns, which they had placed on His head. Then spitting in His face, they prostrated themselves again on the ground, pretending to adore Him. " Pilate witnessed all these atrocities. His cowardice tolerated them, in spite of the remorse of his conscience. He hoped that the people, having surfeited, on the innocent accused, their brutal anger, would be satisfied to let Jesus go. He left the judgment-hall, and said to the Jews: 'Behold, I bring forth Jesus unto you, that you may know that I find no fault in Him.' Jesus then came forth, wearing the purple garment, and bearing the crown of thorns. Pilate, presenting Him to the people, enrobed with these insignia of derisive royalty, said : ' Behold the Man.' It was, in fact, the Man of Sorrows, such as the prophet Isaiah had seen in the future, when he cried out: * Yes, we have seen Him ; but He could no longer be recognized. We have asked ourselves, standing before Him, if He was really the Man of the right hand of God, the Son of Man, in whom the eternal Father had placed all His pleasure. We looked at Him, and He ap- peared despised, and the most abject of nien, a Man of Sorrows and acquainted with infirmity. We turned our eyes away, so as not to see Him. Surely He hath borne our infirmities, and carried our sorrows. And we have thought Him as it were a leper, and as one Etruck by God and afflicted. Brt He was wounded for our iniqui- ties : He was bruised for our sins : the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His bruises we are healed.' " If there was one sad but sublime moment in the life and passion of the Man-God, it was when the Roman governor presents Him to the multitude, covered with wounds and blood, with these words, ^Behold tht Man I* Ah ! yes : behold our model and our consolation 1 i K' li '<\ r i 282 .tr A COWARDLY GOVERNOR. THE SENTENCE. " When Jesus appeared, wearing His crown of thorns, and covered v/ith spittle and blood, and looking as though ignominy and suffering had been contending for the mastery, the chief-priests and their ser- vants were not moved to conij)assion as Pilate had hoped ; but they' began to cry out more earnestly than before . ' Crucify him ! crucify him ! ' Pilate said : * Take him you, and crucify him ; for I find no harm in him.' The Jews answered him : * We have a law, and, according to that law, he ought to die ; because he made himself the Son of God.' When Pilate heard these words, he feared the more to condemn Him : as he was a pagan, perhaps he feared that Jesus was the son of some God unknown to him, and that, by condemning Him, he might excite the anger of Heaven against himself. He entered into the hall again to ask Jesus from whence He was, and what was His origin, doubtless wishing to discover what divinity he was in relation with , but there was such a distance between the Christian doctrine and the superstitions of the pagans, that Jesus gave him no answer. Pilate therefore said to him : * Speakest thou not to me ? Knowest thou not that I have power to crucify thee, and I have power to release thee ? ' These words were more than enough to intimidate an ordinary criminal ; but Jesus replied : " Thou couldest have no power at all over me, unless it were given thee from above. Thou committest a fault ; but the traitor who hath delivered me to thee, hach committed a gieater one.' Pilate sought to release Him. The words of Christ must have excited remorse in his conscience, which must have reproached him for his cowardly prevarications. He knew that Jesus was innocent, and yet he had had the cruelty to order Him to be scourged, and to expose him to all the injuries and outrages of the populace, and at last he told the Jews to take Him and put Him to death, as though a magistrate has a right to allow others to commit an evil action, which he does not wish to commit himself But he had not even the strength to persevere in this way ; for the Jews having cried out, * If thou let this man go, thou art not Caesar's friend : whoso- ever inaketh himself king, speaketh against Caesar,' — it seemed to him then that he saw an accusation of treason hanging over his head. He knew the suspicious character of Tiberius, and he knew how easy U XvQuld be to ruin him in the mind of that emperor. On the other ■ -^WipilR"' THE CURSE OF BLOOD. 283 hand, he was aware that the domination of the Romans was not firmly established in Judea ; for when he came to Jerusalem to take possession of his government, he was obliged to take off his eagles and to uncrown his ensigns, so as not to excite an insurrection among the people, who saw in these badges the images of idolatry. Here the religious feelings of the people were engaged ; they reproached Jesus for having called Himself the son of God : they accused Him ah (» of blasphemy ; and he feared, in resisting the people, to excite a sedi tion, the infallible consequence of which would be the dismissal of the governor. a !,j' i.t cf:.:> : iw.^f- " Agitated by the fear of losing his place, Pilate returned to his tri- bunal, brought forth Jesus, and sat down in the judgment-seat, on an elevated mosaic platform. He said to the Jews : ' Behold your king ! ' But they cried out : * Away with him ! away with him ! cru- cify him ! • Pilate answered them : ' Shall I crucify your king ? ' The chief-priests responded : ' We have no other king but Ciesar.' " At that word Pilate was congealed with fear. Seeing that he could not prevail on the multitude to relent, and that, if he deferred sen- tence, the tumult would only increase, he called for some water, and washed his hands before the people, saying : * I am innocent of the blood of this just man, look you to u.' It was an ancient custom, to wash one's hands, in order to show that one took no part in some- thing that was going on. Pilate had in vain recourse to this miser- able subterfuge, for thereby it was no less manifest that all the respon- sibility of the sentence would fall upon liim. In delivering Jesus to his enemies, his hands were dyed with his blood. In vain did he wash them : they were forever to remain soiled with that inefface- able stain. ** The Jews took upon themselves the responsibility of this deicide ; for, when Pilate asked them if they wished to take the weight of this crime upon themselves, all the people responded : " His blood be upon us, and upon our children ! " This terrible imprecation has been but too well fulfilled. The blood of the Just One fell first upon them ; for the generation which put Jesus to death had to support all the norrors of the siege of Jerusalem, by the Roman armies under Titus. It fell then upon their descendants ; for the constant dispersion of the Jewish nation, renders it a living witness, which has transmitted through centuries the reahzation of these fearful words. Pilate, too weak not to yield to the wishes of the people, released Barabbas, who had been 284 THE INFAMOUS CROSS. put in irons for murder and rebellion, and delivered Jesus to the Jcv/a to be crucified. THE EXECUTION. ' '..>''.'<'' I '( '■•■•"'I " The execution on the cross was the most terrible and most igno- minious of all punishments. The unfortunate being who was con- demned to it, was forced to carry his cross himself. When they came to the place where he was to be put to death, they fastened him to the gibbet with nails, which they forced through his hands and his feet. They would often bind the condemned with cords, so as to prevent their springing, in moments of convulsive pain, out of the attitude in which they had been placed. The Romans reserved this punishment for slaves and the greatest felons. The law did not permit it to be inflic'ed on a Roman citizen for any crime whatsoever. One of the prjetorf. in Sicily, Verres, had the audacity to crucify a Roman citizen. Cicero represents this action as the blackest and foulest that it ever entered the mind of man to commit. He seems at a loss for words, sufficiently strong, to stigmatize as it deserved such an outrage. He calls it a violation of the public liberty and of the majesty of the empire. In the eyes of the Jews punishment of the cross was not less abject than it was in the eyes of the Romans. The Mosaic law anathema- tizes the criminal subjected to it : ' Cursed by God be he who is hung to a gibbet' It was this death, which was cursed by God and exe- crated by man, that the parricidal Jews wished to inflict upon their king. Pilate's soldiers, after they had made sport of Jesus, took off the scarlet mantle which they had thrown upon his shoulders, and putting on his own garments, they led him away to the place which is called Calvary, and, in Hebrew, Golgotha. ** It was about nine o'clock in the morning, at the moment they offered up the perpetual morning sacrifice, that Jesus, taking his cross on his shoulders, traversed, the city of Jerusalem with this heavy burden. In going out of the city, as he appeared worn out with fatigue, the soldiers stopped a Cyrenian, named Simon, who hap- pened to pass by, returning to the city. At that time, there were a great many Jews at Cyrene, which was the capital of one of the African provinces, and it was nothing strange that these foreigners should be at Jerusalem. This man was the father of Alexander and Rufus, two disciples of jcsus. Simon, not knowing what they wished TEARS OF COMPASSION. 285 of him, at first made some objection, wlien they asked him to help Jesus. He did not wish to take part in an act of which his consci- ence disapproved ; but the soldiers seized hijn, and he no longei resisted. He knew the adage, which was then too much in vogue in those countries conquered by the Romans : ' If a soldier imposes on thee a burden, resist not, murmur not, otherwise thou wilt be broken to pieces with blows.' He accepted thert fore with resig- nation the part of the cross that they put u])on his shoulders. " Jesus saw on His last journey a multitude of people who weie in consternation at seeing Him go up to be execu> d. Doubtless, it was composed of the same men who had received Him in triumph a few days before. Their hearts still retained the same sentiments ; but seeing Him surrounded by a Roman cohort in presence of the principal personages of the Jewish nation, they dared not manifest their thoughts, and they contented themselves with expressing them by silent moans and groans, In the midst of this compassionate crowd, could be heard the sobbings of pious women, who did not fear to give external signs of their sorrow. Jesus, turning towards them, and with a gentleness all divine, said to them : * Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For behold the days shall come, wherein they will say : 'Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that have not borne, and the paps that have not given suck.' They will cry out, in those days, to the mountains : * Fall on us,' and to the hills : * Cover us, and hide us from the vengeance of an irritated God.' That vengeance will be terrible ; for if they treat the green wood thus, what shall be done to the dry? which signifies, * If the just man is delivered to all the tor- ments that I endure, what ought the wicked and the impious to ex- pect?' These words alluded to the destruction of Jerusalem, which Jesus had several times predicted, and which occurred thirty-seven years after His passion. " Jesus ascended the mountain, accompanied by two robbers, who were to be crucified with Him. It was the custom among the Romans, to write out on a tablet the causes of the condemnation of those whom they led to execution, and to fasten it around the neck of the condemned, or to have the cause proclaimed aloud, by a herald, who preceded them. Pilate himself dictated the writing which should be placed above the cross of Jesus. He made them inscribe these words, 'Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews ; ' which has since been 286 THE KING OF THE JEWS. expressed by the Latin initials, I. N. R. I. He wished thereby to in. dicate that Jesus had been the victim of a political accusation, and that He hai' condemned Him for having wished to make an attempt against the power of Cresar, by calling himself King of the Jews. " An imaginary crime, if there ever was one ; since the Jews had no thought of this accusation at first, and had only brought it up when they despaired of their case, because they saw that it was the only means of inducing Pilate to condemn Him. The chief-priests, seeing this inscription, feared that it might be taken to the letter, as an affirmation, and they said to Pilate : 'Write not, The King of the Jews ; but that He said, I am the King of the Jews.' The Roman governor would not yield to this sort of scruple, and he answered them : ' What I have written, I have written, and I will not have it changed.' This inscription was written in Hebrew, in Greek, and in Latin. Latin was the tongue of the judge who had sentenced Him, and as Judea was subjected to the Roman domination, there was a certain number of inhabitants who spoke the language of the con- queror. After the Captivity, the Hebrew had remained the sacred language of the Jews, but many of the people spoke Greek, since the reign of the Seleucides. They put the inscription in these three tongues, that it might be read with equal facility by citizens and strangers. ** According to the Talmud, while the Jews were going up to Calvary, they carried His tablet before him, which announced the cause of His condemnation, and they proclaimed, in a loud voice, that He was a seditious person, and had tried, by His witchcraft, to seduce Israel, and to urge the people to disobedience, and that He had brought down upon himself the indignation of Caesar, for having wished to usurp his royalty. When they arrived at Calvary, at the place where they were going to crucify Him, they gave Him wine to drink, mixed with gall and myrrh. It was the custom, when there was any one going to be crucified, to present this drink to him, which had the oower of benumbing the victim, so as to prevent his feeling all the »riolence of his pain. The ladies of Jerusalem prepared this bever- age, out of compassion for the unfortunate creatures who were to be executed. This drink was presented to Jesus, who tasted it, and then refused to drink, no doubt disdaining this artificial means of al leviating His sufferings. He wished to drink the chalice of suffering to the very dregs, without seek ing any relief. THE CRUCIFIXION. 287 " They fastened Jesus to the cross, at the same time that they dia the two robbers who accompanied him. They placed Him in the centre, and one robber on His right hand and the other op His left, and so was the prophecy fulfilled which said : ' They pierced his hands and his feet, and they counted all his bones ; He was ranked among the wicked.' Instead of demanding vengeance for such infa- my, Jesus said : ' Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' " It was towards the sixth hour, which is to say, towards noon, that Jesus was fastened to the cross. After they crucified him, the sol- diers thought of profiting by the spoils. The Ropian law permitted the executioners to take possession of the clothing of those whom they put to death. In the provinces, the local authorities habitu- ally required an armed force to execute capital sentences. The sol- diers who filled the office of constables or executioners, had naturally the advantage over the others. Thos^ who crucified Jesus made four parts of his garments, one for each of them ; for we learn from Poly- bins, that a detached picket was always composed of four men. They took his tunic, and as it was without seam, but woven whole from the top to the bottom, they said among themselves : ♦ Let us not cut it, but let us cast lots for it ; ' and they thus fulfilled, without, know- ing it, these words in the scripture : * They divided my garments among them, and on my clothing they cast lots.' After that, the soldiers sat down near Jesus, to watch him, for fear that his disciples should seek to detach him from the cross, and carry him away. " The populace, which had demanded his death, stood there and looked on, with a most barbarous ferocity, at his blood, as it flowed from his wounds. Those who passed by, began blaspheming Him, and saying, while they shook their heads : * Bah ! thou that destroy- est the temple of God, and in three days dost rebuild it, save thyself I If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross ! ' These in- sults were the literal fulfilment of the words that David put into the moath of Jesus, nearly a thousand years before : ' Those who saw me scoffed at my misery : they shook their heads, and they opened their lips to blaspheme me.' " But, what was most astonishing, the chief-priests, the priests, the elders, and doctors of the law were not satisfied with surfeiting their eyes on the sufferings of him whose ruin they had sworn, but, in their blind hatred, they carried their vileness so far as to insult him and I \ 388 SCENES ON CALVARY. outrage him on the tross, even at the moment that his strength was failing and while he was breathing his last sigh. ' He saved others,' they mockingly cried, * but himself he cannot save. If he is the king of Israel, let him come down from the cross, and we will believe in him If he is the Messiah, the beloved of God, now is the time to show his power. He trusted in God : very well, if God loves him, let him deliver him now. He ought to expect it, since he said he was the son of God.' These blasphemies were only the echo of the words that the Psalmist had used, in speaking of the Messiah, re- duced to the last extremity of humiliation and suffering : ' My ene- mies mocked me, and cried out : * He trusted in the Lord, let the Lord now come to his help : if it is true that he loves him, let him deliver him from the hands of his tormentors.' " The Roman soldiers, who had made sport of Jesus before they nailed Him to the cross, mingled their insults and mockeries with those of the Jews, and they, too, cried out : ' If thou art the King of the Jews save thyself.' One of the thieves who were crucified with Jesus, broke out into a sort of infuriate blasphemy, saying : ' If thou be Christ, save thyself, and save us with thee.' But the other answered hiai, and rebuked him, saying: 'Dost thou not fear God either,, seeing that thou art under the same condemnation ? For us, indeed, it is justice, for we are but receiving the reward due to our crimes ; but this man hath done no evil.' Then, turning towards Jesus, he said ; ' Lord, remember me when thou shalt come into thy kingdom.' Jesus answered: 'Amen: I say to thee, this day ihou shalt be with me in Paradise.' A mother's agony. " When Simeon took the infant Jesus into his arms, he predicted that He was set up for the ruin and salvation of many in Israel. This separation of those who were to be lost and those who were to be saved, began on the cross itself, in the persons of these two thieves, who were the co.npanions of His execution. " Mary, the mother of Jesus, was at the foot of the cross, with the holy women. During the preaching of Jesus, His mother remained in isolation and obscurity, and had no share in the renown that His doctrine and miracles had won for him throughout Judea. This humble woman only presented herself once to her Son, when he was drawing a crowd aiound Him by the brightness and power of Hii •• BEHOLD TMY MOTHER." 289 word ; but, according to the gospel, Jesus was fcr from engaging her to follow him, because he desired to teacli man that tliere was a time in his life when he should leave his father and his mother, to devote himself entirely to his calling. But when this heroic woman knew that the time of His preaching had ended, and that the hour of His sacrifice had come, she left Galilee and came to Jerusalem, to associate herself with Him in His passion. She partook of all His injuries, suffered all His pains, and saw herself, as it were, with Him, insulted at the house of the high-priest, abandoned by Pilate, de- spised by Herod, dragged through the streets of Jerusalem, and cruci- tied on Calvary. What is marvellous is, that Mary, wounded ia her mother's heart by the most excruciating suff^ering and humilia- tion, at the sight of her son nailed to a cross between two thieves, nevertheless preserves a constancy of soul and a serenity of counte- nance, which enables her to stand up, at the same time that she feels, with Jesus, all the violent convulsions of His most painful agony. Jesus, in seeing His mother, at the foot of His cross, noticed her at the same time that he did John, His beloved disciple. He only addressed them a few words, which were, in some respects, his last will and testament. Not wishing to leave His mother alone on earth, He told her to adopt John for her son, and told John to adopt Mary for his mother. ' Woman,' said he to the Holy Virgin, as he threw a glance on John, * behold thy son ; ' and then, ga/ing on Mary, he said to John : 'Behold thy mother.' "When her divine Son uttered these words, the heart of Mary was pierced by a sword, as predicted by the venerable Simeon, soon after the birth of Jesus. It was indeed a precious legacy that Jesus made to John, in confiding to his tender friendship his own mother, the dearest thing to him of all he had on earth. The grateful dis- ciple understood it, and, from that moment, he took Mary to his home, and surrounded her with all the veneration which was due to the mother of God. *' Christians consider that this legacy was made to them, in the per- son of John, and the devotion to the Virgin, which is spread through- out the church, has its origin, like that to Christ, on Calvary itself. For it rests on that testament of Jesus, who gives to Mary the human race for her family, at the same time that he adopted all its members as His own brothers, in permitting all men to call his mother their mother. • 13 290 DESOLATION. » i NATURE PROTESTS. f w "When Jesus bade His mother and St. John, farewell, :t was about noon. The sun was obscured and darkness was spread over the whole earth until three p.m. This darkness cannot be attributed to an eclipse of the sun, as an eclipse of the sun is impossible during the full moon, and the feast of the Passover was always celebrated in March, during the full moon. It is not better explained by the effect of an earthquake, or by other natural causes. This obscurity did not reign over Judea alone ; for St. Justin and Tertullian appeal, in relation to this fact, to the annalists of the empire, who had taken note of it ; and it was this which caused the martyr Lucian to say to the Romans : * I appeal to the sun, which vailed its face from the view of the iniquities on earth. Read your own annals, and you will find that, during the time of Pilate, when Christ suffered, the sun withdrew, — and, in full mid-day, darkness took the place of light.' " At three o'clock in the afternoon, Jesus cried, with a loud voice, saying : ♦ Eli, Eli, lamma sabachthani ? ' which is the Hebrew for, ' My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ? ' These words are the beginning of the twenty-first Psalm, in which David painted, m the most vivid manner, the sufferings that Ch-ist was to endure. The chief priests, the doctors, and the elders, who knew this Psalm, ought to have been penetrated with its meaning, on hearing these prophetic accents, and applied them to what was passing around them. But they were to hear all and not understand : they did not seem to be more struck by this announcement than by many others, and some of those who were there not understanding the Hebrew tongue said, ' Behold, this man called Elias.' Jesus knowing that there only remained one more prophecy to be accomplished, said, * I thirst,' and as there was a vase filled with vinegar at hand, one of those present took a sponge, and plunged it into the vinegar, put it on a reed, and gave it to Him to drink, saying to those around, as he presented the sponge to His lips : ' Stay, let us see if Elias come to take Him down ; ' and those who were there, repeated the same words. Jesus, having taken the vinegar, fulfilled what was said of Him by the Psalmist : * They gave me gall to eat, and vinegar to drink,' AH the propliecies l)eii\^ ihen ftilQlled, Jesus said : ' // is THE SON JF GOD.' 291 i voice, ;w for, words tainted, :ndure. [Psalm, these around iid not others, ebrew .t there lid, *I lone of it it on i, as he ;ome to le same said of legar to « Tt h consummated.^ He then cried out again, in a loud voice : ' Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit ; ' and, after pronouncing these words, He bowed his head, and gave up the ghost. •* The vail of the temple was rent in twain, from the top to the bottom, and the Holy of Holies, which was the innermost part of the Jewish temple, where the ark was kept, into which the high-priost entered but once a year, on the day of the feast of the Expiation, was uncovered, to indicate that the ceremonies of the old law were to give place to the realities of the new. Nature, which seemed to have gone into mourning a few hours before this event, was at that moment delivered from tlie obscurity which weighcil over her; but, in the place of this prodigy, were substituted terrible signs, whicii announced the greatneis of the Crucified. The earth quaked, and the rocks were rent, and the graves yawned, and many bodies of the saints that had slept, arose, and, coming out of the tombs after their resurrection, came into Jerusalem, and appeared to many who had known them. " The Pharisees and the Sadducees had often said to Jesus, during the course of His evangelical preaching, that, if He would cause a mira- culous sign to come down from Heaven, they would believe in Him. Christ, at His death,*gave them signs from Heaven, by enveloping the earth at mid-day in a profound darkness, which could not have been produced by any natural cause. He also gave them signs in th'i Temple, and on earth, which surpassed the other miraculous pheno- mena told in the history of His life. But all these signs did not de- tach them, in the least, from their incredulity. It was not so with the centurion, or Roman captain, and they that were with him, watch- ing Jesus. This officer was standing in front of the cross, and, seeing what had happened, and hearing Jesus' dying words, he rendered glory unto God, and said : ' Indeed, this was a just man : he was truly the son of God.' So when the multitude of those who had been present there, and had witnessed all that had happened, felt the earth quake, and heard these words : ' He was truly the son of God,' the most of them went away, sobbing and striking their breasts^ at the thought of the great crime that had been committed." 293 THE LIVING GOSPEL. CHAPTER LVIIL NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. — I LOSE MY SAINTLY INSTRUCTOR. *l .1; t One day in reading I was delighted with the argument of Napoleon 1. proving with cogent logic from the Characteristics of Christianity, that its founder must have been divine : — " Christianity," says he, " has an advantage over all philosophies and over all religions. Christians do not deceive themselves with re- gard to the nature of things. Thej cannot be reproached with the subtlety nor charlatanism of the ideologists, who believe they have solved the great enigmas of theological questions, by vain disserta- tions on these great subjects. Imbeciles ! whose folly is like that of a child who wishes to touch Heaven with its hands, or who from curi- osity asks for the moon as a plaything. " Christianity says, with simplicity : * No one has seen God except God. God has revealed what He is. His revelation is a mystery, such as reason or the mind cannot comprehend ; but, since God has spoken, He must be believed.^ This is good common sense. The gospel has a secret virtue, an indescribable efficacy, a warmth, which acts on the understanding and which charms the heart. The gospel is not a book. It is a living thing, with an expansive power, which overwhelms everything that opposes its spread. One never wearies of reading it, and every day one reads it with the same pleasure Christ does not vary : He never hesitates in His teaching, and the shghtest affirmation by Him is marked with a seal of simplicity and depth which captivates both the ignorant and the learned, however little they may pay attention to it. " Nowhere else than in the gospel can be found that series of sublime ideas, of beautiful moral maxims, which open out like the battalions of the celestial host, and which produce — in our souls — the same sentiments that we experience, when we consider the infinite extent of Heaven, resplendent, on a beautiful summer's night, with the glitter of the stars. When we study it, our mind is not only filled, but governed by it, and the soul never runs any risk of going astray with this book. " Once master of our mind, the gospel captivates our heart. God I AM GOD. 29} Himself is our friend. Our God is truly our Father. A mother takes no greater care of the child which she nourishes. The soul, captivated by the beauty of the gospel, no longer belongs to itself God takes entire possession of it. He directs its thoughts and its faculties ; it is His. What a proof of the divinity of Christ ! With such an absolute empire, He has but one object, — the spiritual amelio- ration of men, purity of conscience, union with that which is true the sanctity of the soul. Finally, here is my last argument ; There is not a God in Heaven, if a man could conceive, and execute with such perfect success, the gigantic design of appropriating to himself the supreme worship, by usurping the name of God. Jesus is the only one who ever dared to do it. He is the only one who has plainly said, I am God; which is quite different from that affirma- tion, *I am a God;' or of that other, 'These are Gods.' History does not mention that any other individual qualified himself by the title of God, in the absolute sense. P'able nowhere estab- lishes that Jupiter and the other gods had made themselves Gods. It would have been on their part the fulness of pride, and a monstrosity, an absurd extravagance. It was posterity, the heirs of the first despots, who deified them. All men being of the same race, Alexander could call himself the son of Jupiter, but all Greece laughed at the fraud ; and it was the same with regard to the apotheosis of Ike Roman emperors, which was never a serious thing for the Romans. Mahomet and Confucius gave themselves out to be simply agents of the Divinity. The goddess Egeria of Numa was never anything but the personification of an inspiration, drawn from the solitude of the forests. The Brahma gods of India were a psy- chological invention. A Jew, whose historical existence is better verified than that of any who lived during His time, — the son of a carpenter, is the first and only one, who gives Himself out to be God, the Supreme Being, the Creator of beings ? " He claims for Himself every kind of adoration ; He builds up the temple of His worship with His own hands, not of stones, but of men. " We go into ecstasies over the conquests of Alexaiider ; but here is a Conqueror who appropriates to His own purposes, who unites, who incorporates in Himself, not a nation, but the human race I What a miracle ! The human soul with all its faculties becomes an annexation of the existence of Christ. And how ? By a prodigy which surpasse-. all prodigies 1 He wants the love of men ; that is to 294 THE CONQUEROR OF HEARTS. say, He wants that which is the most difficult thing oil earth to obtain, that which a sage vainly asks of a few friends, a father of his children, a wife of her spouse, a brother of a brother, — in a word, the heart of man: it is that which He wants for Himself; he absolutely exacts it, and He succeeds at once. From this I conclude that he was divine.' " Whenever the Bishop would cease speaking, he always looked faint and weary. There were moments when a death-like pallor would steal over his face ; but, as he never complained, I attributed that ghastly paleness, and that contortion of his features, which he vainly tried to hide, to the emotions of his heart. I knew that he was wedded to God, and to God's church, and he suffered to sec the greater portion of mankind living in open rebellion against the Creator, and I knew that he thirsted to offer up those souls to Jesus. I always dreaded the striking of the hour when he should have to leave, and always hailed with joy the hour appointed for him to re- turn. One day he rose to go. "Good-by, my child," said he, " until we meet again. God has His designs upon you : continue always to pray, and He will give you light." I knelt down to re- ceive his blessing : he gave me his hand, and I kissed his ring. When I arose, my eyes were filled with tears, and yet I could not tell why. I knew that he was going to start that evening for Bor- deaux, but, in a few weeks, he expected to leturn. Still I dreaded to have him leave ; for the convent seemed doubly ^^weet since he had been there. He, too, appeared sad at parting, and, that evening, I followed him out of the chateau and we parted at the garden gate, where he repeated, " May God bless you, my daughter," and then we bade each other a last good-by. A few weeks passed away, but he did not come back. One afternoon I saw Sister Madeleine in the garden gathering fagots. She had a blue check apron on, and, every now and then, I noticed that she raised the corner of her apron to her face, as though she were wiping away her tears. I ran out to her, and begged her to tell me why she wept. Said she : " Go and ask the Rev. Mother ; " but I refused to leave her side, and kept close by her, and began helping her to gather the fagots. At last we reached a spot in the garden, where poor Sister Madeleine gave way to all her filial tenderness, and, stooping down, she kissed the ground beneath her feet, as reverentially as though it had been her crucifix. My heart felt a pang^ and I at once divined the secret : my revered instructor was dead 1 I threw my arms around her neck, and began IN PEACE. 29s to weep as though she had told me all. It was on that spot of earth, which had become so sacred to Sister Madeleine, that the Bishop had stood, when he last spoke to her, when he gave her his parting bless- ing. I knew it, for I saw them. " Oh, madam,'' she exclaimed, "he was a saint ! He sanctified the ground he walked on, he was so much like our Lord." We continued gathering fagots until we reached tlie Sister's little rustic oratory, which was only a statue of the Blessed Virgin, placed on a heap of stones, in one of the angles of the garden. But she had concealed the stones by evergreens and moss. There we both knelt down, and I began to implore our Lord to ha\ nercy on me ; but Sister Madeleine's guardian angel must have tc iier that I was not jjraying as I should, for she leaned towards me and softly said : " Pray for him : it will make him happy, he took such an interest in your salvation, and he will not forget you now." - - The Sister's words filled my soul with joy, and the statue of the Mother of God brought the good Bishop vividly before me. I had already felt how sweet it was to pray for that mother I had never loved ; but, in that garden, before that little rustic altar, I felt, for the first time, how it is doubly sweet to pray for those whose memory we revere and cherish ; and Madam Xavier's words seemed to fall once more on my ears, " It is a good and wholesome thing to jiray for the dead." I rose from my knees consoled, and so did Sister Madeleine, for we both felt that he was happy. We knew that he had sent in advance his heart and his treasures there where stability reigns, and that when Death came he must have welcomed it as he would a sister upon waking ; because for him it was sleep that ended, it was life that began, and the eternal day that dawned. ■'?':' * • ■ .■'iJ.;--,.".' "i---«v ,!.;'■ ,■ f - ^t-'i ,- ' iV: , ; '^r ' * {'/;'..„■' '■ 1. I, i./;r^ ',..._»;.;:- . ;t.'- \ i ■' » i ■.''A-.;W; "ii --■•.'-■i^i '^yi:*i-;- > >\ i. CHAPTER LIX. ^. 'r f f^\'. j: :'- . Li MY NEW TEACHER. ucifix. ,'ered 1 began A FEW days after the Bishop left for Bordeaux the Rev. Mother introduced me to the Cur6 of St. Mand^, who was to undertake the arduous task of teaching me the Catholic doctrine. The Bishop had laid a good foundation, however, for the curi to build upon ; for, with* ;i 296 THE PROMISED REDEEMER. out having had the instructions of the Bishop I doubt if I could have been able to comprehend anything tiiat the curi tried to teach me. He explained to me all the essential dogmas of the church, those which embarrass Protestants and infidels, and wiiich they find most difficult to understand. He also siioke to me a great deal about the ?2nglish Church and its constitution, because he saw that I was inclined to believe that that church was as much God's church as was the Church of Rome. " We, Roman Catholics," he said, " believe in one God, who is the creator, legislator, and judge of the whole universe. We believe that man was created for God, and that all God requires of man is that he should love, honor, and serve Him ; and by loving, honoring; and serving God, man saves his soul. We believe that all things upon earth were created for man, to aid him in the pursuit of this end for which he was created. We believe that man ought to make use of the things of this earth only inasmuch as they assist him in loving, honoring, and serving God, and that he ought to abstain from them whenever they cause him to deviate or depart from the straight road which leads to the accomplishment of the end for which he was created. " In the beginning God conversed with man, and gave him His law. Man was happy until he disobeyed that law. God foresaw all the miseries and misfortunes which man's disobedience would entail upon the human race ; but he left it to man's free will to obey or not to obey. ..,;■.,'■ •.,:;. /f^.v;:^: v- .;^;.i^i■ *^^/.'-f .!>•■ ;■ '' 'v' i- ■ ,;•■■ '■ "After man's disobedience God drove him from Paradise, but did not leave him without hope ; for he gave him to hope that, by repen- tance, he could recover, after death, the Paradise he had lost, and he promised him that the seed of the woman should bruise the ser pent's head. That seed was Jesus Christ, and that won-an was Mary, His mother. After the fall of Adam, God instructed His children by the mouths of His prophets, and those prophets foretold the conv ing of Christ. "Jacob is the first of these prophets. We see him gather around his death-bed his twelve children, to announce to them their destiny in advance. He designates Judah as the father of the Messiah. From that time it was known, that in this tribe would be born the Saviour of men. The illustrious patriarch announced, at the same time, the epoch of His coming. Moses describes Him by saying that He will be like himself, which is to say, the mediator of a new alliance THE PROPHECIES. 297 with God, a legislator, a prophet, and a worker of miracles. The passion of the Messiah is admirably described in the twenty-first Psalm, which begins with the very words that Christ uttered on the cross : " My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me ! " and contains an enumeration of all His sufferings. Ezekiel announced that His work would be weak in the beginning, and would afterwards increase. Daniel shows the church to us under the emblem of a little stone, which detaches itself from a mountain, without any human agency ; but all at once its proportions increase to such an extent that it be- comes a substitute for the Roman empire, which disappears from the effects of concussion with it. It struck the Colossus, and the Colos- sus was reduced to powder. "The passion of Christ, with all His humiliations and all His suffer- ings, was particularly foretold by David, Isaiah, and Zachariah. They announced that the Jews would not recognize Him who had been so ardently desired by their fathers, that they would prove towards Him unfaithful, ungrateful, and perfidious. They saw that He would be betrayed and sold, that they would spit in His face, that He would be buffeted, mocked, afflicted in an infinity of ways, that he would drink gall, that they would pierce His hands and His feet, that they would put Him to death, and that they would cast lots for His ganments. They also saw that, after all these humiliations, He would come forth glorious out of His tomb ; that kings and potentates would arm and league themselves against the society which He would found ; that, after these terrible persecutions. He would be victorious over His enemies ; that the kings of the earth and all the peoples would adore Him ; while the Jews, still continuing to deny Him, would live wan- dering and dispersed amidst other nations, without kings, without a prophet, waiting for salvation, but finding it not. 1 " The mission of Christ was to establish a church. He came as an instructor, a legislator, and a ruler. " Christ is the Word of God, and is God, just as much as, and more than, your own understanding is of the very essence of your soul, and, in fact, is your soul understanding itself and all other things, that it knows. The Son of God is the Wisdom of God, with which the Father knows Himself and all things ; and the Holy Spirit is the Love of the Father and the Son. God loved the world, and He sent His Son to teach mankind, by word and example, how to be- come His children. Christ came to deliver mankind from the evili 13* 298 THE MESSIAH. i that the (lis. obedience of our first parents entailed upon us. All thos« who were born before His coming could be saved only through tha hope of His coming, and by living in obedience to the law of nature, and, in the case of the Jews, to the ceremonial law as made known to them by Moses their legislator. " God the Son took to himself man's nature ; but His personality is necessarily that of His divine nature. On earth there are as many persons as there are human beings, yet there is but one abstract hu- man nature. In the Godhead there arc three persons, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. These are one in nature, not merely in some abstract sense, but in concrete being, and therefore they are not only perfectly equal in all things, but are one simple Being. ** Jesus came to establish His kingdom on earth. The Jews were expecting Him ; for the time had come for the Christ to appear, as foretold by the prophets. He came ; but the Jews did not recognize Him, because of their avarice and pride, which blinded them. Most of the Jews imagined that the redemption which was to be operated by Christ was merely terrestrial. They took in a material sense the words of the prophets, and believed that the Messiah would deliver them from foreign bondage, and would establish Israel in her ancient splendor, by giving them back their liberties. Others expected that he would come arrayed in all his robes of celestial grandeur ; they were not willing to recognize the son of Joseph, the carpenter, as the One who was to deliver them from the chains of bondage. On account of the hardness of their heart, they were insensible of their real bondage. They only sought to be delivered of the yoke that the Roman conquerors had imposed upon them. They little cared to be delivered from the bondage of sin, which would doom them to everlasting punishment. Christ came, that their eyes might be oi)ened, and that they might see the light and follow it. He came to found His kingdom in the world. His kingdom is not 0/ the world, but it is in the world. Therefore the kingdom which Christ established on earth is a real thing, but not a state creation, nor an engine of temporal government. That kingdom which is the mystical body of Christ, is the holy Catholic Church, which is dis- persed throughout the whole world, and is governed by spiritual officers, who derive their title and their power to govern it, from tha exf ress grant of our Lord to His apostles. " It was on the occasion of His eighth apparition after His resur* THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 299 reclion, that our Lord gave His apostles this title to govern Hi3 kingdom. He gives them to understand that He receives His au- thority from God, in these words, — * All power is given to me iu Heaven and on earth.' Then He adds : ' Go therefore and teach all nations. Behold I am with you all days, even unto the end of the world.' In a previous apparition, Jesus designated Peter as the chief Shepherd, and He gave him, by this title, universal and sovereign power which extends over all Christians. Here He gives to all Hi&' apostles a similar but subordinate power to feed His sheep, as He gives them their mission to teach all nations, promising to be v;ith them until the end of the world. After Christ pronounced these words, the kingdom of God was established. But the kingdom which He founded is not like the kingdom of the world. For its object is not the possession of earthly things : it is a spiritual kingdom, which ought to exercise its power over minds and hearts. " The apostles will reign, but they will only reign by the power of their word, by teaching men what they ought to believe and practise. Their dogmatic teachings will enlighten men's minds, while their moral precepts will regulate their wills. This kingdom of Christ is a universal kingdom. It is not to be, like Judaism, enclosed within the limits of any particular country. The barriers of nationality are to be thrown down before the preaching of the Gospel ; and this Gospel is to be announced to the poor as well as to the rich, to the learned as well as to the illiterate, to the gentiles as well as to the Jews ; for, in the eyes of Christ, and of His disciples, there will no longer be — according to the expression of St. Paul — either Greeks or barbarians ; all mankind will be as one family, and the members are to have the same right to a celestial inheritance. This kingdom is a perpetual kingdom, whose duration is to equal that of Humanity. Jesus, in His quality of Son of God, rises above all time and all space. All human works partake of the infirmities of man ; for, like, him, they are fragile and perishable. But the work of Christ should be indefectible. It will see storms and hurricanes hurl themselves against it ; it will be the object of violent persecutions ; but Jesus promised His apostles that they should triumph over all obstacles, and that His church, which is His kingdom, shall last until the con- summation of ages." I begged the cur& to tell me what proofs he could give that Christ gave to the Catholic hierarchy the power to govern His kingdom, 300 FORGIVKNESS OF SINS. I any more th>m He did the Episcopalian Church, or the Churcl of England. Said he : " I cannot make you understand that until I shall have proved to you that ours is the only true church ; and I can only do so by first convincing you of the divine authority of the church* " Christ was sent by God : therefore He received His authority from Cod ; and He tranr.niitted His authority to His apostles. 'As the Father hath sent me, so,' said He, 'I send you.' (John xx. 21.) He was speaking to His apostles, and He gave that power to them — • which was not giving it to every man throughout Judea, — and they transmitted the authority they received from Christ to their sue- C(;ssors by ordination as well as by election. He also gave His apostles the power to remit sin ; for, after His resurrection, He breathed on them, saying, ' Whose sins you shall forgive, they are for- given ; and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained.' (John XX. 23.) No one has the right to remit sins unless he receive that power from the successors of the apostles, and we know by history and trailition that we Catholic priests alone are their rightful suc- cessors." ** Tell me," said I, "how it is done." "Why, God makes man the instrument of His power, as He did Moses and Aaron : the absolu- tion is given by the priest, but the grace that justifies the sinner is given by God." .,* ;•,;: \.- • ...■■.''"•;•■ «,i -v:.'^.^^: •'■'■' ■ '■"' '•■ > i--- ••' "But," said I, "we, dissenters, look upon the power that man has to forgive sins as a very convenient thing. We can sin as much as we please : all we have to do is to go and confess it, and then we are absolved." " How little," he replied, " you understand our religion. Auricu- lar confession, instead of promoting sin, is the most powerful help to l)revent it. A priest cannot absolve a penitent, unless the penitent, iiaving confessed all the sins he is conscious of, has a sincere contri- tion and a determination to sin no more. Whenever the penitent brings to the confessional these conditions, the priest grants him ab- solution, and that absolution is registered in heaven. If, however, the penitent has not these conditions, his confession and the absolu- tion of the priest, instead of benefiting him, redound to his greater condemnation. Even the most ignorant Catholic knows that he may, indeed, deceive the priest, but he cannot deceive God. And the greatest proof," added the cure, " I can give you that the con- fessional was established by Christ, when He says to His apostles, GOD'S INSTRUMENTS. 30I •Whose sins ye forgive, they are forgiven ; and whose sins ye retain, they are retained,' is this : that there never has been a priest known, no matter how unworthy he may have been, to ha""ve violated the secrets confi'^'ed to him in the confessional. This standing miracle can be explained only by the fact that God continually watches over the preservation of His work." i • i ..; -' » .:»■. r.,U » " How," said I, ** can a bad priest remit sin ? " x " By that power which he receives from the church, and which the church received from God. The right and effect of spiritual power can be compared with that of temporal power. If a sovereign state give to a bad man the power to forgive certain delinquents their mis- deeds, on condition that they make a stipulated reparation, and the delinquents comply with the terms, the pardon they receive from the bad man is just as effectual as though they received it from a good man ; for ^his agent les not pardon in virtue of a power derived from himself, depending on his own individual merits, but he receives that power from the state. So in the case of the priest : although he be a bad man, the power he has to pardon sins is given to him by the church, and it was given to the church by God. The church gives this power to forgive sinners, after they make a proper reparation, and the spiritual reparation consists in contrition, confession, and, if possible, a satisfaction for the offence, and a sincere determination to do right in future. If a dishonest judge has the power to pardon a malefactor, what difference does it make to that malefactor whether the judge be an honest man or not ? Therefore all sacraments which are administered by bad priests who are invested with authority, are just as efficacious as though they were administered by saints. It does not concern the sinner what the priest is : the sinner must look to his own case, and let the priest attend to his." ^' <• ' ,•,. ■ , .> •''■•,■' v " I have now explained," continued the cur^, '♦ the different sources from which the two churches derive their power. The Church of Eng- land received it from Henry VHI., who usurped spiritual supremacy, and his usurped power was continued to Elizabeth by a body of men called a Parliament. But the Roman Catholic Church received its power from Christ, and the men who received that power from Him confirmed their right to it, by sealing it with their blood. Many of the English people believe that the English Church derives its power from their Bishops. But they can appeal from their Bishops to the crown, which shows that the crown is their head, and source of spirit- ual jurisdiction. Of course they are not willing to admit the real state of things as existing among them, viz. : that the civil power is made the root and source of spiritual jurisdiction ; but all lawyers are agreed that such, as far as law goes, is the actual constitution of the Church of England. When doctrines are disputed within the English Church, the same authority which sits as a Board of Trade will pronounce as a Board of Doctrine. For, what is the supreme tribunal in t/ie affairs of the Church of England ? The Privy Council. And what Is this tribunal ? This court is in its constitution in exact accordance K^ith the original statute 25 Henry VIII., c. 19, which consum- mated the schism and by which the ecclesiastical causes of the church and the realm of England were governed and decided from the days of King Henry (except that it was repealed in 1554, and re- vived in 1559) to those of William the Fourth : It runs thus: *IV. And for lack of justice at or in any of the courts of the Archbishops of this realm, or in any of the king's dominions, it shall be lawful for the parties grieved to appeal to the king's majesty in the king's Court of Chancery ; and that upon every such appeal a commission shall be directed under the Great Seal to such persons as shall be named 3o(3 BOARD OF TRADE AND DOCTRINE. by the king's highness, his heirs, or successors, like as in case of ap- peal from the Admiral's Court, to hear and definitively determine such appeals, and the causes concernntg the same. Which commi* sioners, so by the king's highness, his heirs or successors, to be named or appointed, shall have full power and authority to hear and defi- nitively determine every such appeal, with the causes and all cii-> cumstances concerning the same. And that such judgment or sen tence as the said commissioners shall make and decree, in and upon any such appeal, shall be good and effectual and also definitive ; and no further appeals to be had or made from the said commissioners for the same.' '.fi-> ■:/>■,.■ .■^- -• i-...^;.-'. m- *' The utter absence of all title to apostoUcity must be fatal to any claim of the Church of England to be considered a part or branch of the true church of Christ. The links in the chain of succession to Peter and the apostles have been broken ; as may easily be proved, not merely by the * Nag's Head ' story, but also by radical defects of form and intention in the conferring of orders, even at a later period. But even if the consecration of those bishops were valid, still they could have no jurisdiction after denying the authority of the Chief Pastor, the successor of Peter. By separating from the centre of unity those unfortunate men lost all right and power to watch ovei or guide any portion of the flock which Christ bade Peter to feed." », i'.-r >;:;i,.- i'm.) iii:..jti,i ;; ■m ■ii -.- *i^- ^iw.. THE MYS7 Y OF LOVE. 307 CHAPTER LXI. THE MIRACLE OF MIRACLES. The dogma of Catholic faith which in those days appeared to me most absurd and superstitious was the doctrine of the real presence of Jesus Christ in the eucharist. I asked the curt to give me some explanation of that mystery. His proofs and arguments made me see with a new light that incomprehensible miracle of Christ's love. " In fact," said he, " there is no dogma taught in clearer or more un- mistakable words. Jesus Christ says, ' I am the bread of life.' (John vi. 35 and 48.) ' I am the living bread which came down from heaven : if any man eat of this bread he shall live forever ; and the bread which I will give is my flesh, for the life of the world.' (John vi. 51, 52.) ' Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink his blood, you shall not have life in you. He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath everlasting life ; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He that eatetli my flesh, and drinketh my blood, abidcth in me, and I in him. As the living Father hath sent me, and I live by the Father ; so he that eateth me, the same also shall live by me.' (John vi. 54, 58.) Here you see in plain words what we believe on the subject of the eucharist. We believe that Jesus Christ is the living bread, the food of our immortal souls, (John vi. 35, 48.) We believe that we must feed on the sacred flesh and blood of Christ, in order to obtain eternal life. (John vi. 54, 55.) " Non-Catholics say they cannot understand the real presence, and iherefore will not believe it. Now it is the height of foolishness to pretend that everything must be reduced to the proportions of our narrow understanding. It is silly to have so much confidence ir* our. selves and so little in God. It is as easy for God to conceal His sacred flesh and blood, under the forms or appearances of bread and wine, as it is for Him to conceal His glorious divinity, although every- where present, from our eyes. Christ came to instruct us, and not to deceive us. When He saw that the Jews were shocked, and asked, * How can this man give us his flesh to eat ? ' was not this the op- portunity to undeceive them, and to explain, if He did not mean what 3o8 CHRIST'S OWN MEMORIAL. He said. Instead of this, we find Jesus, after a double amen, which means truly, insisting no less than six times in the most unequivocal manner upon the necessity of receiving His flesh and blood. We find St. Paul (i Cor. xi. 29) condemning the unworthy receiver for not discerning the Lord's body. Surely we could not be required to discern the body of Christ, were it not in the eucharist. "The Church does not teach that that which strikes the senses, changes ; on the contrary, she says that the exterior form, the appear- ance of the bread and the wine, are preserved after the words of con- secration ; that the substance alone is changed. The senses can only conceive its qualities, its attributes, and its accidents, but not the substance. Non-Catholics admit the existence of God, yet they have never seen Him ; and they disbelieve the mystery of the Eucharist, just because they cannot see with their eyes the substance of the body of Jesus Christ, when everybody knows that substances are in- visible, ■il^-i; 'ajrix.*. ,01 ?.. -!.t ...f;j^.!i; jTHtl 'i:< ■ H-'.- 'jj>i. :v,,.1.u:'! THE MASS. if.t .Hi':x .i} .■■,,(■■) ,!.t-:!il 'j■ i ;>.l^•, "1). «.;.'» ,-i I asked him to fully explain to me the Mass, and how it originated, for I had always heard the sacrifice of the mass ridiculed and scoffed at in my country. It appeared to the Protestants, and so it did to myself, like mummery, to see so much parade at the altar, and when watching the different movements and gestures of the priest, we looked upon the whole ceremony as savoring of superstition. Said he : " It appears like mummery and superstition only to those who are totally ignorant of the Bible and its teachings. The mass b a sacrifice, or offering of the body and blood of Christ, under the species of bread and wine. It was instituted by Christ, at His last supper, and its end was that the sacrifice of the cross might be daily represented before our eyes, and the memory of it ever continue, so that the blessed fruits thereof might be continually imparted to us. " The priest, when he says mass, represents the person of Christ, and it is in the name of Jesus Christ, and as His minister, that he offers THE PERPETUAL SACRIFICE. 309 this sacrifice. The words of the consecration are a proof of it; for the priest does not say, ' This is the body of Jesus Christ,' but speak- ing in the person of Jesus Christ, who is the Sovereign Pontiff, who offers this sacrifice, he says : * This is my body.' That is why David and St. Paul call Him a priest forever, according to the order of Melchisedech, Now it would be incorrect, to call Him a priesJ forever, if He offered up only the sacrifice on Calvary ; but He is properly called so, because He offers a perpetual sacrifice to God, and He will not cease to offer it up to Him until the end of time. "While men were seeking to put our Lord to death, He sought to give them life ; and, in order to j^lace it in their power to receive life through Him, He left to His spouse, the visible Church, a visible sac- rifice, which is the offering of the very same Divine Victim under an- other form. This adorable mystery is a sacrament and a sacrifice. It is a sacrifice, inasmuch as it is offered up to God by the priest. Yea, it is the very sacrifice foretold by the prophet Malachy : ' From the rising of the sun to the going down thereof my name is great among the Gentiles, and in every place there is offered up in my name a clean oblation.' > (Malach. i. xi.) After the consecration, and as long as the consecrated particles exist, they constitute the sacrament of the Eucharist. " As a sacrament, the Eucharist is salutary to him who receives it ; it confers on him sanctifying grace and the other advantages which are specially attached to this sacrament, while, as a sacrifice, it is not only salutary to the priest who receives it, but also to all those for whom it is offered. And as the priest, in saying mass, offers up this sacrifice for himself and others, in the same way may those present ofter it up for themselves and for others. As, when a city sends a present to a prince, by deputies, all the inhabitants have a share in the offering, although there is but one among them who speaks ; so, in the sacrifice of the mass, although there is only the priest who speaks, and who offers the sacrifice, all those who assist have a share in the offering, " The mass is a propitiatory sacrifice. The deaf, the dumb, and the blind can take part in it, just as well as the most perfect and learned and enlightened. The sacrifice of the mass is the only form of wor- ship on eartli, in which all hearts and souls can join. God is all justice, all goodness, all mercy ! He foresaw the wants and needs »f every soul, no matter how abject the body which contained it i I 310 MYSTIC SYMBOLISM. II i j might be ; and He instituted a mode of worship, in wliich the learned, the unlearned, the deaf, the dumb, and the blind could join, when they meet together in His sanctuary to offer to Him acceptable worship. The mass, as a sacrifice and a devotion, has til that can satisfy every heart, and can give peace to every soul. " There is not a word, an action, or a ceremony at the mass which does not signify some holy and mysterious thing. The vestments in which the priest is robed, and the ornaments that cover the altar, have all a mysterious signification. The vestments worn at mass are to-day substantially the same as those worn by the people eighteen hundred years ago. The church desires to assimilate the sameness of her customs to the unchangeableness of her doctrines. " As the priest, in saying mass, represents the person of Christ, who is the higli-priest of the new law, and the mass itself represents- His passion, therefore the priest puts on these garments to represent those with which Christ was ignominiously clothed at the time of His passion. Thus, for instance, the amice represents the rag or cloth with which the Jews blindfolded our Saviour, when, at every blow, they bade him prophesy who it was that struck Him. The alb represents the white garment with which He was vested by Herod. The girdle, maniple, and stole represent the cords and bands with which He was bound in the different stages of His passion. The chasuble, or outward vestment, represents the purple garment with which He was clothed as a mock king ; upon the back of which there is a cross, to represent that which Christ bore on His sacred shoulders ; lastly, the priest's tonsure, or crown, is to represent the crown of thorns which our Saviour wore. " As in the old law, the priests that were to officiate at the sacred functions, had, by the appointment of God, vestments assigned for that puq^ose, as well for the greater decency and solemnity of the divine worship, as to signify and to represent the virtues which God required in them : so it is in the law of grace. Thus the amice, which is first put upon the head, represents divine hope, which the apostle cails the helmet of salvation ; the alb, innocence of life ; the girdle, with which the loins are begirt, purity and patient suffering ; the stole, the sweet yoke of Christ to be borne in this life, in order to obtain a happy immortality in the next ; in fine, the chasuble, which, as uppermost, covers all the rest, the virtue of charity. The lighted candles denote the light of faith, with which we are f o approach God." AN INSTRUMENT OF DESPOTISM. iu CHAPTER LXII. ll" THE INQUISITION.' The horrible and unjust cruelties of the Inquisition, of which 1 had read in Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella, made me at one time abhor the Catholic Church as the foundress and patroness of that fearful tribunal. It has b'=:en said that many theologians, and even canonized saints, have defended the atrocities of the Inquisition. It is true that some great authorities in the Catholic Church have maintained that, as it is a greater crime to corrupt the faith and drag down souls to damnation than corrupt the coin of the realm, it is deserving of a greater punishment. But it is also a fact that St. Bernard thought otherwise ; and many other lights of the church also continued, like the ancient fathers, to protest against the punishment of death being inflicted on heretics. The enemies of Catholicity try to make the world believe that the Spanish Inquisition was an ecclesiastical tribunal ; but that is false, for the Tribunal of the Inquisition in Spain was purely royal. It was the king who appointed the Inquisitor-General, who in his turn nominated the councillors, subject to the approval of the king. The niles for this tribunal were issued in the year 1484, by Cardinal Tdr- quemada, in concert with the king. In the same manner the Ultra-i Liberal Cortes of 1812 expressed themselves : "The Spanish kings have always rejected the advice given to them against the Inquisition, because they could, in all cases and at pleasure, nominate, suspend or remove the councillors." Charles V., who loved absolute power, recommended the Inquisi-< tion warmly to his successor in his will, that he might be able PROPERLY TO DISCHARGE HIS DUTY AS SOVEREIGN. It was a royal tribunal furnished with spiritual arms. The inquisi- tors were royal officials, for the king had a right to appoint and dismiss them. The profits from the confiscation of this tribunal went to the king The proceeds of these confiscations formed a sort of regular revenue for the royal treasury. * Most of the facts that I give here in regard to the Inquisition, I have taken from the writing* o( Hetile and Archbishop Spalding. 312 THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE. The Spanish Inquisilion was so cl jscly connected with political absolutism, that it was one of its most powerful weapons, and the Inquisition was necessarily compelled to die as soon as the absolute power of the monarch vanished, and when, on the return of Ferdinand VII., in the year 1814, the old monarchy was re-established, the Inquisition was immediately revived to keep down the demagogues ; but as soon as Ferdinand, in the year 1820, had been compelled to grant again a constitution, the Inquisition was once more suppressed. Similar events happened in Portugal and other states — the Inquisi- tion stood and fell with political absolutism. • • , . . .• ,.-. The Inquisition has often been unjustly judged according to the principles of the nineteenth century, instead of those of the fifteenth and sixteenth. Whilst many for the last hundred years and more have been inclined to see in heretics and infidels of all kinds the most enlightened and honorable citizens of the state, the Inquisi- tion, in direct opposition to this way of thinking, was based on the opinions of the middle ages, according to which heresy was high treason, and only such subjects were safe and worthy of confidence as conformed to the religion of the state. It is natural that the defenders of modern ideas should be unable to appreciate and judge impartially facts, which find their explanation in the theories of former ages, if they are unable to divest themselves of the ideas of the present time. Every true historian does this. But the Inquisition has mostly been described by such writers as tried to substitute mere words and assertions for sound and consci- entious research, gave romantic descriptions for real facts, and hid their want of absolute knowledge under liberal phrases. Persons of this kind .understood, of course, not the maxim — Cujus est regio illus est religio — (The religion of the king is the religion of the land) — on which the whole Inquisition is based, and which formerly was thoroughly and universally recognized and so little contested that Protestants in particular have defended it and carried it into practice. The Palatinate may serve as an example. Here the Elector Frederick III., who had been a Lutheran, after having turned Calvin ist in the year 1563, forced all his subjects to do the same; and ex pelled from his country all who would not adopt the Heidelberg Catechism. Thirteen years later, in the year 1576, his son Ludwig re-established the old Lutheran confession, drove away the C.ilvin- ibtic preachers and teachers, and forced his subjects to become REFORMED INQUISITORS. 313 Lutherans again. In 1583, the Elector John Casimir, in his office of guardian to Frederick IV., introduced Calvinism once more, and with equal severity ; so that the Palatinate has sufficiently experienced that conformity to the relir^ion of the state and court was enforced not in Spain only, and by Ferdinand the Catholic, but also in Germany and Dy Protestant princes, and that the severest civil punishments were inflicted by them upon dissenters. Spain has indeed not acted otherwise than the Lutherans and Cal- vinists in Germany. The Peace of Religion concluded at Augsburg, 26th Sept., 1555, gives in paragraph 24, to every state of the empire full powers to put to their subjects the alternative either of adopting the religion of the state or emigrating, on payment of a certain fine ; just as the Jews and Moors were treated in Spain. '" '..' /'■' ' It may be doubted whether it was worse to fall into the hands of the Spanish Inquisition or into those of a zealous Lutheran prince. It is further often forgotten, in judging of the Inquisition, that' the criminal law of those days Avas more cruel and bloody than that of the present century. Many offences which are now punished but slightly, called formerly for blood. '^ '"'-:" ^ "— -.'M.v^..r;v, ... . ,,, • ' But to place it quite out of doubt that the Protestants themselves cf those times wished to have capital punishment inflicted upon heretics, it is only necessary to refer to the ^^ mild" Melancthon, who wrote to Calvin, "/ have read the book in which thou hast fully re- futed the horrible blasphemies of Servetus, and thank the Son of the Lord for having awarded thee the victory in the contest thou hast sus- tained. The church owes thee now and forever eternal gratitude for this. I quite agree with thy opinion, and maintaiti that thy tribunal hath acted in accordance with justice^ in having, after due investiga- tion, put to death a blasphemer." Besides Servetus, many others, for instance Valentine, Gentilis, Bolsec, Carolstadt, Castello, Judge Ameaux, by their imprisonment,] banishment, or death, learned that the Inquisition of the Protestant church was not less severe than that of Spain. But there is no need of going back so far as the sixteenth century, or even of recalling the horrible atrocities committed against the Catholics in England, to find "!he counterpart of the Spanish Inquisition among the Protestants. And let it be remembered here that Protestants never maintained thai theirs was a certain religion, the only true religion, the faith necessary for salvation : they killed men for not believing an opinion. 14 3H A PREJUDICED HISTORIAN People dwell on the tortures and torment all kinds which prisoners were subjected to in the prisons of the Inquisition. But let those who shudder at the bare mention of them remember that the torture in those days was used bv all civil courts of all COUNTRIES — that it legally existed in many German states as late as the present century. Archbishop Spalding's criticism of Prescott's Ferdinand and Isabella did more to remove iny anti-Catholic preju- dices on the subject of the Inquisition than all the instruction I re- ceived from any other source. Speaking of Mr. Prescott, he says that that gentleman was greatly under the influence of anti-Catholic prejudices, as can be inferred from the whole tenor of the chapter on the Inquisition, " which is, in fact as virulent a libel upon Catholicity as we have ever chanced to read." " To prove," says the Archbishop, " that the establishment of the Spanish Inquisition was in accordance with the principles of the Catholic Church, Mr. Prescott repeats the stale calumny that a Catholic principle is embodied in the odious proposition, * The end justifies the means.* , j,^ " In opposition to all history, Mr. Prescott asserts that St. Dominick was the founder of the ancient Inquisition, or at least maintains that if he was not, in point of fact, he ought to have been. He tells in a satirical tone, of the divine eloquence and wonderful miracles by which St. Vincent Ferrer, in the fourteenth century, converted to Christianity thirty-five thousand Spanish Jews. The suffering of this unfortunate people enlist his deepest sympathy ; the Moors of Gran- ada have also his warmest feelings of pity ; these two people seem to have exhausted his stock of humanity, and he has no sympathy to throw away on the Catholic Christians of Spain. Nor is he alone in this respect. It is the fault of most Protestant historians. Their sympathies rur strongly in favor of Jew, Turk, or dissenter of every shade of opinion, while for the Catholics they reserve the vials of their wrath ! /^.«yi " Is it that there is a kindred spirit among errorists of every hue, a certain relationship which makes them have a tender feeling for one another ? It would seem so. The chief severity of this remark con- sists in its truth ; and we have only to open Protestant historiana passim to become persuaded of it. Mr. Prescott furnishes abundant evidence of this spirit throughout his work. "It was scarcely to be expected that, reared as he evidently has AN UNPHLEGMATIC DUTCHMAN. 315 to to in heir has been, in all the prejudices of Protestantism, Mr. Prescott should have become wholly divested of the early impressions of the nursery, so as to approach the subject of the horrible Spanish Inquisition with a calm mind and a steady nerve. It was difficult to dispel the bloody phantoms of slaughtered victims, which had haunted his early days, and to get rid of the opinions, in regard to that tribunal, which had been fastened on his mind by the teachings of the press and the pulpit. But as a historian he should have read both sides, and not have suffered himself to be misled by violently prejudiced writers.'' The historians of the Spanish Inquisition most in favor with Protes- tants are Limborch and Llorente. Mr. Prescott cites them both, and bases most of his statements upon their authority. To ascertain how far they are to be relied on as historians of the Inquisition, we must see who they were, under what circumstances they wrote their respective histories, and what motives prompted them to the task. Philip Limborch was a native of Holland. He belonged to the sect of the Remonstrants, or Mitigated Calvinists. He was not, however, very rigid in adhering even to the slight standard of ortho- doxy required by his own party ; for he became a Unitarian. Had John Calvin been able to rise from his tomb, his recreant disciple might have stood a good chance to be bound to the stake with Ser- vetus, whose tenets he advocated. However, he escaped unscathed, but with a deep and abiding sense of the wrongs his party had en- dured from the Gomarists. He determined to shoot an arrow at them through the Spaniards, whose very name had been execrated in Hol- land since the days of Philip II. of Spain and of the Duke of Alba. The memory of the fierce and bloody struggle with the Spaniards, in which so many harrowing scenes had occurred on both sides, was still fresh in the minds of the Dutch. To be sure they had, to say the least, been guilty of as much cruelty as the Duke of Alba and his soldiery ; but this was forgotten, and the cnielty of the Span- iards was alone remembered. Limborch knew that he could not better cater to the tastes of his countrymen than by writing a detailed history of this odious tribunal (the Spanish Inquisition) ; and he ac- cordingly set about the work, and published it at Amsterdam in 1692. The minds of his countrymen were too much excited to enable them to perceive the glaring inaccuracies and gross misstatements of the Dook ; and had he painted the horrors of the Inquisition with tenfold 3^6 GARBLING EXTRACTS. ;a. force, their deadly hatred of the tribunal would have caused them tc devour the work without one misgiving ! Such was Limborch. He evidently wrote his history under such excitement as would naturally lead us to expect little of the impar- tiality of the historian, and much of the exaggeration of a man writing against a tribunal odious in a religious and political point of view, and pandering also to a taste greatly vitiated, and highly excited.! Accordingly, we find in his work few of the intrinsic qualities of a veridical history. He professes to derive his statements from the Inquisitors themselves ; yet Fra Paolo, the Italian historian of the Council of Trent, whose hypocrisy made him conceal the mind and heart of a Protestant under the cowl of a Catholic friar, and Hellon, the famous Protestant author of the too famous " Relation of the In- quisition at Goa," is among his favorite authors of reference. And when he does cite the works of the inquisitors themselves, he garbles the extracts, quoting only what suits his purpose, very often exti.-xct- ing only the concluding sentence from a lengthy passage, and thereby often making the Inquisitors say just the contrary of what they had intended. The Abb6 de Vayrac, who had spent twenty years of his life in Spain, answered these misrepresentations in his famous work, '■'■L Etat present tV Espagne." He proved that the statements of Limborch in regard to the Spanish Inquisition were greatly exaggerated, or posi- tively false. Mr. Prescott also cites Llorente, who appears to be his favorite, so much so as to merit a special biographical notice at the close of his chapter on the Inquisition. I will here give a brief sketch of this man's life, that the public may better judge how much credence can be given to his statements. Llorente was born in Calahorra in Spain, a.d. 1756. He studied for the church, and was ordained priest at an early age. A singular incident occurred at his ordination ; after the consecration, in which he had recited the words of Christ, he was seized with a sudden illness which prevented his receiving the holy communion ; some viewed the occurrence as ominous. His first work after ordination was a comedy " On Matrimony," which, however, at the earnest solicitations of a friend, he consented to burn. When subsequently vicar-general of the diocese of Calahorra, he composed another comedy, and had 't acted on the stage, very little to the edification of the people and AN UNPATRIOTIC SPANIARD. 317 of the clergy of that city. Not content with his retirenrjent at Cala- horra he proceeded to Madrid, where he spent his time intriguing for place. He succeeded, and rose step by step until he became Secre- tary of the Intpiisition at Madrid. Having been guilty of a grievous betrayal of the confidence reposed in him by the inquisitor-general, and of several other irregularities of conduct, he was ordered to leave Madrid and to repair to his native place. Here he was equally rest- less and intriguing, but upon his writing letters full of repentance anolicy, employed under circumstances of high j)olitical excitement. ».rvfi atfc;^e, ajcv * jufi; The causes which led to its establishment had been steadily oper- ating for nearly eight hundred years. In 711 the Moors invaded Spain and seized its finest provinces. JSevtr was there a contest of so long continuance, or which resulted in a i)olitical hatred so deep and abiding. It was a civil and border war between two races which could never amalgamate, because kept asunder by different religions, different temperaments, and different in- terests. The Spaniards were fighting for their liberties, for their fire- sides, and their altars ; the Moors sought to annihilate the one and to pollute and desecrate the others. All prisoners taken in war by the latter were sold into bondage in Morocco, and religious orders were established by the Christians for the redemption of these forlorn captives. • 1 >y The war then assumed a religious cast, and the military orders of St. Jago of Calatrava, and of Alcantara were established among the Spaniards to keep up the crusade against the enemies of their coun- try and of their religion. It was under these circumstances, when the great struggle was ap- proaching its crisis, in the brilliant reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, and when for the first time for seven hundred and eighty-one years the Spanish nation had a fair opportunity of shaking off the yoke, that the government established a tribunal of great severity to assist them i ferreting out the Moors, and in expelling them from the coun- try. Intercepted letters in cipher proved that after the conquest ot Granada the Moors were concerting with their bretliren in Africa measures for regaining their lost power in Spain, The Jews, who were very rich, who were scattered all over Spaui, were deeply en- gaged in the plot. They were, if possible, more ociious in Spain than the Moors. They were likewise accused of other crimes of dreadful atrocity ; of kidnapping Christian children and oi selling them into THE POPE AND THE KING. 3IS bondage in Africa, and even of feasting on the flesh of infant Christian babes at the celebration of their passover. Similar charges were made against the Moors. (See an interesting paragraph in Prescott, vol. i. page 258.) It was only after the Jews were known to be leagued with the Moors for the subversion of Spanish liberty, and after they had been detected in writing a libel on the Spanish government, that the edict of their banishment was published and the tribunal of the Inquisition appointed to carry it into execution. Accordingly, as this court derived its authority from the king, it directed it to the advantage of royal power. It was even believed and asserted from the beginning that the kings had been moved to eblab- lish and countenance this tribunal, more by their hankering after the wealth it confiscated, than by motives of piety. * . It was the Inquisition, and the Inquisition alone, that completely shut out all extraneous interference with the state ; the sovereign had now at his disi)osal a tribunal from which no grandee, no arch- bishop could withdraw himself. Foreigners were particularly struck with this fact. "The Inquisition," says Segui, ''was invented in Spain to rob the wealthy of tlieir property and the powerful of their consequence." As Charles knew no other means of bringing punishment u])on the bishops who had taken part in the insurrection of the communes, hi chose to have ihem judged by the Inquisition. P"or open heresy was not the only question it had to try ; it interfered in matters of trade and of the arts, of customs and marine. How much farther could it go when it pronounced it heresy to dispose of horses or munftion to France, It was in spirit and tendency above all a political institu- tion. The Pope had an interest in. thwarting it; and he DID so, AND AS OBTEN AS HE COULD. But the king had an interest in constantly upholding it. The whole texture of its constitution was as political as was its origin, for all the officers were named with the approval of the king. So manifest was it to the whole world that this tribunal was a local political institution, growing out of circumstances peculiar to Spain, and designed only for the Jews and Moors, that when subse- quently the Spanish government, under Philip II., sought to establish it in Milan, the people revolted, exclaiming, " that it was tyranny to iuipose on a Christian city a form of Inquisition designed for Moora ^rTtT Pf 320 ADMISSIONS OF OPPONENTS. f and Jews." And Mons. Guizot, a famous historian, though a Calvin^ ist, says that it was at first more pohtical than religious, and destined to maintain order rather than to defend the faith. That the abuses of the Inquisition have been grejitly exaggerated, we prove by the express words of that arch-enemy of the tril uaai, V^)ltaire, whose testimony Mr. Prcscott quotes with so much con;- placency. Voltaire says, " Without doubt writers have imputed to a. tribunal so justly detested horrible excesses which it has not always connnitted ; but it is very injudicious to decry the Inquisition by doubtful facts, and still more to seek to render it odious by false- hood." And yet this is precisely what all the enemies of the Inqui- sition have done, and none more so than Voltaire. We prove it by another unexceptionable witness, Mons. Bourgoing, sent by the Flench Republic, in 1789, as Minister Plenipotentiary to Spain. He was violently opposed to the Inquisition, and yet he says : " I will acknowledge, in order to give homage to truth, that the Inquisition in our days might be cited as a model of equity." This avowal, however unpalatable to himself and to his employers, was wrung from him only by the stern evidence of truth. Our third witness is Limborch, whose character we have given above. Out of a very long list of criminals condemned by the Spanish Ii.quisition, during a very long period, he admits that only fifteen men and four women were executed, and most of these for treason, witchcraft, sacrilege, or other crimes than heresy. From this fact we draw two inferences; first, that the rigid laws of the Inquisition were very feebly executed, and secondly, that a very small proportion of the criminals were tried for heresy. The Roman Pontiff, Clement X., in a bull published in 1672, enumerates the offences. for which persons might be proceeded against by the Inquisition, and it is remarkable that out of thirteen ■different classes of crimes only one is heresy. The ecclesiastical court of the Inquisition was but preparatory. 'The final decision of the case always took place before the civil court, which alone inflicted the punishments ordained by the Spanish laws. "The former court had only to decide whether there was sufficient reason to have the accused indicted before the latter. It performed very much the same office as our grand juries, with these important differences, that it took cognizance only of a certain class of offences connected with religion, pardoned twice whenever the criminal gave THE ENGLISH INQUISITION. 321 satisfactory signs of repentance, and never presented but when there was no hope of reforming the offender. • ; ; ■ Count Pollnitz, in his very interesting memoirs, is astonished at the ideas Protestants entertain on a subject about which they know so little. " For my part, I own to you I cannot imagine in what the barbarity consists which you Protestants attribute to the Inquisition. Or. the contrary, it is, in my opinion, the mildest and most lenient tribunal that exists," and he assigns the same reason that we do above, appeals to his own observation in Catholic countries, and hints at the opposite spirit of the Calvinistic consistory of Geneva. This was in fact an Inquisition which never forgave ; and the English Court of High Commission prosecuted the inoffensive Catholic with a vigor that never relented, no matter how much the victim cried out for mercy ! Even Mr. Prescott allows that Elizabeth's Inquisition equalled in severity that established by Ferdinand and Isabella; the fact is, the former far outstripped the latter in every respect ; and the English are the last people under the sun who should talk about the Spanish Inquisition, and yet they precisely have raised the greatest clamor on the subject. It is not true that counsel was not allowed to the party accused ; it is not true that the articles of accusation were not shown to him ; it is not true that he had not proper means of de- fence allowed him. Finally, though the autos-da-fe were bad enough, yet the picture of them, which represents the clergy assisting, in order to enjoy the agony of the victims, is as unjust as it is fanciful. They attempted to soothe, not to aggravate the sufferings of the condemn- ed, as ministers of all denominations at the present day accompany the culprit to the scaffold. But the most mischievous part of Mr. Prescott's account of the Spanish Inquisition is that in which he deliberately charges on the Catholic Church, not only the institution itself, but even its cruelties and abuses. Nothing could be more unjust. It was never establish- ed in any country without the concurrence of its temporal rvilers. In Spain the people and Cortes demanded its establishment from the king, as the only remedy to the desperate political evils of the country. Feidinand and Isabella, according to Limborch, " earnestly solicited the Roman Pontiff," to allow them to name inquisitors for their do- minions. It is doubtful whether the Roman Pontiff, Sixtus IV,, could have effectually resisted an appeal made with so much earnestness^ and involving a matter so intimately interwoven with the welfare of 14* 322 THE POPE INTERFERES. Spain. He heard the petition, and issued the bulls demanded, in 1478 ; but on the appeal of the Jews against the excessive severity of the inquisitors, he issued another bull in 1481, in which "he rebuked their intemperate zeal, and even threatened them with deprivation. " Mr. Prescott even admits this in vol. i. p. 254. A little later, Pope Leo X. received the petition of the Arragonese, stating their grievances under the operation of the Inquisition, and granted f ^ prayer thereof by a special bull, by which he greatly modified the form of the whole tribunal and restrained the powers of the inquisitors ; but to show how powerless the Pope was in this matter, the Emperor Charles V. an- nulled the papal decree by his royal authority ! The popes succeeded better in regard to Naples, over which they held more political influence ; they steadily opposed the introduction of th.^: Inquisition into that kingdom, and after a long struggle with the Spaniards they gained the victory. It was Charles V., and not the Pope, who established the Inquisition in Sicily. It was the Senate of Venice, and not the Pope, who established the Inquisition in that re- public. The general policy of the popes deprecated severity towards sin- ners and those who had wandered from the true faith. The BuUarium Romanum is full of proofs of this assertion. It was one of the stand- ing rules of the Supreme Roman Inquisition instituted by the bull of Paul III., in 1 542, that its decisions should be given gratis in every case. In establishing this supreme court the Pontiff revoked all previous inquisitorial powers, and laid down such rules as were well calculated to prevent every abuse. And though three hundred years have elapsed since the establishment of this tribunal, it would be difficult to point to a single instance in which it ever pronounced sentence of capital punishment. Such was the conduct of the popes at home, where they had the power to act according to their own judgment, untrammelled by the political intrigues of princes. We often hear of the number of persons who were immolated by the Inquisition, but we are not told of the far greater number who fell in the various religious wars by which Germany, France, and England were convulsed, while Spain was secured by this institution from the acrimonious controversy in which those wars originated. Where the Spanish Inquisition immolated one victim, the Moloch of religious dissensi n has immolated whole hecatombs. ■UWH A ROYAL MACHINE-. 323 :of :ed. It is time to learn the lesson of forbearance taught by the Gospel, and confirmed by the bitter experience of the past. Have the Pro- testant sects been immaculate on the score of religious persecution in regard to the mother church, or even in regard to each other ? If they have, then may they rail at the Spanish Inquisition ! But if they have some misgivings on the subject, then would we say to them, in the language of our blessed I^ord, addressed to the Scribes and Pharisees, who sought the death of the woman taken in adultery, " He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone." A Protestant will naturally shake his head and say : "It is no use for you to try to thiow all the blame on the kings ; for, if it was, as you say, ' a political tribunal with spiritual weapons,' why did not the Roman Pontiff withdraw those weapons ? As he controls the clergy, he could have prevented them officiating, and then no blame could have been cast upon the church ? " I would remind the Protestants, that when the petition to establish the Inquisition in Spain was so earnestly pressed by Ferdinand and Isabella, who were but presenting the petition of the people, which they accompanied with a request that the crown should appoint the offi- cials, it was not possible for Sixtus IV. to foresee all the abuses which would arise from such a grant. The prejudiced mind will insist that as soon as the Roman Pontiff saw the abuses of this tribunal it was his duty to remedy them. To this I reply that the American Protestants, who have revelled so long in liberty, forget that kings are not quite so tractal;)le (nor indeed Republican governments either where their interests are con- cerned). The kings converted the Inquisition into a piece of government machinery, which reached all classes and all grades, and it was the only tribunal which they could turn against the t:hurch itself, by holding in check any archbishop or prelate whom their other tri ', bunals could not reach. The pontiffs exerted themselves to their utmost to defend the in- nocent and to bring the guilty to justice ; but they were powerless before the influence which the crown brought to bear upon all cases in which it found it its interest to prosecute. The Protestant will add, " But it was their duty to have abolished it." But, my dear friends, this would have been interfering with princes in the axercise of their temporal jurisdiction ; that which has always beer 324 A SPANISH STATE CHURCH. the plea of all royal and republican dissenters for not submitting tc the church, " They would not be Roman Catholics, because they would not submit to be interfered with by the Pope ; " which is just what the Pope refused to do. The church was obliged to tolerate what she had not the power to fc|)re,5s ; for in this instance had she chosen to use her rightful authority to abolish a tribunal which by name was exclusively eccle- siastical, but which in reality was wholly civil, Ferdinand and Isa- bella, Charles V., and Philip II., after they had converted it into a cloak to cover up their own despotism, by throwing all the odium of their tyrannical and cruel acts upon the church, would have shown themselves no less tenaciously disposed to gratify their own will than was Henry VIII. These monarchs. Catholic as they were, were not more zealous in defending the faith than was Henry VIII., so long as the Pope let him have his own way. Had the Pontiffs asserted their full authority in this respect, who knows ' but what Spain might have preceded England in usurping the spiritual power ! She would have naturally drawn with her all the clergy who preferred royalty to sanctity, and to-day I, instead of defending the church against the reproaches brought upon her by the Spanish In- quisition, might be searching out for the reader the source of spiritual jurisdiction in the High Church of Spain! The Roman I'ontiffs have oftentimes refrained, for the benefit of souls, from a rightful exercise of their authority opposing patience and mercy to cruel injustice ; and it was to i>revent Spain from becom- ing what England is to-day that the Roman Pontiffs bore and grieved over what they had not the power to suppress. The Inquisition in the hands of Spanish monarchs was like a thunderbolt ready to be hurled against the church itself, to say nothing of the odium which i:> acts have cast upon her name. It is a refinement of injustice II) make the legitimate authority of the church, which was itself op- l)!csscd by the Inquisition, res|)onsible for all its doings. The church was patient; she knew that the injustice that a few indi- viduals might temporarily suffer was nothing to the incalculable in- jury that would be done to millions of souls if, by enforcing her authority, she had come into open collision with the Spanish mon- archs. -.: T'! How often has the Inquisition in Spain turned its weapons against prelates? The Protestants will say we have no right to sanction TOLERATION NOT SANCTION. 325 evil that good may come out of it. The Popes never sanctioned the evil, tliey merely tolerated what they could not prevent. Sanction ing it would have been approving the Spanish cruelties ; they merel) tolerated a lesser evil so as to prevent a greater. The church is always ready to sacrifice all things sooner than give her sanction to evil, as is easily pro\'ed by the fact of her preferring to lose one of her fairest and richest realms sooner than grant a bill of divorce to Henry VIII. The Spanish monarchs never tried to extort from the Pontiffs the sanction to their infamies, as Henry VIII. did. When I was a child, I remember hearing my uncle and aunt say, that it was the only good thing the Bonapartes ever did, to fight the church and suppress the Inquisition. Of course, the Bonapartes had their own litterateurs during their reign, and nearly all the relations we have of the Inquisition were written by their minions, who sought to color matters in a way favorable to this family and their usurpa- tions. But the Spaniards will tell you, that the Bonapartists took such com- passion on the sufferings of those they found confined in the pri^^ons of the Inquisition, that when they discovered among them true patriots, who refused to join their standard, they relieved these "unfortunate VICTIMS " from the bondage of the Inquisition by pitching them out of the windows on the points of their bayonets. If my reat are not willing to credit my statements, let them read an impai account of the Inquisition in a work entitled L Etat present cT Espagne, by de Vayrac, who is a Christian author of rare talent, and a man whose faith as an historical writer has never been doubted. It seems to me that even Protestants ought to place more confidence in the statement of a Christian of unblemished charac- ter, than they do in those of Limborch the Calvinistic apostate, Voltaire the infidel, and Llorente the disreputable priest and traitor. nst ion •■' ■■■'■"■ .yi:' ''■<'■• ■.•Is-..?-- ■ :»-. ■'^'■- ;-/^!:;. •/; ;; .4v; i}-- , J .:-,.: ;u,'.»iii i-'til>> 326 MY CHRISTMAS. CHAPTER LXIII. I AM BORN AGAIN. — MY NEW LIFE. After the cur6 of St. Mand6 had finished his instructions I asked to be baptized. The Christmas of 1867 found me before the little altar in that self- same chapel where, but a few months before, I had sat pitying Madam Xavier for the untiring efforts she was making for me with our Lord, that He might make me one of His rightful heirs by the gift of faith. The chapel was filled with my devoted friends, who had first known me in Paris, and who had always clung to me. The Prince Czar- toryski and his sister the Princess Iza were my sponsors. The Prin- cess placed upon my finger a beautiful ring, an oriental pearl set in diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, to each of which gems she attached beautiful symbolical meanings, of purity, hope, fidelity, and suffering, while the ring itself was the token of my alliance with heaven. Madam Xavier told me that our Lord would grant me whatever I asked of Him immediately after baptism ; and she begged me to ask something of the Blessed Virgin, just to try her ; for 1 had not yet learned to feel much confidence in the prayers of the Mother of God. Immediately after I was baptized, I asked God for six favors : I St, For my sister's conversion ; 2d, For my brother's conversion ; 3d, That Mrs. Dix might be my friend ; 4th, That Mrs. Reynolds might stop abusing me ; 5th, For future happiness ; and 6th, That I might have it in my power to help the poor. Mrs. Reynolds was a well-known American belle, who never lost an opportunity of creating prejudice against me, and was the one who had worked, through the Viscount's daughter, to prevent my mar- riage with him. When the ceremony was over, and I was about leaving the altar, I recollected my promise to Madam Xavier, that I would ask some- thing of Mary. There was a beautiful life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin in a niche directly over the altar. I was just ready to leave when I looked up at it and said to her : " Good Mother, may I marry IT WAS NOT ALL A DREAM. 327 I^aferriore ? may I marry I^aferri^re ? But if it is not God's wiU that I should marry Laferriere, may J marry some one that I can love ten times more than I do him, and who will love me ten timet more than he loves me." I had hardly spoken when I felt that the statue said : " Yes." I promptly said, "Thank you ;" as I was positively certain that I had received an answer. A second afterwards I regretted that I had asked her for an impossibility ; for it was to the last request that I felt that she had responded, and I thought that it was impossible to love any one more than I did Laferridre. That evening, as I was speaking to Madam Xavier, I chanced to take up the little book called Words of Jesus. I opened it, and my eyes fell on these words : " Daughter, be of good cheer, thy sins which were many are all forgiven thee." . I was so struck with the appropriateness of the words, that I translated them to Madam Xavier, who emphatically declared that God intended to speak to me ihen. I felt that it was true, for I had hardly finished the verse be- fore I felt a sweet peace fill my soul. Before I lay down to sleep that night I asked our Lord if He would not let me know, in my sleep, when I was to be married ; for I felt that the Blessed Virgin had promised it to me in the chapel, and I wanted to know if I would ever be married to Laferriere. The moment I lay down, I fell instantly to sleep. During the night I did not dream ; but to- wards morning I had a vision, for it was too distinct to be a dream, though, at the time, I thought it was a dream. Our Lord came to me : I could not see Him, but I felt His presence. He showed me a small piece of paper, on which was written figures like these : — 4 — 4 4 — 4 4 — 2 4 — 4 4 — 2 4 — 4 4 — 4 2 — 2 4—2 2 — 2 4— 2 4 — 4 2—4 2 — 2 4—2 4 — 2 2—4 4 — 2 2—4 •2—4 He told me to read it, and after I had looked at it attentively He said to me these words, which I heard distinctly : " You will have ta receive the grace of God as many more times as there are numbers on this piece of paper, before you can be united to me ; " and I saw Laferridre going away from me, with a frown on his face. I instantly awoke, and I interpreted what I saw in this wise : — That when I be« 328 FIRST COMMUNION. came very good, and had prayed so much, that God should have grant- ed me as many more graces as I had seen figures on that piece of |)aper I should marry Laferridre. I was sure that that was its meaning, fot my heart was still his : I had only given my conscience to God ; and as I had asked to know when I should be wedded to Laferri^rc, 1 was sure from that moment that I would one day be his wife. Ami this became at once a great incentive for me to be good, so as to ob- tain the grace of God, for all the reward I asked for being good was to be united to the man I loved. I never spoke of this dream (as I then considered it) to any one ; for 1 always tried to , conceal my attachment for Laferriere, and I knew that the nuns would laugh at me for asking such an earthly favor of our Lord. But the dream remained stereotyped in my mind, and I constantly sought to obtain God's grace so as to hasten the happy fulfilment of my hopes. „ ' On the morning of the 27th of December, 1867, Feast of St. John the Evangelist, I was kneeling once more near that little altar, in that same chapel, waiting to receive our Lord. My mind was calm and peaceful, but around my heart I felt a lurking pain, like that of a wound, which had just been cleansed, but which time alone could heal. The cure of St. Mande, who offered up the Holy Sacrifice, addressed a few words to me before 1 apjjroached the altar. After speaking to me of our I^ord's tenderness and love, he stepped aside, and pointing to the statue of the blessed Virgin, he exclaimed : *' My child, you will soon receive your Father and your God ; but * behold thy mother ! ' I give you to her, and remember, from this day forth, you are 1 longer an orphan ; for God is your father, Mary is your mother, and Jesus is your spouse. You cannot be united to Jesus unless you are to Mary, his mother ; for his body was formed of her inmiaculate flesh and blood. Be a faithful cliild to God and a loving spouse to Jesus, and Mary will ever be to you a fond, devoted mother. Come, come, my child, and receive that God whom we all adore." As he pronounced these words, " Come, come,'' my soul panted to taste of that living bread, and as I advanced towards the altar 1 in- wardly exclaimed : " O beloved Jesus, heal my heart." I knelt, the pi lest placed on my tongue the sacred Host. Again I implored Jesus to relieve me of that lurking pain. Instantly 1 felt the sacred ivafer dissolve, and my whole heart was bathed, as it were, in a most, delicious balm. MY HOME DEVi^. 329 To be united to our Lord, it is not enough to offer him our con science, our comforts, and our wealth ; He demands all we have to offer, our will, our hope, and all our heart. That morning I received Him in my bosom, but He did not enter into the sanctuary of my heart, for all its avenues were closed against Him, my heart was still another's; even at that altar I was thinking of Laferri^re, and it was his souvenir that brought back the lurking pain. But our Lord took pity on my wretched state, and did not refuse me a drop of the solace of His di- vine love, so that I might know thenceforth where to go and seek relief. From that day forth I loved the Blessed Virgin ; for when the cur6 said to me : " Behold thy mother," I looked up at the statue, and perceived, for the first time, that on its pedestal was written in large letters of gold, " Voild ta nUre" —'■'' Behold thy mother," and I felt the same impression that I did the day I was baj^tized ; that the Blessed Virgin had answered me ; but this time I felt that she had said to me : "Yes, 1 am thy mother." I smiled and thanked her again, as I had done before. All my ])rejudices were swept away, and I felt a sweet sympathy kindle in my heart for Mary. CHAPTER LXIV. CORRECTING THE INCORRIGIBLE. ■\- The morning of my first communion, when I entered the chdieau, I found that my maid had .swept the rooms but had not dusted them ; and she was sitting leisurely at work on a piece of tapestry that she was making for herself. I asked her in a gentle tone why she had lot dusted my rooms ; for there was no place for me to sit down, vithout ruining my white silk dress. She tartly replied : " That is the way you come home from your first communion I " The tone lind look which accompanied these words, meant to imply that I had come home in a bad humor. Said I : "You will leave my service on the 7th of next month." I then turned away, and seeing a picture of the Blessed Virgin, which the nuns had hung over my bed, I spoke to it and said : " I promise you. Mother, that I will send her awaj on the 7th, for she is too wicked to live with any longer." On New- Year's Day, 1868, 1 went to Paris, and remained a few days f 330 A TREASURE GONE. with my sister. While there I got the Viscount to send for his old servant, Madam Daujat, to come and replace my maid. On the 2d of January, as I was passing through the Passage da Choiseul, I bought a beautiful little ivory statue of the Blessed Vir- gin, and an ivory crucifix. The statue was a chef d'oeuvre carved by the celebrated Salvatore Marchi When I returned to the convent, 1 found that my maid had been behaving unusually well, and w;9 doing all she could to induce me to keep her. My heart relented, and I almost decided after all that, as she was trying to do better, it would be wrong not to forgive her, and perhaps that might be more pleasing to the Blessed Virgin than if I kej)! my vow. The next day the cur6 came and blessed my little statue and cru- cifix. He had just left, when I was standing by the window holding tlie little ivory statue of the Blessed Virgin in my hand, admiring its beauty and exquisite workmanship, when my attention was called to something which showed a marked improvement in my maid. I turned to her, and told her that I was sorry she had not always done so well, but that I could not keep her, that I had already sent for Madam Daujat. ^^ Madam Daujat!" she repeated after me with emphasized contempt. ''Madam Daujat! I pity you, for she is the most disorderly woman that ever was : you should have seen your wardrobe how it was packed. I even found one of your child's old shoes in your jewelry box." " Well," said I, " supposing you did, the best thing for you to do is not to touch it." " Not to touch it ! " she exclaimed, straining her eyes to the utmost. " I took it out at once and threw it into the fire, where it belonged." '^A'hat," said I, "do you mean to say that you burned up that Httle shoe ? " " Of course I did." Said I : '* You brute, leave my presence at once." For an instant I forgot everything else : I was beside myself with grief, and the tears started into my eyes at the recollection how that little shoe had been to me, during my late visit to America, a monitor and a solace. -^lyr,, '-.;;;;* ;.i';^;iu^'j->n « : ;j'jv After weeping for a few moments, I looked at the little ivory statue of the Virgin that I held in my hand, and was suddenly con- soled for the loss of the little old shoe. 1 thought to myself perhaps God had intended that it should be so, and that it was all for the best. I had ceased to be a pagan, and wa.- now a Christian : the little old shoe had done its mission, and must now be set aside for CURE FOR A spinster's SPLEEN. 331 the statue of the Blessed Virgin, which would take its place. I knelt down, and placed the statue on my desk, and covering it with my hands, I renewed the same vow that I had made about three years before, that I would ever be a good mother ; and I implored the Blessed Virgin to pray for me that I might ever keep my vow. I arose from my knees with a light and joyful heart, went and found my maid, and excused myself for my rudeness. She appeared quite overcome with such an act of humility on my part, and begged my pardon for all her misdoing during her stay with me. I concluded that I would keep her. The 7th of January came.. It was a mild genial morning for that season of the year. I w^as walking in the garden, and every step I took I thanked God for the peace of mind He had given me. I thought it would always last. I entered the chateau. My maid was arranging the fire, and I mildly asked her where she had put the pat- terns she had cut from my dresses made at Worth's. Said she, " I burnt them the day you told me that I must leave your service on the 7th." I felt the blood rush to my face, and had an impulse to thrust her head into the fire ; but I instantly controlled my temper, and felt humiliated that such a trifle should be capable of disturbing my peace of mind ; and I said to myself: " There is no virtue in you if you are not capable of standing more than that." When my mind was perfectly composed, I said to the girl, in one of the mildest and blandest tones, in order to soften the effect of my words : *' I have just as much right, Josephine, to burn up one of your aprons as you have to destroy my patterns." She was on her knees before the fire. In her right hand she held a huge pair of tongs, which clenched a lighted stick : her left hand was placed on a pail of water that she had brought in to w.pe up the hearth. In this position she turned her head, and looked me full in the face and, in one of the most provoking tones, and with the most disdain fully spiteful expression, she replied : " Tkaf is the way you tinder' stand our religion ; for that is the way these ladies teach it to you." The expression of her face, and the emphasis she put on her last words, were too much for me. The blood rushed through my veing like hot lava. " I won't get angry," I exclaimed, " for burnt patterns, but I will fight for those nuns ; " and I sprang upon her like a tigress. I caught her by her waterfall, seized a candlestick from the chimney- piece, and I pounded her with it until she got out of my way. 332 CONFUSION IN THE CONVENT. A few moments afterwards the Superior and Madam Xavier came rushing into the room j for Josephine had run out into the garden, and told them that I had nearly battered her to death with a candle- stick. I was so exhausted and so frightened at what I had done that 1 could not articulate a word. In Josephine's efforts to get away from me, she had upset the pail of water, and the burning stick which she held in the tongs was out in the middle of the room, blaz- ing in the centre of a Turkish rug. Madam Xavier, without speaking, quietly looked for the tongs, took up the burning stick, and placed it in the fire-place. She then returned to see if there was any more fire about the room, and, seizing hold of something with the tongs that she found lying near the door, and cpiite mystified as to what it was, she held it up in the aii, looking at it intently, and exclaiming : "Qu'est ce que c'est? (pi'est re que c'est? (What is it ? what is it ?) Said the Rev. Mother : " I should think you would recognize it, for it is Josephine's waterfall." " Yes," said I, '* that is what I held her by ; " — and they both burst out laughing ; but when I told them the whole story they laughed still more. The Rev. Mother told me to go over into her parlor until one of the Sisters had arranged my room ; for it was flooded with the water. She told me that the girl must leave the convent at once. As I was crossing the street I began to reflect on the trouble the girl might give me ; for in France it is a very serious affair to strike any one. When I entered the Rev. Mother's parlor, I saw on her desk '• 'i""'Janvier" and then I recollected the promise I had made to the Blessed Virgin on the morning of my first communion that 1 would send Josephine away on the 7th. The thought struck me that it was the Blessed Virgin's wish that I should not break my pro- mise to her, and this had all happened that I might fulfil it. I rushed into the chapel to implore her protection, and I said to her just as confidently as though I was speaking to some one by my •ide whom I could see and who could hear me : ** Blessed Virgin, I am sure you have got me into this scrape ; now I shall look to you to get me out of it ;" and the same thing occurred to me that had happened twice before, I felt that she answered me, and said she would. I thanked her, and left the chapel perfectly composed ; for the moment I had made that speech, I felt that all was right. Not so with Laferriere, who called that day to see me He thought that my quick temper had more to do with it than the Mother A SLEEPING WITNESS. 333 of our Lord, and he scolded me severely ; — for he was sure that the girl would drag nie before the magistrate of St. Mand6, and that if he attempted to interfere, the whole opposition i)ress would cry out against the court, for trying to interrupt the course of justice. But in spite of all he said to mp, I did not feel the slightest fear or regr«t. I felt that it was all right, and that the Blessed Virgin would protect me. About a week passed away, and still no news from Josephine, until the cure called on me one morning to say that he had just been speaking to the magistrate of St. Mande, who had asked him it it was really true that there was a lady residing in the convent who had beaten her maid. The cure avoided answering him directly, but he learned from the judge that Josephine had called on him, and had made a complaint against me ; but they refused to summon me, be cause they doubted the girl's veracity, and they believed her to be crazy. She said that there was no witness but herself; and when the magistrate asked her to show him the marks, she refused, assuring him that modesty forbade it ; — and that is the last 1 ever heard of the incorrigible Josephine. As 1 have said a great deal about what I have been taught by the priests, I will say one word of their behavior, or better, I will not say the word, but let the reader judge for himself. One day after the cure of St. Mande had been giving me an instruc- tion, I went to open the door to Josephine's bedroom, when I was startled by her coming in with the door, and falling with a heavy bound at my feet. She had fallen asleep with her ear against the keyhole. I helped her up and asked her what was the matter, for the truth did not flash at once across my mind. She had hardly recovered from her nap, and her fall, when she replied, " that she could not help it, it was so lonely to be always by herself with no one to talk to ;" from which I concluded that she had been a vigilant sentinel at the keyhole ever since my instructions began ; and the reader, if he lias any appreciation of such a character, will easily believe that there never could have been any mischief going on ; for if there had been, Josephine never would have fallen asleep. ":f w 334 A PARLEY AND A TREATT. CHAPTER LXV. A TRUCE WITH MY ARCH-ENEMY. On a blustering winter's day, towards the middle of January, the snow was falling thick and fast. It was nearly sunset. The thoroughfares of St. Mande are usually still at that hour ; but this evening I was startled by the noise of a carriage, which came rolling rapidly down the street, and made a sudden halt before the convent door. Who could be coming to see me at such an untimely hour, and in such a dreadful storm ? I ran to the parlor window : the sister had already opened the massive gate. In a second it was closed, and a lithe female figure, closely wrapped in velvet and furs, tripped lightly after the sister, as she mounted the old stone steps. I opened the door to receive my visitor. In an instant more she was in my arms, and we were fondly embrac' each other. It was Mrs. Rey- nolds, who had come to beg a trucv, of hostilities. We sat down, and, after asking mutual forgiveness for all the wrongs we had inflicted on each other, we began to compare notes, to see which of us had been the victor. It was difficult for either of us to decide. She awarded the palm to me, inasmuch as I had actually annihilated her good name in many circles, and all lier enemies put together had never been able to deal her such a deathly blow as I had by a certain bon-moi that had fallen from my lips. But I repelled her generosity, for I was not willing that she should yield to me a triumph of which I felt that she was too deserving herself ; and I told her that I thought her intrigues to break off my marriage with the Viscount surpassed all the humiliations I had ever inflicted on her. After we had conversed, and come to a perfect understanding that neither of us in future would ever breathe aught but good concerning the other, she rose and began to look about her. Having caught a glimpse of the high walls, through 'the falling snow, a tremor passed over her and her face became deathly pale. With a deep sigh she exclaimed : " Dear, dear, what a horrid place this is ! I heard that it was so beautiful. It would kill Uie to stay here : I should jump out the window." Said I : " That would not do you any good ; for ;ft)u ATOuld light in the garden without being able to get into the street." t a ;ed she tit )Ut Irou THE enemy's pity. 335 " Then," said she, ** I would dash my brains against the wall, tor I would die if I. were forced to remain here twenty-four hours. They all say that you are playing the hypocrite, so as to have royal spon- sors, and gain favor with the old nobility. But I don't believe it now. I am sure you are in earnest ; for a kingdom itself would not com- pensate for the sacrifice of remaining in such a i)lace as this is for a week, — and here you have been nearly six months ! How I pity you ! " She begged my pardon over and over again for all the mischief she had done me ; for she felt that she perhaps had been, in a measure, the cause of condemning me to such a gloomy existence. Gloomy indeed it appeared to her, compared to what my life might have been in the brilliant saloons of the chateau of Fl6cheres, — where she had lived for several months with the Viscount's daughter. As soon as Mrs. Reynolds left me, I recollected that this was one of the things I had prayed for on the day of my baptism. CHAPTER LXVI. SIMPLICITY THE TEST OP TRUE NOBILITY. — JEAN JACQUES TO THE RESCUE. After I was converted and received into the Church, I found that the Mother Superior had a much better opinion of me than I deserved. I wished to undeceive her, but was perplexed how to go about doing so, without letting her discover my bad breeding. I feared, on the other hand, that she might suspect, with my American friends, that I was not sincere ; which would have been unjust ; for I was sincere as far as I went, only I had not inbibed the self-sacrificing spirit of Catholicity as much as she and her community were charitable enough to believe. I admired and could applaud the self-sacrificing Christian, but I had not the slightest intention of imitating that kind of Catholics. Even while saying my chaplet, I never once meditated on the dolo- rous mysteries. I meditated on the joyful and glorious ones, always leaving out humility and obedience, and substituting charity and the gifts of the Holy Ghost in their place. I thought that, to be perfect, God only required of me to be chaste, truthful and charitable : which last virtue I confounded, in a great measure, with benevolence, or 33<5 GOOD BREEDING. rather liberality ; for I had not seized it as the Bishop had tried to make me understand it. I had often asked the cure of St. Mand6 if that was not enough, and he would invariably reply, " It is enough for you to begin on.'' In spite of my strong and sanguine determination .o always spoak the truth, I found that I was continually misrepresenting things : so that I imagined that 1 was every day growing worse than I had ever been before in my life. I began to be discouraged, and complained bitterly of myself to my director. But he cheered me up, and told me that, if I appeared so much worse now in my own eyes, it was because I had never paid any attention to my faults before. "As we grow better," he re- marked, " we always appear worse to ourselves, because, the nearer we approach God, the light we receive from Him enables us better to see ourselves as we are. That encouraged me. But I, who had always endeavored to conceal my bad breeding, found that it re- quired an almost superhuman eiiforl not to quarrel with the Superior ; a temptation I had never had before my conversion. The Superior was a lady of noble origin, and extremely well bred ; but, in spite of her vast experience, and her wonderful gift of reading character, she was my dupe ; for she actually believed that I was a thorough-bred lady, and had been reared so from my cradle ; and this is the way 1 imposed upon her : — / never complained, never boasted, and always gave the preference to others over myself, and I 7vas always self-possessed. I had picked up this piece of knowledge, or rather tact, by mixing with the O'Gormans and a few families in the Faubourg St. Germain. r ... From the moment I was introduced among the old nobility, I de- tected at once the true mark of distinction, by which they could be in\ariably distinguished from the upstart aristocracy, which had risen with the empire. This invariable mark was simplicity. I discovered that those who were i\\Q frankest, the most ingennous, the most modest and simple in their address, were those who were the most accomplished, the most refined, and who were of the best descent. From a lesson the Viscount de Laferri^re taught me one -day, \ have defined in my own mind good breeding to be nothing more or less than " affected humility." I was (Dne day at the palace, waiting for the Viscount. Near me sat a priest, talking with one of the generals of the imperial staff. The manners of the general were PROUD HUMILITY. 337 he ing Lce, of ere intensely vulgar, while those of the priest were refined : not a gesture nor an expression of his face escaped me,. and X concluded that he was some generous soul who had sacrificed himself, to become a servant of Christ. When the Viscount entered, he at once addressed a few words to me, and told me to wait until he could dispatch his guests. After their departure, alluding to the priest, I said to Lafer- ri^re that I did not see how such a nobleman could embrace such a life of abnegation. The Viscount smiled, and said to me; "You are mistaken this time, (or your nobleman descends from a peasant near Fl6cheres. But he is an humble man and a good Christian ; and this is my instruction to you for to-day : that humility often takes the place of good breeding, and is much preferred to it by the theo- cratical aristocracy^ From this observation, I have since con- cluded that good breeding was nothing but affected humility. There- fore if people are not really humble, let them appear so at least, if they wish to pass for well bred. But there is something I have remarked myself, and I hold it to be true, — for I have found it to be so in all circles that I have lived in, both at home and abroad, — it is this, and the reader may set it down as a rule : — Whenever you see persons constantly complaining that this or that thing is not good enough for them, hinting that they are better than their neighbors, presuming on the opinion they have of their own superiority, showing it by trying to thrust themselves be- tween you and your friends, delighting to intrude on other people's tete-a-tete, or ever watching for an occasion to "snub" some one, who is not as well-oiT in the world as themselves, — you may depend upon it, they have sprung from a sewer, or, if they did not themselves, their grandfather did. To return to my subject : I always strained every nerve to conceal that I had come out of a gutter, and I not only never complained, but I went still farther. I never wondered, I learned that "tVcV admirari" was the motto on the arms of Lord Bolingbroke. I did not fully comprehend its signification until I had for a long while practised it. But one day I was at Lord Hereford's, and there the signification of nil admirari came across my mind like a flash. The first lesson the English nobility teach their children is self-possession. If they are angry, envious, jealous ; if they love or hate — they must conceal it ; good breeding demands it. In the convents, we are taught to disclose those feelings to the Suppiior or our confessor, so that IS 338 MY PATIENCE TESTED, they may assist us to root them out and destroy them ; for Christianity demands it. But I preferred the English way as yet, as I had always been accustomed to it. The moment I became a professed Catholic, the Superior put my frail Christian patience and my sham good-breeding to a fearful test. Formerly she refused me nothing that was consistent with the rules ; but now I noticed a general falling off in little things. No doubt the Reverend Mother thought that I wanted to suffer a little too, in order to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. But I became a Christian out of love for myself, and not for the love of Christ. I wanted to be happy : for I was devoured with ennui, remorse, and disappointed love. I was seeking for relief: Christianity presented itself, and I accepted it, after despairing of finding anything better, and I was de- termined to give it a good/a/r trial. But I had no idea of suffering. If I had thought that that was included in the bargain, I never could have been induced to embrace the Christian religion. 1 became a Christian to be happy ; and, after all that I had gone through, how would it have been possible to convince me that true happiness was to be found in suffering ? I called myself a Christian, because I had been baptized ; and I tried to practise three or four Christian virtues, which I believed to be the only ones of importance. I thought 1 was good enough then : yet to my surprise I was anything but happy. The unaccustomed rebuffs I was receiving in the convent made me suffer keenly. I would have found them trifling in themselves (as they really were), had not my pride made me morbidly sensitive. But I never admitted to my confessor how dreadfully angry I would get at times ; for I did not consider that that was my fault. I looked upon it as a part of the Reverend Mother's sins, which she would have to answer for. One day I wanted to go out skating in the Park of Vincennes, and I had sent word to the Superior that I wished a Sister to acconipany me, without whom I could not go out ; I was all dressed, in my skat- ing costume, ready to go ; and was already impatient to be obliged to wait for the Sister. At last, when my impatience had reached its height, Madam Xavier came with a message from the Superior, to tell me that all the Sisters were engaged, and there was no one to accom- pany me, so that I would be obliged to defer my skating. I knew very well that the Rev. Mother was aware that her refusal AN OLD STORY ADAPTED. 339 would be superlatively disagreeable to me, or she would not have called Madam Xavier from the school-room to bring me the mes- sage. Madam Xavier simply delivered the message as graciously as she could, then remained silent, expecting a reply. 1 could feel that she was looking intently at me, although I fixed my eyes on the floor ; for I was afraid that if she could see me full in the face, she woulc, detect there something besides Christian resignation, or the ex- pression of a well-bred person who was always self-possessed. After we had remained in this awkward position for a few seconds, Madam Xavier gently inquired if I had any answer that I wished her to take back to the Reverend Mother. She had hardly spoken when a though-t struck me, and I replied to her: "Yes, I will tell you a story, and my story is the answer you will take back to your Reverend Superior ;" and emphasizing the last words, 1 burst out laughing. She was horrified at my tone and my laughter ; but that soon passed off, for in a moment afterwards she thought that I was in the best possible humor. I told the story without any regard to the way Jean Jacques re- lated it. But as I was sure that no one in the convent would ever read his confessions, I knew there was no danger of my ever being found out ; so I related it to suit m)'self, hoping that my interpola- tions and deviations might help me to carry my point. Said I : "Tell your Rev. Superior that, once upon a time, Jean Jac- ques Rousseau, when he was a lad, went to Turin, where he found himself without any money or friends, not knowing where he was going to sup or to sleep. As he had excellent letters he applied to the Hospital of the Catechumens in that city, where he was kindly re- ceived ; and he entered there at once as a catechumen. They all went assiduously to work to try to convert him. But he was well versed in Protestant controversy, which he had learned at Geneva, and, while they were trying to convert him, he was doing his best to con- vert them, thinking it was the same with the Cathohcs as it was with the Protestants, that it was only necessary to beat them in an argu- ment, in order to reason them out of their faith. He pretends that he came off at first victorious, and those who had first undertaken to instruct him retreated, to give place to a master who was as disputa- tious as himself, but who possessed far more learning, experience and skill. •' Whenever Jean Jacques would assert anything in opposition to 340 JEAN JACQUES' MISTAKE. \i !'■■ II': what his new instructor said, and would name his authority, the olhet would deny that such an author had ever said any su.ch thing, and 'le would hand him a large Latin folio, and defy him to find any passage of the kind in the book ; and thereby the master would beat him, because Jean Jacques was a poor Latin scholar, and it might have been in the book twenty times without his being able to find it, and if he had found it, his instructor would have been sure to translate it to suit his own theory. This master was as tenacious and as persevering as Jean Jacques was obstinate and conceited, and they continued to dispute week after week and month after month, without success. In the meanwhile, they coaxed him, they petted him, they gave him bon-bons and tarts, to try to induce him to become a real Christian, and be baptized in the Catholic faith ; but Jean Jacques was inex- orable. "At last an archbishop came to pass a few days at the hospital, and Jean Jacques, who, by this time, had become tired of his pauper ex- istence, and filled with ambitious aspirations, thought that it would be a splendid thing, after all, for him to become a Catholic. He imagined that the whole institution must be in admiration of his talents and address, and that they would not fail to recommend him to the archbishop, who might probably make him one of his secre- taries. This consideration decided his conversion, and he announced his desire to be baptized. The next day his indefatigable instructor, to whom he had given so much trouble, washed him and combed his hair, dressed him up in a gray suit, and placing in his hand a lighted taper, led him to the altar. Immediately after he was baptized, the same person led him back into the sacristy, made him take off his gray dress, and put on his old clothes ; then, placing a few francs in his hand, he conducted him to the door, and kicked him into the street, cursing him for having given him so much trouble and for having held out so long. " Jean Jacques hastened away, as fast as he could, reflecting, as he did so, that he little thought that morning, when he was meditating what palace he should live in, that in the evening he should find him- self in the street ; ar-.d, as the shadows of night came on, he began to sigh for his comfortable quarters, his wonted caresses, his bon-bona |nd tarts, and he, at last, thought to himself what a big fool he had been, not to /loM out lofigery Said I to Madam Xavier : "After you have told this story to Rev. I GAIN MY POINT. 34t Mother, please tell her that I think Jean Jacques was right, that ht was a fool ; for he should have held out longer." Madam Xavier left me at once. In about half an hour, a Sister came and told me that the Rev. Mother had sent her to accompany me to the park. Returning I saw Madam Xavier, and I asked her if she had delivered my message. "Yes," she replied; "but I did not wait for a reply, for the Superior-General was with Rev. Mother, and as soon as I finished your story 1 left the room. But I coukl hear them laughing until I reached the study-liall." The next morning I saw the Superior, who received me more af- fectionately than usual. We both laughed heartily, but we never once referred to the story. It had the desired effect, however ; for it brought back all my former privileges, and I never had reason af- terwards to complain of the Superior. She was no doubt convinced that, if I ever became a saint, it would only be by slow degrees, and that it would require the hand of time. he t-'ng um- gan lona (had Lev. CHAPTER LXVII. GENERAL ROLLIN'S IDEA OF A " RETREAT," — MADAME XAVIER S ANTIDOTE FOR SORROW. From that day I became more and more contented with my con- vent home. I continued my studies ; but my history lesson was replaced by a Religious coming in every afternoon at three o'clock, and reading to me until dark. She read to me the Life of Jesus. It was beautifully written. I fear I have forgotten the author's name, but I think it was the Abbe Borrasseau. I remember, during one of these readings, having horrified the Religious by asking her how many brothers our Lord had ; for I re- membered that Renan had stated that Christ had several brothers. When she got over her astonishment, she said to me that my histo- rian, Mr. Renan, was probably not a Hebrew scholar, and if he was, he must have been a very poor one, if he quoted the New Testa- ment to verify such an assertion ; for the word brothers, according to the custom of the Hebrews, was used indiscriminately for brothers or relatives, because in that language the same word signified either ; 343 A HALLOWED SCENE. and then, if our l^ord had brothers, in the sense that Renan gives to that word, why did He confide the care of His mother to John His disciple ? The moments I passed at this reading lesson were among the happiest I ever knew ; for, even then, the whole scene in the life of our T^ord, to the description of which I listened, would appear to me like a beautiful living tableau. The nun used to seat herself near the window, and the last rays cf a winter's sunset would peer through the branches of the cedar of Lebanon, and fall on the form of that pure and lovely creature, who, in soft and gentle accents, read to me the life and words of Him to whom she had given her all, I could feel, by every word, look, tone, and gesture, that in that body dwelt a soul that was most pleasing to the God made Man. I would sit, listening attentively to every word she uttered, but ever re- gretting the declining day, whose last twilight glimmers fell, like a mysterious curtain, upon a hallowed scene. Spring came, and, one bright afternoon. Madam Xavier came to give me my lesson. We were very happy and were laying out plans for the Summer, when we happened to look out of the window, and saw two men standing on the lawn in close conversation, who every now and then would point towards the chateau. Madam Xavier turned pale. I asked her what was the matter. She told me that these men were the Father-General of their order and their architect, and she feared they were deciding to build on that side of the street, and not purchase the property where the con- vent actually stood, as had been once determined. In the evening the Superior came and told me that they owned the property which was attached to the chateau, but the grounds and buildings on the other side of the street, which joined on the Park of Vmcennes, were only leased. As the lease would expire in three years, the Superior-General had decided to repair the chateau, and build an addition to it, and thus convert it into a convent. Of course the chateau could not be inhabited from the moment they began the repairs. Through the influence of my Godmother, Princess Iza, I secured apartments at the Abbaye aux Bois, an an- cient monastery situated in the Rue de Sevres, about ten minutes walk from the Tuileries. It is an immense building, whose vails en- close large, spacious gardens. The object to whic'i this place is dedicated is two-fold, each be* ™^. . THE ABBAYE AUX BOIS. 343 ing entirely distinct from the other. The interior of the Abbey is devoted to the education of children, while the exterior is let out to widows or ladies of the nobility who wish to lead a life of seclusion and retirement, without being obliged to enter a convent. The Religious who have the superintendence of the institution are cloistered, and always converse with the outside world from behind a grating, while their faces remained concealed beneath a black serge veil. Those who hire ajjartments at the Abbey are perfectly inde- pendent of the institution. It is considered a great privilege for a lady to be received there, and objections were made at first about re- ceiving me, on account of my youth, and because I was an American. Their apartments were seldom let except to ladies who were well known to the nuns and their society. I set right to work to furnish my apartments, which consisted of two suites of rooms. In a few weeks 1 had them arranged in almost regal style. 1 was delighted with the change which apparently forced me back into the world, and which made my reappearance in society appear a necessity, not a choice. It was soon noised about that the chateau was going to be repaired, and how much the nuns regretted to have me leave them, and how dejected I was to go. I pretended to be sorry, too, while I was in heart delighted to get away, for the restraint became galling the mo- ment I saw my chance of escape. I loved the nuns, but I loved the world and Laferriere more. His devotion to me, from the day I entered the convent until the moment I left, had been untiring, a.nd he became dearer to me than ever ; I also knew that, under the cir- stances, my return to Paris would be a perfect triumph. I was so full of joy that it seemed to me that the gates of Heaven itself were opening to receive me, every time I turned my thoughts towards the beautiful city. From the depths of my heart I intoned continual chants of praise to God ; for I attributed all my happiness to Him, jis I formerly had all my sorrows, and I thought that this was to be tny reward for having been good. I felt that the sacrifices I had made and intended to make, merited a glorious return, and my ap- proaching triumph redoubled my faith ; I believed that God was treating me like a pet child, in giving me at once all that I could de- sire. And to complete my happiness, 1 was sure that my nuptials with Laferriere would soon follow, because his daughter was then 344 THE GENERAL CHARGES AGAIN. lying dangerously ill. I became more devout and fervent than ever, and every morning I would rise and gather a bunch of violets, which I placed on the lic.le rustic altar in the garden, at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin. I did everything that I thought would be "nioiit agreeable to Goe Americans almost went on their knees to implore her not to receive me. But the moment she heard that 1 was received by the Czar- toryskis, and that the Princess Iza was my (jodmother, she began to suspect that envy and jealousy had had their part in prejudicing others against me, and she resolved to make my acquaintance and judge for herself. I felt that I owed Mrs. Dix's friendship to the prayer which 1 had made at the altar on the day I was baptized. 'J'he moment Mrs. Dix declared herself my friend, my position in Paris was secure. People seemed to get tired of fighting me ; they gave it up, and I had no further difficulty. My residence at the abbey was a great source of protection. Laferriere and Rollin were so delighted to have me once more neat them, that they became to me like two devoted slaves. They refused me nothing that it was in their power to bestow ; so that my rooms were crowded with people who sought my patronage and influence. Besides, there were half a dozen other dignitaries who called on me occasionally, who were as influential as Laferriere. I seldom under- took to obtain anything but what 1 was sure to succeed. The con- sequence was, that 1 was not only sought after by the rich, but my antechamber was sometimes thronged with the poor. This excitement delighted me at first. It was what I had often craved during my cloistered life at St. Mande, and every night I would retire, wondering how 1 could have ever stood it there so long. But my vanity was soon surfeited : I began to long for the quiet and peace of the convent, and two months had not passed before I would steal away to St. Mande, sometimes two or three times a week. I went to St. Mand6 to be confirmed. I was at the altar, waitinjf for the archbishop to confirm me, when the cure of St. Mand6 said, " What name will you take ? Choose one that you have not been' baptized by." And without giving me a chance to speak, he added : " Take the name of Genevieve," which I did. Meanwhile, I went regularly every morning to mass, and would re- ceive holy communion once or twice a week. I went usually to St. Sulpice, after which I would take a stroll up to the Pantheon, to say a little prayer before the altar of St. Genevieve : and I imagined, whenever I failed to go there, that everything went wrong the resf of the day. At that time I tliought I had religion, whereas I had ^■ff^'^'f M 348 CONSCIENCE AND HEART. I only the phantom of it. Religion had triumphed over me ; it had seized hold of my conscience ; but Laferriere had my heart, and I found that I could no more wrest my conscience from God, than I could my heart from l,aferriere. The training I had received at the convent had made a lasting impression on my soul. It had en. lightened me. In vain 1 tried to close my eyes to the light, or to turn a deaf ear to remorse : the instant I committed the slightest offence against God, I was miserable until I had obtained absolu- tion. When 1 first came to the abbey to reside, I did not go out even- ings, as the doors closed at eleven o'clock. At first I was contented to lead this semi-cloistered life ; but I soon found it excessively stu- pid, and I began to grow low-spirited, just because I could not get into the abbey after eleven o'clock at night. 1 soon discovered that the old man who had charge of the gate, and who had been the porter of the abbey for over twenty years, wan as easily bribed as the parish bell-ringer at St. Mande. He was suf- fering with the liver complaint, and I began by giving him bottles of Vichy water. One day I put a Napoleon on the cork, which made the old man's eyes sparkle, as he gratefully exclaimed : " Merci, merci, ma dame ; " — and he told me that it was more than all tht old women in the convent had given him for the past six mouths, — tiiey always gave him a few francs every Christmas, but that was the last un- til Christmas again. " Oh," said I, "you know this has nothing to do with Christmas, for, at Christmas, I intend to make you a handsome present for having let me out ; but I think that it is- worth four botdes of Vichy wr '"sr a month, with a Napoleon besides, to be always let in^ The old man thought so, too, and he told me, that whenever I came home after the hour, 1 must not let the coachman drive up to the convent-gate, but walk a few steps and then rap on his window v,'ith my fan, and if he saw that there was no danger of being caught, he would let me in. As this was too great a risk always to run, I en- gaged a room next door to the abbey, so that, in case the old rnaa dared not open the gate, I could go there and sleep ; and this system we kept up until the old man died. His successor was a hale, hearty youth who served at the altaj', 1 never attempted to bribe him, for I was sure that he would refuse : 30, whenever I remained out late at night, I would sleep in the room outside the gate. The Religious murmured ; but I told them it was FOND MEMORY, 349 >.,..■ les en- mn em I se : orn I'aa not against their rules, for they had told me that the gate closed at eleven, but they did not tell me that I should be inside of it. But i soon got tired of operas, theatres and soirees, and preferred one hour passed at St. Mande to them all. One evening I was at the opera with some friends. Laferriere joined us after the first act : 1 becam<; so exhausted that I begged him to take me home. " Why, child," he replied, "do listen to the music." "Oh," said I, "I am so weary, it sickens me : 1 am not made for this." *' Tell me," he said, " what you are made for : nothing seems to amuse you. You must break yourself of this restlessness. Tell me, were you ever satisfied to keep still five minutes in your life ? " 1 begged him to come with me, and 1 forced him back into the saloon attached to the box. He began to scold, and declared that everybody in the house would think that we had gone into the saloon to talk sentiment and love. "Well," said I, "leave me; if one of us is condemned to listen to the play, let it be you." He left me at once : I began to weep and muse on the past, and I recalled a time that I once sat still. It was when I used to sit on the door-sill of my uncle's cottage, listening to the cricket which sang under the stone step ; and whenever that moral nausea, which a sur- feit of pleasure gives, would seize me, I would willingly give all the pleasures in Paris if I could have been carried back to listen to that cricket's song again. How often, when I have been sitting in one of the imperial boxes, ensconced in satin cushions, and damask drapery adorned with ' .nsel hangings, over which were embroidered the insignia of Royalty, and surrounded by hearts to which I felt coldly indifferent, have I been seized by such a spell of ennui that I turned my eyes from the stage and looked at the third tier, to watch and to envy some young peas- ant whom I chanced to see there sitting beside his intended or his youthful bride. I have often watched them during the whole play. Even now I have only to close my eyes and I can see them still. How naturally and at the same instant they turn towards each other to read mutual joy and satisfaction in each other's eyes. They are constantly doing so, at the same time that they are all attention to the play. The curtain falls, the play is over, everybody hastens away but my charming couple linger. Every back is turned towards them (just what the swain is waiting for). The gas in the third tier is sud- 350 LE LAID BEAU-MONDE. denly extinguished, yet I can see the outlines of their forms as the young peasant quickly bows his head close to hers. She starts tiack affrighted, but is instantly assured by him that the danger is over, and they joyfully hasten out hand in hand to join the rest. The young i"gue stole a kiss ; it was for that he lay in wait. I mistrusted him, and I waited to see it out. But how I envied them when I saw him take her hand and they tripped away gayly side by side. I envied them their independence, and my soul would sicken when it fell back again once more upon myself, and that dread feeling of isolation of the heart would come over me. In such moments I hated fortune, titles, honors, and dis- tinction, and I looked upon them as the enemies of my repose ; for every day they seemed to separate me more and more from the one I loved. One day I opened my heart to Laferriere and told him that there were moments when I felt like flying from Paris, so sick was I of this kind of life. He replied, "Did I not tell you so? I knew how it would be, I foresaw all this, but I did not expect it would come so soon. I knew I could place you in a position that the world would be at your feet, and that the day would come when you would loathe it, as you would a nauseous drink. I can sympa- thize with you ; for it is a penalty that I have had to submit to, ever since the Emperor gave me my appointment. But I have this to console me, whereas you have not that consolation, I did not seek my position, it was thrust upon me ; whereas you made every effort to attain yours. I much preferred the solitude of FlecL dres to this Babylonian life at court. I shrank from it ; but, from devotion to the cause that my father had made such bitter sacrifices in espousing, I accepted it as a burden, not as a means to happiness. I am so disgusted with court life and the flattery of sycophants, that I often envy my valet and wish 1 could exchange positions with him. But you deserve to be punished; for this is c -Ay what you sought for : now that you have attained it, you find yourself miserable. I can do nothing more. But I knew just how it would be, and I al- ways told you so, that the day would come when you would sigh for your former quiet and unassuming home, and would care little who despised you, so long as they would leave you alone." " No," said I, " that is not so : I have never once sighed after the little apartment, because some people turned their backs on me They thought I deserved it to be so treated." f THE FALSE WORLD. 351 Lafenidte's face assumed a bitter smile as he replied, "You will never be convinced of the truth of anytiiing 1 tell you. Do you sup- pose that the world crowds around you now, because men think that you are more deserving than you were then ? My dear child, 1 am sure they have a worse opinion of you now than they had then. I thought you could read people ; but how vanity and pride do bHnd us ! You will find that they will press your hand so long as they can find something in it ; but believe me, the moment you cease to amuse them, or to be of any service to them, you might be an angel, and they would not know you if they met you in the street." CHAPTER LXIX. MY SOUL IN DARKNESS. -THE COUNTESS DE MONTALEMBERT BRINGS BACK THE LIGHT. d." I HAD not led this life three months when I awoke one morning as much an infidel as ever. It was one of the most dreadful moments I ever knew. I was so distracted that I had an impulse to run down the street and throw myself into the Seine, — I had lost my Faith. I looked upon the Catholics as so many fiends incarnate who had suc- ceeded in entrapping me, and I began asking myself: How are you going to get out of this ? how are you going to get out of this ? " It would be contrary to my nature to keep up the disguise, and make believe that I was a Christian when I was not. I felt that I was fitted for any other r61e in duplicity but that, — and that I would not play. I preferred being shunned by the whole world as an infidel, to being honored, while knowing myself to be a hypocrite. I had always sincerely hated hypocrites, and to be forced to be one myself, in order to keep up my position, I felt was more than the whole thing was worth. But I was sad, very sad. What a scandal it would make I and how it would grieve my friends ! my godmother whom I so much loved ! and when I thought of Madam Xavier, I wept like a child. But what could 1 do ? and, every momenf becoming more and more distracted, hardly knowui^r ,hat I was about, I sank down on my knees, and bej_^an to implore God to help me. That day I refused to see any one, locked myself up in my room, fii 352 A NEW DEPARTURE. i and raved like one who had been following an ignis-faums, until it had led him to a precipice, and who had not discovered the cheat un. til he found himself dasliing headlong down. In this miserable state I remained until three o'clock in the afternoon, praying fervently to God all the while, to inspire me what to do in order to get out of my embarrassment. Finally the thought struck me, that 1 would say nothing about it for the present. I should first study the question, master it, and would not declare myself an infidel until I was strong enough to defend myself; I recollected that the Catholics had been too much for Jean Jacques ; but then he was only a boy, and they never succeeded in making such a fool of him as they did of me, for he knew better all the time, whereas I was in downright earnest. I then recalled how well they had refuted everything that I had said against them. But my resolution was taken, and I was determined to carry it through, — this time I should master both sides of the ques- tion, so as not to be taken by surprise at anything that could be said in their favor, as I had been at St. Mande. How many people had called me a fool ! I now felt that they were the only ones who knew me. My maid came and told m-^ that the carriage was waiting. I then remembered having ordered it for three o'cIock, to go to the Princess Sulkowska's. It was her reception-day. As soon as I entered the saloon, the Princess came to me, and said : " I am so glad you have come to-day, for I want you to renew your acquaintance with the Countess de Montalembert, who is your neigh- bor. She resides in the Rue de Bac, very near the abbey. I have just been telling her of your extraordinary conversion, and she de- sires very much to see you." The Countess could not recall me, and had lost all remembrance of our former acquaintance. She began to congratulate me, and to say many edifying things, which fearfully embarrassed me, as the Princess Iza joined in the conversation, at a moment when all my doubts and the despair of the morning came back upon me. I did not know what to do or to say ; but I concluded it would be wise to keep silent for the present. Madam de Montalembert introduced me to her daughter, the Countess de Meaux. In a few moments I was surrounded by half a dozen, all congratulating me, among the rest Monsignor Bauer, afterwards chaplain to the Empress, whom I had always disliked. While he was running off a few silvery phrases, I was seized with an my did A NEW TEACHER. 353 almost irresistible desire to tell him to hold his tongue, that I believed his religion was all a humbug, and that he was one of the chief char- latans who were running it. Whenever my imi)atience reached its pitch, it had become a habit with me to say, Je ne suis pas faite pour cela (I am not made for this) : then I would give up and leave, no matter where I was or what I was doing. It was in the middle of one of Monsignor's sen- tences that this thought struck me, and I tried to make my escape ; but I had hardly advanced three steps before 1 found myself face to face again with Madam de Montalembert, who with her hand mo- tioned me to a seat by her side. The conversation took a general turn, and for the first time in my jfe I was captivated by a woman. I was charmed with her, she was so frank, so ingenuous, so witty, so thoroughly devoid of affectation. I remembered how uncomfortable she and her society had made me feel when I visited her three years before ; I was then so afraid that they would find out how little I knew. But now I had made up my mind to take the other tack, and pretend not to know anything at all. In a few moments it seemed as though we had known each other all our lives. I described to her the kind of life I was leading, and told her that I was dying with ennui. She replied : "I am not at all surprised ; for such a life would kill any one who had any good sense." I told her that I feared it was because I was entirely devoid of it that everything bored me. She would not admit that, but said, on the contrary, she was sure that my head was full of it. 1 smiled ; for I thought, what would Laferri^re say had he heard her pay me such a compliment. She spoke of her husband's illness, and said it was the only thing that would pievent her seeing me as often as she felt she would like to, and then she named an hour and told me that if I would call on her any day at that time she would receive me. Said she: "You interest me; I want to know you more. But I will tell you at once a good thing for you to do : instruct yourself in our religion ; that is good food for your mind, and the most essen- tial aliment too." I told her that I had that very morning resolved to do it. She was delighted wi^h my reply, and offered at once to be my teacher ; which offer I readily accepted. Said she ; " You will read only such books as I recommend ; " to which I agreed. ! Il^ m I 354 THE OLD AND THE NEW REGIME. When I told her that I had resolved that morning to instruct niy- self in the Catholic religion, I told the truth ; for I was determined to study both sides, and I thought it would be as well to learn one side thoroughly first before 1 undertook the other. Now as Pro\i- dence had been good enough to throw a teacher of Cathohcity at once in my path, I accei:)ted it, the same as I would have done had a teacher of Infidelity first presented himself. The next morning I went to mass as usual, thinking as I walked along that perhaps the Catholics were right after all, and that I had better keep up all my practices until I was convinced of the contrary. P>om the moment that Madam de Montalembert interested herself in my religious education, we became like sisters. Laferriere was exceedingly displeased with our intimacy, for he found that Madam de Montalembert was filling my head with anti- Napoleonic ideas, and that, as my doubts against faith gradually van- ished, so did also my belief in the divine right of Napoleon 111., in which he himself had taken great pains to instruct me. Madam de Montalembert presented me to many ladies of rank in the Faubourg, who were mostly her own relatives, and when she told them what a warm attachment she had for me, they all received me as if I were one of her family. I wrote their names in my book of addresses. Laferriere' s eyes happened to fall on them one day. I noticed his countenance change. He let the book fall from his hand, sank back in his chair, closed his eyes, and knit his brows. I asked him if he had seen any new name there that he objected to. Said he: "Those families to whom Madam de Montalembert has intro- duced you, are my relations." " Then," said I, "you know them ?" "No," he sadly replied, "I only know them byname. They have always adhered faithfully to the old regime, and consequently we have never met : the breach took place between my father and his family before I was born." This at once gave me something to do ; for I instantly resolved that he should know his relations, and, in less than two months, I) succeeded in introducing him to several members of his family. One evening, after my guests had left and I was alone with Lafer ri^re, he remarked : " Perhaps it was to render me this service that Providence sent you to me. How singularly the wheel of fortune turns ! Just think that you, a homeless, friendless waif, whom 1 have always considered that Pre vidence wafted over the sea for me to pro- -*^'tl: ANOTHER SANCTUARY. 355 tect and cherish, should be the only one who could take me by the hand and introduce me to my family, whom I might have nevei known had I never met you ! " CHAPTER LXX his ter that une ave no- THE LADIES OF THE RETREAT. — A HOME OF TRUE CHRISTIAN CHARITY. The Marquise de Ferriere le Vayer, who was one of the Viscount's cousins, introduced me to the Ladies of the Retreat, a religious com- nuinity whose convent was situated in the Rue de Regard, a short distance only from the abbey. The special aim of this community is to instruct ladies in the world in their religion and give them op- portunities of making spiritual retreats. She recommended me par- ticularly to one of the Religious, Madam de la Chapelle, who was also a distant relative of Laferri^re's, whom he had never seen. From the day I made the acquaintance of the " Ladies of the Retreat," their convent became a second St. Mande to me. I be- came fond of their little chapel : I seemed to be drawn to it, for I always felt a sensible devotion before its altar. I was seriously studying my religion, and would frequently go for explanations to the " Ladies of the R etreat," who could teach like theologians. They appeared specially gifted for giving instructions and advice. If the one you addressed was not capable of solving your difficulties, she would introduce you to one of her sisters in reli- gion who was better informed. Everything about this con\ent breathed peace and heavenly rest^ There was something in the very gait and manner and expression of these Religious that drew you to them, and from them to God. One thing about them was irresistibly sweet, which I often remarked : U was their relations with each other. It could be easily seen by their intercourse, that they were united by mutual love. There was no affectation ; everything v/as candor and simplicity. Whenever they addressed each other, it was alwa} s with an accent of the most tender and sisterly regard. I never left \heir abode without feeling what a Heaven in itself each home might !%'^fl 1 f 356 THE PEACE OF GOD. be, if all families were united and would live together as do the " Ladies of the Retreat." There was no strife, no ambition, no envy among them ; for these things can easily be detected, however well they may be disguised. There is a nervous, unquiet, oftentimes rigid and always shrinking, motion of the eyes that cannot be con- trolled, when envy, jealousy, and distrust lurk in the heart. With the " Ladies of the Retreat" everything was peaceful and joyful, as only those homes can be which are filled with hearts united by Christian Faith, Hope, and Charity. CHAPTER LXXI. MADAM XAVIER BRAVES THE SPANISH COMMUNE.- HEART REFUSES TO BE HEALED. -A WOUNDED When che heat of the summer set in I went to Mont Dore, chaperoned by some ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain. These ladies were pious, cultivated, and refined, and possessed every moral quality that makes social intercourse something more elevating than idle pastime. For a few weeks I was happy and contented ; my health improved ; the past seemed entirely effaced from my mind. I was happy in the present and felt no anxiety about the future. A letter from my sister changed the whole current of my thoughts, and set me to brooding once more over the past, and dreading some fearful scandal in the future. She had separated from her husband, and said that she would begin a suit of divorce, if he did not consent to comply with certain conditions that she exacted of him. It was a long letter, every sentence of which was in such discord with my present associations and habits, that it brought before my eyes vivid- 1/ the degradation out of which Providence had raised me. The publication In the newspapars of such a trial would expose /ny origin, and hurl me from the proud social eminence which I had attained. I was crushed at the very thought of the Princess Iza ever knowing anything about my past, and the remainder of my stay at Mont Dore was as painful as the first few weeks had been happy and contented. This new and unexpected anxiety wore so upon me, that I returned to Paris little benefited in health by my sojourn among the mountains. THE HEROIC NUN. 357 ever ly at As soon as I returned to Paris I went to St. Mand6. The Supe- rior had left to take charge of one of their houses at Bayonne, and Madam Xavier had been sent to a liouse of the order in the inte- rior of Spain. I then placed my child at the Abbaye aux Bois ; fol when Madam Xavier left, there was nothing to draw me to St. Mande. At a time when Spain was in the height of revolution, when Span- ish communists robbed the churches and invaded the convents, and were committing every species of sacrilege in different parts of the country, they made a raid one morning on the very convent to whicli Madam Xavier had been transferred. All the religious fled, except Madam Xavier, who flew to the chapel and placed herself between the railing of the sanctuary and the tabernacle. The miscreants first plundered the cellars, and secured all the pro- visions they could find ; after which they rushed to the chapel to make booty of its sacred vessels. They supposed the convent was deserted, and were surprised when they reached the chapel and found a nun standing before them, in an attitude of defiance with a crucifix in her hand. They instantly halted, when she cried out to them and ordered them to kneel down and ask God's forgiveness for daring to desecrate His sanctuary. They began ])arleying among themselves as to what they should do. Some cried out, "Let us seize her;" while others said, "No, let us wait for the captain;" and these kept the others at bay until the captain arrived. When the captain came, he was so struck by the bravery and courage of the nun, that he promised her that their con vent should never be molested by one of his band, nor w';uld they carry off any booty if she would go and breakfast with them. She agreed to the stipulation, and the last I have ever heard of Madam Xavier, she had breakfasted with a band of Spanish communists. When I returned from Mont Dore, I>aferriere had finished hia season among the Alps, and was again at Flech(^res. The following letter from him a few days after my arrival, showed me too plainly that his heart was still with the dead, and that I must not expect of it more than it could give .iie : — " Chateau de Fl^cheres, September 12, 1868. " My Dear Child, " Time seems very long away from you ; the country, too, has lost all charm for me. I try in vain to devise rural occupations , I say to m 358 A LAMENT. myself — lahat is the use ? — and this terrible thought stops me short in all my projects. In order to devote one's self to agricultural labors, to employ one's time and life in effecting useful improvements, it is necessary to leave behind some one who will profit by them, and I have no longer any one. "There are men, who, more Christian than I, look upon the famil)- as only a portion of humanity ; and who think that when they have no children, they ought to devote themselves to the whole human race, I have no such high and philanthropic sentiments ; the more I love my children, the more I become indifferent to men. I would not do them ill, but I do not think it necessary to do them good ; they are not worth the trouble. You will find me very gloomy and humorsome, but you must pity rather than blame me : my life has not been a very happy one, and if fortune and honors have fallen to my share, they cannot take the place of the affections I have lost, which were my joy and my hope. I repeat unceasingly these lines of Victor Hugo, so much in harmony with my feelings : " 'Seigneur, pr6servez-moi, prdservez ceux que j'aime, Frferes, parents, amis et mes ennemis memes Dans le mal triomphant, De jamais voir, Seigneur, l'6t6 sans fleurs vermeilles. La cage sans oiseaux, la ruche r^ans abeilles, La maison sans en/ants ! ' "O Lord, save me, save those that I love, brothers, kindred, friends and even my enemies, in the midst of triumphant evil, from ever seeing, O Lord, the smnmer without roses, the cage without a bird, the hive without bees, the house without children. "I submit to my fate, but when thoughts of the past overwhelm me, I am good for nothing. Forgive me, my child, if I say these sad things to you, you are the only one to whom I open my heart, to whom I show the ever-bleeding wound which rends it. The world believes me hard-hearted and unfeeling ; you alone know how warm and tender a soul is hidden under so cold and severe an exterior. It matters little to me what others think, provided you know me and acknowledge that in the midst of my faults there are a few good qualities. ♦' My son-in-law is elected to Paris ; he expects to be ordered there every day. 1 shall follow at the end of the month, and my daughter will leave Fl^cheres at the same time. Wj! ^^sflF AN EARLY VISIT. 359 "A bientot, then, dear child, and while waiting my return, try to keep yourself busy and occupied ; — that is the only way to obtain cahnness and tranquillity of mind. " In order to combat your prevailing nialady, ennui, let me induce you to find some occuinition for yourself, instead of reading Madam de Montalembert's books, which will only stupefy you ; study hi«torr, geography, read the papers, interest yourself in what is going on, and do not live outside of the world and all its aftairs. " Accept the assurance of my tender and devoted affection. *' Ever yours, " LAFERRliRE." whelm ;se sad • ;art, to world warm or. It ne and lalities. ;d there aughter CHAPTER LXXII. A SISTER OF CHARITY IN THE MORNING, A WOMAN OF THE WORLD IN THE AFl'ERNOON. On my return from Mont Dore, I received a letter from the Baron de Toucy, requesting me to do him the favor of calling at the Neckar Hospital to visit a patient. When I arrived at the hospital it was about half past six in the morn- ing. The portress treated me uncivilly and refused absolutely to let me in, on account of tlie earliness of the hour. But, as I persisted, she told me to pass through the lodge, and she would search my pockets and a little satchel I had in my hand, and ihf^n perhaps she would let me in. She made the perquisition and concluded to let me pass. I ran across the yard, and was met by a servant in blouse who told me that I could not pass. At that instant I saw a door on which was written, Bureau du directeur, and before the man in blouse could stop me, I was in there. Here I found a gentleman writing, who appeared very much surprised to see me. Before he had a chance to speak and order me out, I told him what I came for, and desired to be conducted to bed No. lo. "Why, Mademoiselle, he replied, "no one ever comes here at this hour." Said I : "It ap- pears they do^ for T am here" He repHed : " It is against the rules : no one can visit a sick per- son at this time of day. You must call a few hours later." " I have IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. ML// y^s^ . 1.0 I.I 1.25 l^|2.8 ■ 30 ■^* ^ 114 1 2.0 1.8 U III 1.6 /J /a v: .^^ #^ '^ o 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation m 4 iV :\ V \ v^ m 6^ 33 WiST MAIN STRiET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SS0 (716) 872-4503 ^ ^ >- ,«VJ ■(■■ . :■ ^-i^-.': 36o LESSONS OF MISERY. not come here," said I, "to receive your orders;" sa}nng which I pulled out the Baron's letter, and handed it to him. After he had read the letter, he ordered the servant to conduct me to bed No. lo. This hospital is in charge of the Sisters of Charity. It receives first-class poor ; for not every person they pick up in the street is allowed to come there. They only receive that class which does not come under the common appellation of paupers ; and many of its inmates belong to the respectable laboring people, whom penury obliges to seek assistance, when they are unable to work. This morning I must have remained there three or four hours, conversing with the Sisters, and consoling the sick. One ef the Sisters conducted me to the door and begged me to call often. I told her of the search that the portress had subjected me to. The Sister instantly descended the stairs, went to the director, and asked him to give Ine a ticket which would admit me any time I chose to call. • V' ' From the time I entered the hospital until I reached home, it seemed to me that ten years had passed over my head. A new phase of life had just been opened to me, and as I entered my luxuriously furnished apartment, the very sighf of my own wanton extravagance sickened me. That same afternoon Laferri^re arrived, and I related to him my morning visit to the hospital, and how wretched it made me to see so much suffering that I was unable to relieve. 1 had emptied my purse there : it was but as a drop in the ocean. I had seen mothers lying there with their newly born babes, with- out any clothing to put on them, excepting a few bandages and pieces of muslin, that the Sisters had with difficulty been able to procure for them. I happened to remark that I wished I could go there and pass a few hours every day. I^aferri^re iplied : " I do not see what there is to prevent you." I began to enumerate the many things I had to take up my time ; and when I mentioned the hours I devoted to the study of the Catholic religion, he caught that up and said : " The best lesson that you can take in our religion, is to go to the Hospi- tals, where you will see the fruits of it ; for there is no book that can instruct youjike the daily examples of the Sisters of Charity." So saying, he handed me a few hundred-franc bills, to give to the sick poor for him. General Rollin come in. He followed Laferridre's example, and A LIGHT TO MY CONSCIENCE. 361 and said that I could count on him for a remittance for my poor every month, as he took good care never to be seen giving away money himself, for fear his doors would be besieged by paupers and impostors. P'rom that day I rose an hour earlier, and devoted a part of every morning to visiting the sick and the poor. I visited the hospital three or four times a week, and it was by the bedsides of its unfortu- nate inmates, listening to their simple stories, and often catching with difficulty their dying words, in which were frequently summed up the deceptions of a whole life, that 1 learned to reflect seriously. It was there I received my daily instructions : it was there that my mind received lights, to which I could not close my eyes. In the histories of these poor creatures I could iind some analogy with my own. They had been brought down- to that wretched state through the faults of their parents, th'-ough the injustice, ingratitude, and cruelty of others, and frequently by their own faults. By their bed- sides I would make my own examination of conscience, and would lift my heart to God, and ask Him why He had allowed me to escape their lot ; for I felt that I had often been exposed to it, and was much more deserving of it than they. I never descended the hospital stairs without making a firm re- solve, never to wilfully offend God, who had sliown me so much mercy, and I never left the sick there without remorse for having squandered so much money in luxuries, that only gave me a moment- ary satisfaction, and which might have relieved the necessities and made the happiness of many a miserable being. I would then resolve to convert my past folly to some good account. I passed my morn- ings like a Sister of Charity, and my afternoons like a woman of the world, intriguing to get influence, power and money, just in order to help the poor. One afternoon a lady from the Faubourg St. Germain, who had only known me in my morning character as lady of charity, called on me, and was scandalized to find me surrounded by half a dozen of the beau monde, to whom I was playing the agreeable. As soon as we were alone, she was candid enough to tell me how much I dis- edified her. I threw open a large pantry, and showed her the piles of clothes, etc., stored in it for distribution among the poor, telling her that I got them out of just such people as those who had left me, and from charitable Americans, like Mr. Warden, head of the French house of A. T. Stewart. 16 ■ 3^52 AN EASTERN QUESTION. As my motive was good, this lady encouraged me to go on. Not so the Countess de Montaleiubert, who was still at her chateau. She was called about this time unexpectedly to Paris to pass a few days. When I told her how I was passing my time, without exaggerating at all on my coquetries, she was too smart to be so easily deceived by the good results of the sacrifices I made to Mammon in order to be benevolent, and she slyly remarked on my manoeuvering : " it seems to me that it is something like trying to lead God and ifu Devil in the same harness?," ► >'■• ' — '" I • ' ilO ■■■■■, .J ..,.■■ .. ■••-' - -■• •■->', 'V,, CHAPTER LXXIII. THE GIUSTINIS. — MY VOW. i-, < > „ To give an account of all that I went through during the months that immediately followed my sojourn at St. Mande would take too much space. I will here give the history of a single week. In the Rue des St. Pdres lived a poor statuary named Caussinus. Caussinus and his wife were always speaking to me of a poor family named Giustini, who had come all the way from Syria, to collect a claim they had against the French Government. They had been already six or seven months in Paris. The Caussinuses never ceased to importune me to help Giustini to collect his claim. I met this man one day in the statuary's shop. He implored me for the love of God to help him. Mrs. Caussinus had told him about my influence at court, and it appears he had been coming there daily for weeks in hopes of meeting me. I gave him a few francs ; but his woe-begone face and look of despair haunted me wherever I went. The next day 1 sent for Caussinus, and asked him to explain what Giustini's claim against the government was. He told tag that the Count de Bentivoglio, who was French Consul at Aleppo, had been authorized by the government to appoint a consular agent at Aintab. Giustini, an Italian, was appointed. He married into one of the best families of the East. His wife became a Catholic. Her conversion caused a rupture between Giustini and his father-in-law's family. Giustini had acted as consular agent for France for eleven years, but had never received any salary. He had lately been removed, by A POLICEMAN WITH A HEART. 363 order of the Chief of the Consulate Department in France. He had come to Paris to collect eleven years' salary. The French government denied his claim in toto. It was said that he had never been legally appointed consular agent, and even had he been legally commissioned there was no other emolument at- tached to that consulate than the perquisites. The government also declared that Giustini had never rendered any service to it, and had only made use of his position to obtain illegitimate gains, bor- rowing money which he never returned, forcing the Cawas to pay him, and, far from remunerating them, he sold his influence, etc. It was for these causes, and for others still greater, that he had been removed. M The Count Charles de Lesseps, Monsieur Chatry de la Posse, and other influential men, who knew Giustini in Syria, had tried to en- force his claim ; but the only answer they received from the govern- ment was a list of the charges that 1 have mentioned. 1 did not wish to engage in such a hopeless case, and told Caus- sinus never to mention it again, as I could do nothing for them. Caussinus undertook to describe their misery ; but I would not listen to him. Yet the moment he left I found it impossible to drive the affair out of my mind. That day during dinner the sorrowful countenance of Giustini haunted me. After dinner I called my maid and told her to put a bottle of wine and some food in a basket for the starving family. It was the last of October : the evenings had begun to be chilly. My maid threw a shawl over my shoulders, which I objected to wear ; but she insisted that it was cold, and that I would need it be- fore I got home. We called at the hotel where they -ived. Instead of conducting me to them, the landlady began to tell me how many months they had occupied her rooms, without i)aying her a cent. She had endeavored by every means to put them out, but the very gendarme who had come to put them into the street, had been seduced by Giustini, the silvery-tongued scoundrel, and instead of put- ting them Dut, as he had a commission to do, he gave him Ave francs, and reported the case to his captain, who begged her to keep them a little longer. She begged me, if I had any influence with them, to induce them to leave. My maid uncovered the basket and showed her our mission. The woman frowned, as though it was a charity ill placed. She reluctantly conducted us up two flights of stairs, pointed to a room, and left us. 364 A SYRIAN MOTHER. We knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, my maid shouted to those inside that we were not the police, and begged them to open the door. At last I put my mouth to the keyhole and calling Giustini by name, I told him that I was the lady he had met in Caussinus's shop. He immediately unlocked, unbolted and un- barricaded the door ; for he had pushed up his trunks, and all the furniture in the room against it. > t ^ t When the door opened, it was impossible for us to distinguish any thing in the dark, except the figure of a man. I told him to strike a light ; that there was no one there to molest him. He feebly an- swered that he had no light, not even a match. At these words my maid seized hold of my hand : she was trem- bling with fear. *♦ Oh ! madam," she exclaimed, " let us go : I am afraid to stay here." I too felt timid about going into a dark room with a starving man, and we both retreated into the corridor. The man, who fully recognized me, followed us and begged us to come in, so that he could fasten the door. " Oh, Dieu I no, thank you ! " we both simultaneously exclaimed, and my maid made a dash for the stairs, and almost reached the first flight before I could stop her. I gave her my purse, and told her to buy a candle and some matches. When she returned I was already in the room, and never shall I for- get the scene that burst upon me, when she brought in the light. Before me was a woman, sitting up in bed, witl^ beads in her hands, saying her rosary, while her eyes were fixed on three long glossy strands of hair spread across her lap. By her side lay a boy of at least twelve years. Presently the woman raised her eyes, looked at me a moment, and smiled ; then fixing her gaze once more on the strands of hair, she continued her prayer as devoutly as though she had been alone. Hei husband said to me : " She smiled to thank you for the light ; for she always weeps when it grows so dark that she can no longer see those strands of hair." I asked him whose they were. He repl'ed : " My wife is an eastern lady, and it is customary in h« country, when a mother leaves her children, to take with her a strand ol hair from the head of each ; and those belong to our three daughters whom we left in Syria, and we fear we shall never see them again." He was so overcome when he spoke those last words, that he sank down on his knees, and began to weep and to implore God to have THE MODEL OFFICIAL. 36s pity on them. The wife having finished her prayer, wound the chap* let around her wrist, clasped her hands together, and addressed a few w(?rds in Arabic to her husband. Her husban< then said to me : " She has just told me that she knew that the Mother of God would not abandon us, for she had been praying to her the whole day long." -'■■.'-''•••'' .-.-i'-<'t' *v' .".;-i i'/i^Stjwt -■ : I approached the bed and asked her if she was ill. Instead of answering me, she looked towards her husband, to have him interpret my words, for she only spoke her native tongue. He told me that she was exhausted for want of food, that she was so cold that she and her child were in bed to keep warm, for their clothing had been made for a much more genial clime. Jly maid had taken the provisions from the basket. They satu- rated the bread with wine, and ate sparingly of it. The husband told me how often they had suffered with hunger. I sat on the side of the bed, listening to his story. He opened a trunk half full of papers. These documents, he said, could prove his innocence ; but, as he had no money, no lawyer would take an interest in his case. The government officials were prejudiced against him, he said, and would not even give him an audience. He had come thousands of miles, all the way from Syria, and had never been able to speak to any one connected with the foreign department, except the sentry at the gate of the ministerial mansion, or the valet in the ante-chamber, and now that he was known to the sentry, he would not even be per- mitted to pass. He had lost all hopes of ever returning to Syria, and was afraid that he and his family would die of starvation. I asked him to show me the list of accusations that the govern- ment had sent him. He handed me a paper, which bore the min- isterial seal, in which were over thirty serious charges against him, signed by Meurand, who had been chief of the consulate department for thirty years. Meurand was a man noted for his accurate decisions. If a person appealed to the Emperor, he would refer him to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the minister would be obliged to refer the matter back to Meurand. Meui d was the real head and laboring man of his department : he knew v erything that concerned it, and was a man of acknowledged ability, strict integrity, and unerring judgment. I looked over a few of the papers, but none of those which he handed me had any bearing on the case. r 3<56 A MUTE APPEAL. in ;:l M - After cross-questioning Giustini, I was forced to the conclusion that he was a scoundrel. :, • ..♦ % i ped on my knees, and oflered up my i6» .- 370 FAITH IN GOD. tii A wonted ejaculation: "O Saviour, may I love thee more! and wilt thou love me more ! May I love Laferridre less 1 but make him love me more." ^i •; ri #/i» •. ; /'f^-o^.i \^,\Ht\t'^ ^ ■>^'^■•■ ■,'* . I continued to pray for several minutes. As I was about to put out the light, I recollected the paper I had in my hand, which I at once recogmzed as the one containing the charges against Giustini. I opened it and read it through, and when I came to the last words : **It is for these offences, and still greater, that you have been re- called," etc., I looked up at the statue of the Blessed Virgin and began talking to her as though she were really present. n ^ih^ ,i\,^ Said I : " I believe he is guilty of every one of the charges, and yet he dares to imagine that I will pay for his misdeeds, and give him money enough to go back to Syria ! " and I continued to abuse him as hard as I could, until I happened to notice the red marks on the back of my left hand, which his wife's chaplet had made. I at once recollected my vow, and the whole scene came vividly before me. I was so moved that I threw my arms around the statue of the Blessed Virgin, kissed her feet, and the tears gushed from my eyes, while I repeated my vow. "Yes, mother, I do promise you, that I will never abandon that Syrian mother and her unborn babe. I will make the government send them home ; " and as I renewed my vow, I felt that the Blessed Virgin demanded it of me. I had scarcely renewed it, when my eyes fell again on the paper which contained those fatal accusations, which seemed to instantly bury all my hopes of success. But the moment my eyes fell again on the marks on my hand, all my courage returned; I felt that the Blessed Virgin had written there, with this sorrowful mother's chap- let, a promise to assist me. The. thought filled me with joy. I reached out my left hand to- wards the statue, while in my right I held up the paper, and shook it with a triumphant air^ as I spoke to it : " We shall see who is the stronger, the inflexible, unerring Meurand, old head of the consulate department, or the Blessed Virgin ! " I then threw the paper on the floor, stamped on it with my foot, and contini'jd talking to the Blessed Virgin, as though she were actually present. I was as happy as I could be, for every time I looked at my hand, it seemed as though I saw the promise of the Blessed Virgin written there. I then tnrn td lovingly towards the portrait of our Lord, and said to Him : "I know thou canst not CHILDREN IN THE ABBEY. 371 refuse thy mother anything : I pray thee listen to her when she inter- cedes for that afflicted mother and her unborn babe." That night I slept peacefully, until I was awakened by the children in the abbey singing a morning hymn to the Blessed Virgin, for it was Saturday. 1 was so happy that I repeated over again and again to myself, " How sweet it is to be a Christian ? " and as my eye? chanced to fall on the portrait of our Lord, I said : " Oh, I hope it is all true ; I hope it is not all' an illusion." The tears started to my eyes, at the thought " this illusion vanishing, like the rest with which my life had been filled, and I wept at the dread of ever being thrown again on myself, as I was before I used to invoke the names of Jesus and Mary. f:-,."v' •■*• ,< 1 -jr.;f;i,t ,(.; .<•*..>.! ■. iijc / i.-.j..^ , While I lay there weeping, I recollected that I had promised to go to the hospital that morning, to visit a sick English girl. I in- stantly arose, kissed the feet of the statue of th : Blessed Virgin, and implored her not to forget her promise. I looked at my hand, but the marks had disappeared. I was disappointed in not seeing them, but I instantly took hope and said : *' They have left my hand, mother, but I feel that thou hast written them in my heart. I will not forget my vow, neither will I shrink from any obstacle that may come in the way of my keeping it." .1 v:Mi ,'.'.«. ■•yj; CHAPTER LXXIV. CALLED TO TASK BY COMMON SENSE. As soon as I reached the hospital, I heard that the English girl in whom I took an interest had just given premature birth to a child, ^.nd the doctors told me that in about ten days she would be able to take possession of an attic room, I had succeeded in obtaining for her. This young .. English-woman was about twenty-six years old, and highly accomplished. She spoke several languages, played the organ, and could design. She told me that her husband had joined the troops in Spain, and had been killed. She gave her name as Eliza Amore. She had fallen crossing a street : a carriage had run over her right hand, and had completely crushed it, and she had been brought to the hospital for treatment. I used to bring her books, J I MY CLIENT'S CHARACTER. I and would spend much of the lime I passed at the hospital with her j for she appeared to be in every respect a perfect lady, and I pitied her. This morning I remained with her only a short time. I hastened back to the a1 ^ ^y, went to the chapel, and laid the Giustini case be- fore our Lad^ f all Help, Notre Dame de tcut aide. From there I made my usual visit to the Pantheon, and as I crossed the Luxem- burg Garden I lingered longer than usual round St. Genevidve's statue, which is of colossal size, and is placed near the road which leads directly to the Pantheon. I fervently implored her to intercede for me, and to inspire me what to do. On my way I bought some flowers, and when I reached the Pantheon, I laid them at the foot of St. Genevieve's altar. While invoking the saint to pray for me, I felt inspired as to the course I ought to pursue. As soon as the idea struck me, I thanked the saint, and hastened back to the abbey. .' When I reached home, I ordered the carriage and started out to see the gentlemen who Giustini told me had been formerly his friends and his guests. I took the basket of papers with me in the carriage, and in order not to lose any time, I examined as many of them as I could on the way. I found every g-ntleman I called on at home, and they all gave the same account of Giustini. That he was a gen- erous-hearted, reckless, extravagant fellow, who only cared for money to spend ; one of that kind of men who take more pleasure in gi' ^ng entertainments and alms than in paying their debts. That he was unscrupulous in his deaMngs, but the ve/y sum which he might have wrenrhed from some miseiable being, who had been so unfortunate as to fall into his power, he would give away an hour afterwards to the first one who happened to call on him in distress ; and he was deluded enough to believe that he would always find plenty of men i;i the world like liimself, who would as readily help him out of his t/oubles as he had always helped others. But they all spoke well of his wife, called her an angel of goodness and devotion, who was in- capable of seeing any fault in her husband. These gentlemen had done all they could to influence the govern- ment in Giustini' s favor, and had only abandoned him when they saw that his case was entirely hopeless, which was easy indeeci to see from the "first; for even had no charges been made against him, Mci- rand declared that he had never been properly delegated, for he had never received an exequatur. FAITH IN BUREAUCRACY. 373 I told them all that I had a hope the government would be induced to send him and his to Syria, on account of his family, who were in a most pitiable state. They smiled when I spoke, as though they were listening to some charitable enthusiast, who was incapable of under- standing how affairs cf state were conducted in PVance. Only one of them spoke plainly to me, for the others seemed loath to undeceive me. They admired my generous efforts, and preferred that some one else besides themselves should strip me of my illusions. But one of them was a plain, blunt man, who thought the best kindness he could dojwe was to tell me the truth. He enumerated a dozen infallible s'TCasons why the government would not act, and to do it out of charity was impossible, as they were ff;reigners, and there were so many dis- abled French soldiers, who were in need of the charity of the state. When he saw that his words did not discourage me in the least, but, on the contrary, the more desperate he represented my case to be, the more hopeful I became, he grew impatient, and said that I ought to have sense enough to abide by his long experience, and not to dis- credit everything he said. " Oh," I replied, " who would use his good sense in such a case ? v'ou have to rely on something better than that." "Well," he responded, "I don't know of anythmg better." "I do," I replied^ " and that is Faith. I am going to persevere through Faith. I pray to God to assist me, sir, and I believe that He will take pity on this poor family, and make .:he government send them home." With upraised hands and eyes, he said : " My dear good lady, it is no use to pray to God to grant you anything that Meurand has set his signature against. God can do nothing for you." "What," said I, "do you think Meurand is more powerful than God Almighty?" " Yes," he replied, " in the consulate department, I do : they have order there." Sail I: "God has order too; and one infallible order of His divine providence is, that He will never abandon those who put their trust in Him. Madam Giustini relies on God alone : she prays to Hun from mornmg until night, and from night till morning, — do you mean to say that God is going to abandon her ? " " Mon Dieu, Madam," he replied, more impatiently than ever, "I see it is of no use to try to advise a woman ; for you can never con- vince her of anything, when she has once made up her mind. I assure you that you will never obtain anything from the government, 374 THE WORDS OF MY MASTER. t t w ! and that you need not expect that God will interfere, and upset the natural order of things, just to oblige Madam Giustini." ■'■ '- >: ' ' ''''Nous verrons" said I, ^^nous verrons (we shall see, we shall see). I once knew a good old bishop, 'vho is now dead, and he taught me that God who created all things, was the master of all things, and that all natural order was controlled by His divine will. I believed the bishop, and I could not adore the Supreme Beirg, un- less I believed He was all-powerful. Now do you blame nie for believing the bishop in preference to you?" ukt ^uj ';i !:. w: ?; t-r?i' He laughed, and then replied : '* I cannot blame you for that ; but it is a ^ity that he did not teach you, at the same time, to listen to reason." " He did," I replied, " but only to that reason which is guided by Faith." ** That is right," said he ; " let Faith guide reason, but not make reason her slave as you are doing." " But," said I, " the bishop told me too that reason must be sub- servient to Faith as well as guided by it." ** Yes, my dear lady," he replied, ** but did he not tell you that it required a well-balanced mind to find the ju?t medium, without which reason and Faith would both suffer an overthrow ? " " No, sir, he did not ; he taught me that Faith was adapted to all minds, no matter how stupid, and that there never could be an overthrow so long as we inclined towards Faith ; for it was the hand of God that held that side of the balance, and no one was ever lost who ventured into it." " But don't you suppose he meant that you should understand that God held equally the ether side?" "No, sir, he did not: on the contrary, the bishop taught me that man, through ignorance and pride, had wrested it out of God's hands, pretending that he knew more about managing it than God ; but that God only took care of those in it, who submitted to Faith, the rest were at the mercy of pride. He left to every man his free will, and the fact that the majority of mankind preferred to lean upon pride rather than to trust in God, explained why so many were lost," Said he: "I am sure that this good bishop was a very sensible man ; but did he not find it difficult to convince you of anything ? ' Said I : " He told me that my mind was twisted, or was turned up- side down, he could not decide which, but he was sure that it was either one or the other." Then the old man laughed more heartily than ever, while I continued : " But if he heard me talking to you in this way, he would have said that it had got straightened out." ADVICE THROWN AWAY. 375 "You talk well enough," said he, "and I am astonished that you will not act as wisely as you speak ; but I believe that is the common defect of your sex. Still, you should try and raise yourself above their defects, as God has gifted you with a capacity of comprehending and appreciating truths, that very few women ever take an interest in." The old man saw that I was tnie to the instincts of my sex, for the moment he paid me such a compliment, I did not attempt to conceal the pleasure it gave me ; and he, at once, turned the conversation on the object of my visit, thinking, perhaps, a little flattery would do more than the soundest reasoning, to induce me to follow his advice. So he continued : " I hope you will abandon your intention of solicit- ing the government for a thing, when you are sure to meet with a dead failure. I tell you this for your good, so that you will not pass weeks and weeks in useless efforts, which will be sure to end in dis- appointment, and that you may at once resort to some other means, to try to raise the money to send them back, if you are determined to do so." ,« f ;l.-i " No," I replied, " the government must do it, for if I exhaust the benevolence of my friends for the Giustinis, it will be taking away just so much from other poor people, in whom I am equally interested. It will cost a large sum to send them home, and I will make the government pay it. T am obliged to : I made a vow to that effect, and I know that God expects me to keep it. I dare not try to shift out of it, when I know that God and the Blessed Virgin will assist me, in all my efforts to aid this poor woman." This time he vainly tried to conceal his impatience, as he replied : "Now you show your want of sense again. Do not think tliat God is going to help you to do impossibilities." Said I : " There is no impossibility about it. The government has got to do it. If I am a Christian, I am going to be a Christian, and I am going to give religion a good fair trial. I do not believe in doing things by halves. If the Bible is the word of God, whatever we undertake for His glory becomes possible, when we have His word to sustain us ; for He has promised never to abandon those who put their trust in Him. I feel thai He sent me to that woman in answer to her prayers. I made a vow, in the name of His^ Mother, never to abandon them, until the government sends them home ; and I never intend to, and, if I do, you may conclude that I have become a pagan." 376 I INVOKE THE VISCOUNT'S AID. ' - " Well," said he, " I am afraid you will become one, if your faith .as a Christian depends upon the government sending the Giustinis back to Syria." Said I : " If I succeed, will you give Giustini as much as his other friends will ? for they have all promised me that, if I made the go^'ernment send him home, they would give him some- thing, so that he would not arrive there destitute." ♦ *' Certainly, certainly I will," ')e jocosely replied : *' they would promise you anything, too ; for they ail know, as well as I do, that if their charity depends on that, you will never be able to make a claim upon it." "We shall see," said I, "and I will not say atfieu, but au revoir, et d bientoi," .i^ jm^ rjwwf i 1 -Vil. ■,.t- j>:'^ ■.,,,j;,f,.;,.;-,,;,-f.-,;.j.,,,, J _.^, ^ f.Hi ir ; * <'!.•! 1 ■J (»' ,' ■■ " >. i'' i'..'-:-v ; ••, -.^ • ■ ■-'■';■-,.,;;:■'■, :., ..'- s • ■■•, a'^'/v I expected a retort ; but he closed his eyes, as though he had not heard me, and remained perfectly silent lor about fifteen minutes. I thought he was angry, and 1 was determined to be as angry as he was; but, to my surprise, when he opened his eyes, he offered me his hand, and in one of the gentlest tones that I had ever heard him speak in, he said to me : " You are right, your lesson is a good one : we ought not to wish to descend to positions that we have not the virtues to fill." I would have given anything then to have recalled my words. I im- plored his forgiveness. " No, no," he replied, '* I mast ask yours ; for I can never forf,ive myself for having spoken to you in this way, when you came to me, in the simplicity of your heart, to implore my pro- tection for that poor woman. But your story moved me so — I did wrong, and was wholly to blame. I should have informed myself about the antecedents of the man, before I went to the department ; for you could only see his distress. How could I expect you to have knowr the man's transgressions ? Meurand was right after all. I was too hasty. He is independent ; he knows that he will never be removed ; he does not fear or care for anybody when he knows that he does his duty. I wish the empire was made up of such men ; the government would be a little more secure. But tell 'me, did I not hear you say that Monsieur Chatry de la Fosse and others who knew Giustini in Syria spoke well of him?" Said I : "I said they spoke well of his wife." I began to feel uneasy, for I felt that I was all to blame, but I did not have the courage to confess it. We sat down to dine. Whenever the valet left the room, I.a- ferridre would beg me to forgive him, and expressed the greatest con- trition for having spoken to me so rudely. After dinner, I told my maid to take a bundle of clothes around to the Giustinis. La- ferridre pulled a fifty-franc bill from his vest-pocket, handed it to her, and she supposed for a second that it was for herself; she smiled, and thanked him most graciously, as she took it from his hand. But when he added : " Give it to the poor family," she expressed her disappointment by giving me a look of regret, and saying : C'esf presquf. dommage done (P encourager ce filou^ (it is almost a pity to SHM REGRETS REGRETTED. 379 tnus encourage the scamp)," filled with vexation, she hurried out of the room. Laferridre started up and threw upon me a furious glance. I turned scarlet, which made him still more indignant, for he judged by juy confusion the depth of my guilt. " What," said he, ** you knew that the man was a rogue, and you have never acknowledged a word ! You are incorrigible; and I take the liberty of wit' drawing all my excuses, for I only said to you just what you deserved." His in- dignation only increased, when I tried to excuse myself, by saying that he started off so quickhj that he did not j,ive me a chance to tell him what I thought of tl^ man. He told me that he was deeply wounded, that I should have treated him with more confidence ; and he begged of me never to mention the afiair to him again ; he wanted to forget it. ',^. '.-■''! ■■t j; i. , , CHAPTER LXXVl. A HOPEFUL CLOSE OF A BAD LIFE. That night the moment I entered my room, I recollected my vow, and instantly fell on my knees and began to weep ; for I felt that I merited every reproach which Laferridre Imd given me, and, by my want of sincerity, I had lost his powerful aid. I begged God to for- give me, and I excused myself to Our Lord for my want of sincerity by alleging that I had always been deceived by the men, and as I had never been able to succeed with them unless I deceived them too, I begged him not to abandon me, just because I had lost Laferri^re's help in this affair, but to forgive me, and to send me some one else in his place. Wi-^m The next morning was Sunday, and it was hardly day break when I started to the church to hear Mass. From the church I went to the hospital, where I was met by one of the sisters. As I was entering the large hall, she told me that the young EngHshwoman had puer- peral fever, and could live but a few days. I went to her bedside. She knew that she was going to die. How that knowledge changes us ! Aow she spoke the truth. She told me that she had never been married, but was the victim of her own waywardness and the cruel 38o HISTORY OF A LIFE. treatment of her relatives. She attributed all her perversity to hei mania for novel-reading. She had been addicted to it from childhood, and 'iad grown up under its influence. It had given her a taste for adventure. Her parents, who were rigid Protestants, had sent her to a Protestant boarding-school in Brussels, to give her greater facilities for learning German. She had there formed an intimacy with one of the young ladies, to whose house she went every Saturday night, to remain until Monday. This young lady had several brothers, and it was one of these brothers who had introduced her to a young Brazilian named Amore. She eloped with this fellow, who abandoned her two years afterwards. She then returned to her home in England ; but hsr parents and her younger sisters never forgave her fault, and were constantly reproaching her with it. One night, in a fit of de- spair, she robbed her mother of all her jewelry, even to the diamond engagement-ring given to her by her father, and came to Paris, where she led an abandoned life. She was intoxicated the day she had fal- len in the street, and had her hand injured. The sister handed me some letters which belonged to the poor victim of her own folly and man's licentiousness. The dying girl im- plored me to write to her parents, and tell them to come to her. She wanted to hear them say that they forgave her, before she died. She would constantly exclaim : " O my mother I I have killed my mother ; I have broken her heart." The sister who attended her, although long accustomed to hawowing scenes, could not restrain her tears. She knelt down beside her and said a prayer aloud, which the girl re- peated after her. That made me weep, for it brought back a similar scene in my life. The sister then began another prayer with which I was not familiar. The dying girl repeated it after her. The sister stopped for a moment, for she was choked with tears, and, to our sur- prise, the girl continued, and finished the prayer alone. The sister and I looked at each other in astonishment, without say- ing a word. As soon as she could control her feelings, the sister asked the girl if she had ever been a Catholic. She shook her head, and said : " No ; but my lover was ; he, with whom I eloped, taught me that prayer." She then began to reproach herself for not having listened to him, for he had only abandoned her on account of her viciousness. She had taken to drink, to gambling, and was unfaithful to him. She implored me to bury her, in case her parents failed to come GENERAL DIX. 381 and claim her body : for in a paupers' hospital a dread thought hangs over all who have no friends to bury them, that their bodies will come under the medical student's dissecting-knife. 1 :'...';,•( :.:.;i • : i-.n, ■.; The sister had sent for a priest, for the girl wished to be baptized ; and as I left her bedside, the last words I hoard her say were — " O God, have mercy on my soul ! forgive me my sins j forgive me my sins, for Jesus' sake." Whenever she addressed those who were lying around her, she would say to them : " It is the reading of bad books that brought rne here. Oh, never read them, or let your children read them." I promised the sister, as she accom[)anied me to the door, that I would call again in the afternoon. When I got to the abbey, my maid met me and told me that there was a gentleman waiting for me in the library. I scolded her for having let any one in ; for I wanted the whole day to myself. When X entered the library, 1 found Gen- eral Dix.- -' •■' •:■•-"> - • f;-.v; ,;>r.; .■ .irw,};i ,;i>. He made an apology for having called on Sunday, and so early in the day ; but he said that whenever he had visited ine he had always found me run down with visitors, that he had never had an opportu- nity to speak to me, and he wanted to become better acquainted with a lady whom half of the world was praising and the other half abus- ing. 1 told him that he had chosen a bad moment to judge me, for I was not myself that ir.orning, I was so oppressed with grief; and I related to him the scene I had just witnessed at Neckai Hospital. While I was speaking, I recollected the letters I had in iny pocket, belonging to the dying girl. I took them, and making two piles of them, I handed one to the General, and the other I kept myself, and we both began perusing them. We had not read over two or three, before I observed that the General was deeply moved. The letters read nearly all alike : they were either from her father or her sisters, who had sent her remittances from time to time. They were all filled with reproaclies for her dissolute conduct. The last one she had received was from^er father : it was in an- swer to one she had written him with her left hand, telling him of her accident, and giving her address at the hospital. The father's answer to this letter was, that he hoped it would be a good lesson to her. There was not one pitying word in it ; but he said that he would write to Mr. Blount the banTter, to provide her with means 382 AN ambassador's SYMPATHY. He did write to Mr. Blount ; but he failed to say anything about his daughter's accident, or even that she was in a hospital. She wrote to Mr. Blount with her left hand, and sent the doorkeeper of the hos- pital to get the money. But the teller refused to believe the mes- senger's story, and paid no attention to it, as he suspected it was a fraud. ',■..,•.■. . I learned all this when it was too late ; for the girl had wished to conceal from me her history, and she had feared to send me to Mr. Blount's lest they should tell me all about her ; for they had got her out of several scrapes, and she was afraid that, if I knew that she was a disreputable woman, I would abandon her. I was surprised to see (General Dix so deeply affected at what I had told him. I was so accustomed to deal with bronzed hearts that I covild not help saying to him : "Why, General, what a tender- hearted man you are ! " " Oh," said he, " I think this is dreadful. It is evident from these letters, that the girl belongs to a cultivated and respectable family. He continued to remark how much suf- fering and misery there is in the world, of which those who live in their comfortable homes have no knowledge or conception. General Dix was the last man in the world that 1 suspected to be capable of expressing so much real feeling. As he handed me back the letters, he remarked that he did not wonder there were plenty of good people ready to defend me, if that was the way I passed my tiuiL. As he spoke, he looked me full in the face, and I saw that his eyes were moistened, this poor girl's story had so affected him. I knew then that he was really in earnest, and not making believe, that he had felt every word he expressed ; and instantly the thought struck me, that I would make use of him to help me out of the Gius- tini affair. As he rose to leave, I begged him to remain a little longer, and listen to the misfortunes of a poor family, who resided only a few doors from the abbey, and in whom I was deeply interested. I told him all about the woman, showed him some letters from prominent men, A«hich had been addressed to her husband, and I soon saw that my second story was affecting him as much as the first. At last I asked him abruptly if his relations were good with the Marquis de Moustier, Minister of Foreign Affairs. He replied that he was on excellent terms with the foreign depart- ment. "Then," said I, "you must give me a letter to him, and re* THE MINISTER WON OVER. 383 ut his wrote e hos- ; mes- was a hed to to Mr. rot tier lat she "[ '■ what I hearts tender- readful. Itivated uch suf- 'ho live i. d to be ne back lenty of ised my ;aw that led him. jbelieve, thought he Gius- jer, and lly a few I told )niinent saw that Lt last I rquis de quest him to give me an audience." The General quickly retorted • " Why, you are in with all that class : you don't need a letter from me. I only know him officially, get some of your friends to put you in re- lation with him." I pretended to be piqued and wounded that he should refer me to < them, and told him that it placed an American lady in a much better [position to be recommended by the representative of her country than by foreigners, and that the marquis would pay much more at- tention to a letter of introduction from him than he would to one - from any one else. The general said that I was right, and I then gently referred to tne trouble I had had, to conquer the prejudices of his own family. He ex- cused himself for having hesitated ; for I insinuated perhaps that tiiat was his reason for having refused ; but he assured me that it was not, for both he and Mrs. Dix were convinced that the world did me great injustice, and they both felt the highest esteem and regard for me. Said I : " I will measure yours by the strength of your letter to Mou. stier." He laughed, as he bade me good-bye, and told me that he would write a good strong one, and that 1 should receive it the follow- ing day. The moment the general left, I rushed into my bed-room, and threw myself on my knees before the statue of the Blessed Virgin, and said to her : " I know that you must have brought General Dix here this morning, I am sure of it ;" and 1 thanked her with all my heart. Hav- ing written to the mother of the dying girl, and told her to come on at once, if she wished to see her alive, I started for the hospital, and found that the girl was dead, and that her body was already removed to the amphitheatre. I made arrangements with the director in re- gard to the body. He promised that it should be kept in the amphi- theatre until Thursday morning ; which was a great favor, but he grant- ed it to me, as I wished to give her family time to arrive. I made every arrangement for the burial, in case none of her family should come. depart- and re* S: *!, a I 384 FLOWERS AND BREAD. ;rK) I lUi i iV. CHAPTER LXXVII. CHURCH MICE — HOW THEY NIBBLE AT THEIR NEIGHBORS' ACTERS — IS THERE ANY HOPE FOR THEM ? char- Monday morning the first *hing I did was to buy some flowers to place on St. Genevieve's altar. In the vestibule of the Pantheon I met a lady acquaintance who devoted nearly all her time to good works. I told her that I had come to implore the Blessed Virgin and St. Genevieve to intercede in favor of a destitute family. While I was speaking she was looking at the flowers, and at last said to me : " Did you just buy them?" "Yes," I answered, "as an offering to St. Genevidve, who is so good to me ; she obtains for me whatever I ask." She con- tinued : ** Do you not think it would be more pleasing to God, to give the money that you paid for those flowers, to thfe poor to buy bread ?" I was confounded for a moment at such an unexpected rebuke, and felt that I had done wrong. The lady kept on talking and ser- monizing to me. While she was speaking instead of listening to what shj said, I fell to thinking how J had fallen into such a foolish habit. 1 was so blind to my own defects, and so p \ffed up with self-conceit, that whenever I committed a fault I always sought to excuse myself by throwing the blame either on God himself or on some one else I soon recollected that it was from Mme. Xavier that I had got my devotion of making sacrifices to decorate the altars of our Lord. But I loved Madame Xuvier too much, to be easily persuaded that she could ever have taught me to do wrong, and I was determined to de- fend her. After my friend had finished, I said to her : " Have you not heard it said, that the Lord rewards you a hundredfold for everything you give him?" She readily nodded an assent. "Well," I replied, " [ have a desperate case on hand. Ten francs is what I paid for these flowers, and it is not a fraction, compared to the sum I am obliged to have, in order to succeed. I am doing all I can to induce God to help me, and every flower I buy for His altars I charge to His ac4 count, and beg Him to pay it, as soon as possible, to this poor family whom I am trying to serve." "Indeed," replied the woman, "you have more faith than I.' A LECTURE ON DEVOTEES. 385 heard g y«» ed, " I these iged to jod to His ac-| family than I.' "Well," I answered, "it is a virtue, is it not?" "Certainly," she an swered. "Who is your director? " "Oh," said I, "director to the dogs! You don't suppose that I am going to let a priest rule over me ? I change about every week. I learned all I know about reli- gion at St. Mandd." The woman was so shocked that she fairly shrank from nie. At last she said: "Your faith is beautiful: it i.- a precious gift ; but you will soon lose it if you go on this way." "What," I exclaimed, " offering flowers to our Lord ! " " No, no, ' re- plied the woman ; " but changing your director every week." " Oh," said I, " that means once a month perhaps, — every time he refues to absolve me." " I direct myself, I confess my sins, and am aivv \ys praying God to watch over me and direct me." She replied : "That is right, to pray always to Him ; but we should be guided by Him, through the successors of His apostles." We then separated. I coulil not forget her last words. I thought they were well spoken ; but I did not believe her. When I got home I found General Dix's letter on my table. It v/as a splendid one. I had just time to read it when Laferri^re came. He was kind to me, and regretted his irritability of Saturday even- ing. I was nervous, because I did not dare to make use of (General l^ix's letter, without asking his permission. For it would have bet n a bold thing for me to go to make the acquaintance of the Marcj'iis de Moustier without the Viscount's knowledge. I disliked, tD^t, to bring up the Giustini affair, as it would remind him of our quarroi of Saturday. r*':.! Tt/.f:- ■■*:;.:.. -v '\ . u ••; 1 iwi .■;f;:^ •'.. .r- I began to relate to him the conversation that had taken pla^'c that morning between the pious lady and myself. He intermptcd me before 1 finished, and said : " You are ruined if you get one of those women against you." "Why? "said I; " they are saints, they give all their money and time to the poor." " Yes," he replied ; "but these women know not how to forgive." The majority of them are so puffed up with their good works, that to see them and to her v them you can readily believe that they feel they are honoring Go 1 by serving him. I do not like the idea of your becoming so intimal.' J^iih these devotees of the Faubourg. Everything will go on well ko "Kg as you consent to contract yourself to the narrow gauge of their /niuds, and you are willing to let yourself be ruled by them. But undertake to resist them, add show your native independence ly daring to innovate upon their ideas of orthodoxy, and you might as '7 386 A MINISTER ALWAVS ''OUT." m ,^ well have so many harpies let loose upon you; they will tear you to pieces, and will at once ostracize you. " How you frighten me ! " 1 exclaimed. " Why, they are all so pious and charitable 1 " He interrupted me again : "Not a bit of it ; they are pious and benevolent, but they have not one particle of charity. You will find it out if you happen once to incur their cen- sure. They are as intolerant as so many mongrel tyrants, and parti- cularly towards their own sex, if they happen to be younger and more prepossessing than themselves." I got a little footstool, and sat down on it close to him. Said he : " I know, c^ere enfant, that you have got some favor to ask oi" me. Why are you afraid to speak ? All I ask of you is to be frank and ingenuous, and never conceal any- thing from me. Why do you hesitate? " " Oh," said I, " that poor family ! And there is only one month more." He frowned, but I continued : " What I wish is your permission to advocate their cause myself before the govern ment." " My good- ness ! " he replied, " if that is all you want, I grant you it with all my heart ; but if you appeal to the emperor he will refer you to the min- ister, who is never at home, and, if you succeed in passing the ante- chamber of the ministerial mansion, you will find yourself in the pre- sence of His Impertinence Monsieur Meurand. I ought to encourage you to try it, out of revenge for the scrape you got me into. After you have had one short interview with Meurand, you will be willing, I think, to drop the Syrian scamp, and consign him and his family to the care of Divine Providence." Said I : " I feel that Providence led me to their door, and calls upon me to protect them, and all I ask of you is to give me full liberty to act." " My gracious chiid, do what- ever you can : don't think, because I happened to speak roughly to you, that I am suddenly transformed into a monster." *' But," said I, " I shall not go near Meurand. I am not such a fool as that. I shall go directly to the minister." " Why," he replied, ^^c'estle min- istre inirouvable (he is the minister that can never be found), that is his cognomen all over France. He is always out to everybody. He has never done an hour's work since he has been in office. A gen- tleman told me that he was closeted with him one morning, in regard to a personal matter; that they conversed in the minister's private office. This gentleman wished to make a note of their agreement, when, lo and behold, there was not an inkstand or a pen to be found ! " THE minister's MERITS. j8; " Nevertheless," said I, " I think I shall be able to find him ; " and I then ventured to pull out General Dix's letter. " Well, well," he ex- claimed, " you are a true daughter of Eve ; for it is only when a woman has decided to do a thing, and has got all the preliminaries prepared to put it into execution, that she ever comes and asks per- mission." It was easy enough to see that he was anything but pleased. But all was right the moment I told him that 1 had not seen him since I had seen General Dix, and that I had not the slightest intention of making use of the letter without his consent. I translated to him the General's letter. As soon as I had finished, he remarked : " I suppose you told the General the woman's side of the story, as you did me." "Oh," said I, "you know you are always scolding me for talking too much : so I was discreet when I spoke to him of the man. " Ah," he exclaimed, " we poor men ! But it is a wonder to me that you did not induce the General to go and ask the minister to send this family back to Syria, as a national favor to the American Republic. For they have just as much claim on the United States as they have upon France." After having a good laugh, he told me that there was not the slightest danger of my ever seeing Moustier ; that I would probably receive an answer, that the minister had gone to his chateau, and if the matter was urgent, to please make it known to his secretary. He then threw out a few hints in regard to Moustier : that the emperor hatl nominated him, just because he belonged to the old nobility, as he desired to conciliate them as much as he could, but that Moustier liked to enjoy himself; and he began relating to me his gallantries. Thought I to myself : I am glad to be aware of all this, as it gives me an idea how to manage him. Laferri^re wished me to send the letter at once — but I told him that I had not my case prepared yet ; and I pointed to a file of papers that I was going to examine before I could decide what tactics to adopt, in order to succeed. " What," said he, " do you condemn yourself to wade through all those ? " I then showed him another pile, which I had already finished. ** Well," he said, " this is real char- ity." I had refused to go to the opera, as I wished to employ the evening examining the papers. I worked Monday evening until midnight. The next morning, I started early for the Pantheon, more from a spirit of independence and opposition, than from devotion. I bought a beautiful boiKjuet, 388 MORE FLOWERS OF PIETY. L hoping to meet my lady friend, and show her that I felt perfectly in- dependent of her, and was going to do as I pleased, and was not going to be ruled by a priest, and much less I y a woman. I reached the Pantheon without seeing her ; but as soon as I got close to the altar, what did I behold ? A beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers, much handsomer than those I held in my hand. The whole sanctuary was fi-lled with their fragrance. Instead of being rejoiced to see such a beautiful offering, which graced the altar and perfumed the air, the sight made me sad ; for I felt that I had a rival, and 1 was ready to weep. When I rose from my knees, and was ready to go, I saw the lady I had hoped to meet on my way, and I instantly suspected that it was she who had bought the flowers ; which suspicion, as it crossed my mind, pleased and provoked me at the same time. . •; , She rose and came towards me, as though she had been waiting to speak to me. I asked her, at once, if she had not placed the flowers there. "Yes," she replied, as we descended the steps of the Pan- theon ; " for you gave me a light, and I have been meditating on it ever since. We rely too much upon ourselves, and upon our own eftbrts ; and I believed we would be able to do much more good if we depended less upon ourselves and more upon God. I was so de- lighted that I embraced her right in the street. During our conversation, she spoke in such a holy manner of the necessity of suffering, the goodness of God, and the consolation derived from frequenting the sacraments, that I was edified and charmed with her, while I was angry with Laferrifire for trying to prejudice me against that class of women. . ; ,, '„.^,, ( , That afternoon I repeated to Laferri^re what the lady had said, and told him that he was mistaken this time, for this lady was a saint ; that she not only forgave me for not agreeing with her, but actually followed my example. In fact she had advised me like the bishop. " Well," said he, " she must be one of the rare exceptions in that class. I have heard that there were exceptions, but I never had the good luck to meet with one of them yet. The most disagree- able, uncharitable, and gossiping women I have ever known are those very ladies in the Faubourg, who devote their time and fortune to good works. You will do well to be on your guard, and not judge them all by this good woman. Take my advice and do not permit them to become so familiar as to let them think that they THE HUMILITY OF CHARITY. 38s 1 are tune not I not they can direct you ; for if tl'.ey once assume that position, you must never venture to go beyond the circle of their restrained ideas of pro- priety or decorum. If you do, you will soon see that charity is not a part of their profession, for it is a well-known fact that these women do not know how to pardon. And as they live, so they die ; for no confessor ever reached their conscience. The reason is, that they believe themselves perfect ; and very few priests have the cour- age to attempt to undeceive them, for they know them too well to risk the danger of incurring their ill-will. The priests are too hap- py to make use of them, for the benefit of t poor, without daring to go further. " When you are more enlightened yourself, and have had more ex- perience, you will see that pride and vainglory are the weapons the devil makes use of, that we may not reap the benefit of our good works. It is easier to root out all our evil passions put together, than it is to prevent pride and self-complacency from creeping into our hearts, when we hear ourselves applauded for our virtues. It is not by giving eur time and our money alone that we will ever eftect the ameliora- tion of the sufferings of mankind ; it is by practising humility and charity ; and I beg you will pray for me, that I may have a little of both." Said I : " I think you need them a little more than those devotees. " No," he replied, " I will not admit that ; for I do not make a pro- fession of being perfect, and present myself and my ideas as models for others. But when I see a woman holding herself up as a model of Christian piety, who has no humility and less charity, I look upon her as a monstrous abortion, conceived by ignorance, and nourished by pride and self-conceit. I would very much prefer to be condemned to live with a courtesan that tiaunts through the streets, rather than with one of them ; for in these two classes of women you will find the two extremes : one does not go farther than the other from the centre of Christian perfection. And there are more hopes of the latter than the former ; because an abandoned woman is often reclaimed, but a fake devotee — Never 1 Read Boileau, and he will tell you, that if he should marry a covetous woman, she would not ruin him ; a gambler, she might enrich him ; a blue-stocking, she might instruct him ; a prude, she would not disgrace him ; a shrew, she would exercise his patience ; a coquette, she might wish to please him ; a woman of gallantry, she might go so far as to love him ; — but a devotee / What 390 A LAY PREACHER AND CONFESSOR. could he expect of a woman, who wishes to deceive God, and who only deceives herself ?" - ' ; Said I : " Under which category of women do you place 7ne1" He replied : *' You have the imperfections of the whole eight ; but what redeems you is, that you never try to conceal them." " What ! " I exclaimed, "how dare you tell me that I have the imperfections of a false devotee ? " " Why, my child," he replied, "you have pride and self-conceit enough in you to damn two of them." This repartee, instead of making me laugh, as I was wont, struck me to the heart. I turned pale. He noticed the change, and said : " What is the matter ? I only said it for fun." " No," I replied, " you did not : for I believe that you spoke the truth, and perhaps God may refuse to listen to my prayers, and I may never be able to get that family back to Syria. But I am really in earnest when I pray to God." " Of course you are," he replied ; " but if I talk to you this way, it is because I am afraid you may be tempted to fall into the extreme I deprecate." He tried to take back what he said ; but my conscience told me that he had spoken the truth ; for in all my good works, I had always felt that my merit, before God and man, ought to increase in propor- tion as I multiplied them ; and this I acknowledged to him. Said he : " Do you not suppose that I take interest enough in you, to be able to detect everything that concerns you ? If I have exag- gerated in speaking of the defects of these good women, it was only to put you on your guard, that you might avoid the faults of the worst of them ; for I know, as well as you do, that there are among them a great many holy souls. But it requires a solid and long-tried virtue, to resist being puffed up with our own self-sufficiency, when we see to what an extent the happiness and miseries of others lie in our hands. I know it by examining my own conscience, and if I have set you to examining yours to-day, you rendered me the same service a few days ago, when I came to this conclusion that it was better for me not to long to be a servant until I had the virtues of one." He took my hand, and, after a pause, continued : " My dear child, I do not say this to wound you ; but I have observed, with regret, the change that has taken place in your character since your conver- sion." *' What," I replied, " don't you want me to be good ? why are you moralizing at me all the time unless you want me to practise reli- gion, as well as listen to you ? " — I suspected that he wanted me to give less of my time and sympathies to the poor. SELF-SATISFIED VIRTUE. 391 " You might better ask me," he replied, " why 1 give you so many good precepts, and at the same time set you such bad example ; for I took upon myself as a refutation of that old saying, C^est dejd, Hre virtueux que d aimer la vertu. (To love virtue is to be already virtu- ous). But set me aside, and look to yourself. I do not find that you are half as deserving in the sight of God, since you profess to honor and serve Him, as you were before, when you declared your- self His enemy, by professing to be an infidel. 1 looked upon you as more of a Christian then than I ever have since.'' I was horrified at this assertion, and tried to withdraw my hand. But he held it, in spite of me, and said I was not going to get away from him until I had heard him through. Said he : " I suppose this is just the way you do when you go to confession. You bolt the moment the priests begin to expose to you your faults. But 1 have the ad- vantage of them ; for I shall hold on to you until you have heard me through." • . :-.■ -.\ :% s -vx: -^ •• ' I began to laugh and to look upon the whole thing as a farce, and replied that it was a pity the priests had not the same privilege. He too began laughing, and retorted that they would never be able to get a woman to come to confession, if they had. "But," he continued, " I am serious. Since your conversion I have noticed that you are not half as charitable and forgiving as you were before. " Oh," said I, ** then it was because I used to feel so wicked myself, that 1 never dared to retaliate on others for oftending me, lest God should retaliate on me for my ofiences against Him ; and I never dared to judge others, when I felt that a severer judgment should be passed on myself." *' There," he replied, " by your own words I condemn you : for that inward sense of your own unworthiness was more pleasing to God than all your good works and actions are now, accompanied as they are by the spirit of self-complacency and pride. I hardly ever knevvl you, before you professed to be a Christian, to say an unkind word against any one, or attempt to avenge an injury, and that to me was your greatest charm : you subdued me by it, and I used to give my- self up entirely to your influence. But now I have to be on my guard against you, for fear you will lead me to commit some injustice, just to gratify your wounded pride." I did not deny the truth of what he said to me, but tried to justify Miyself, by telling him that 1 could not forgive i)eople their selfishness, ;"; f 392 PREACHING AND PRACTICE. since I saw how much good co aid be done by giving more of our time and means to others. "Yes," said he, "that is just it : you set yourself up as the arbi- tress of other people's actions, instead of humbly thanking God for having given you a natural disposition to sympathize with sufferers, which it is impossible for you to restrain. He may have denied the same blessing to others, and he will only exact of them a return in proportion to the talents he has given them. Said I : "It is true, for when I used to do wrong, I felt that I merited reproach, and I used to forgive everybody whatever they might do or say against me ; but now that I am trying to do right, I hate everybody who dares to attack me." - --< "Well," he replied, "that is not being a Christian. When you wef'e an infidel, you practised the most essential Christian virtues ; but now that you are a professed Christian, you do just the con- trary : whereas it is more your duty now to love those who hate you, than it was then. You had much more humility and charity then than you have now, and charity is all God asks of us. If you con- tinue to retrograde for the next six months, as you have during the six past, the result will be that you will become one of the worst of those disagreeable devotees, who change their adoration from God to themselves, and their hatred of sin to the hatred of those who refuse to acknowledge their sanctity. Now I would rather see you a Magdalen, with all her sins, than one of these ; and I will give you six months more to become one of them, unless you stop seeking yourself in God, instead of seeking God in yourself" "You do me more good," I remarked, "when you talk to me, than any confessor I ever had yet." "I don't suppose," he answered, "that there was ever one yet who was able to keep you long enough for you to hear him through." " That," said I, " is just what the good lady declared : so you see that you and she are alike." . - " Alike ? No," he replied ; " that would be paying her a poor compliment to compare her with me ; for by what you tell me, I should judge that she p actises what she preaches." A DISCOVERY. 392 CHAPTER LXXVIII. (>,';•» A GLEAM OF HOPE. n-'. As soon as Laferridre left me, I went into my bed-room to pray. In a few seconds I heard the children's voices, and as the strains of the melody, which pealed forth the Ave Maria, reached me, they seemed to awaken my soul to a more steadfast faith than I had ever before experienced. When the music ceased I arose, turned over the hour-glass, and prayed until its sands had run through. Then I lighted my votive lamp to the Blessed Virgin, which I never lit ex- cept on Saturdays. Then I went to work examining Giustini's papers, and worked assiduously until dinner-time. I took a few of them to the table with me, and looked at them during the interval when the waiter was changing the courses, so as not to lose a min- ute's time. '•' ' '"'''■- ' •'-'•'^ ■''''■ ''-'' '■•■'"'^ '■^- '^^- •* '■ ^^ ■* -■' '■■ ''-''^' After dinner I locked m)'self in, with a prohibition that any one should come near me unless I rang. The clock struck eight. My head ached : I had worked so steadily that I was sure I must have mistaken the number of strokes. I was certain that it must be nine. I looked ; but it was only eight. I then turned wearily to resume my task. The clock struck nine. I again rose, feeling so discouraged that I was ready to weep. Again I sat down, took up a paper, opened it, and nearly swooned away with joy. I could not be mis- taken ; for it resembled a paper that the Executive in Washington had once given to my husband, and which was still in my possession : the paper that I now grasped was Giustini's exequatur. I did not wait to read it. I merely recognized the French offi- cial seal, and the signature of the Count de Bentivoglio. I rushed into my bed-room, threw myself at the foot of the statue of the Blessed Virgin, and began embracing the very pedestal on which it stood ; and by the dim light of my votive lamp, I read that paper, which my heart told me was to be the saviour of that wretched family. I picked up the list of accusations which I had thrown on the floor and had afterwards kicked under the bed, so as to be perfectly sure that I could not be mistaken. There it was, in black and while, 17* % 394 CONFIDENCE REWARDED. that he had nrver had an exequatur, and had never been officiallj^ delegated. The whole Inith flashed over me at once, how it had been pos- sible for Meurand to make such a mistake. The paper had been issued twelve yearr. previous by the Count de Bentivoglio, who was then consul at Aleppo, and who had been authorized by the minister to appoint a consular agent at Aintab. The probability was that Bentivoglio had never made a note of it in his official report, Ain- tab having no commercial importance to France, with no salary at- tached to the office there ; and for that reason, Giustini's name had never appeared on the files at the consulate department in France, and when Giustini arrived, he was so confounded by his reception, no one deigning to give him even a hearing, that he entirely lost his wits, and had not had sense enough to produce the only paper among the hundreds he handed to me that was of any importance. . ' ' , I never had such faith in a Divine Providence as was given me at that moment ; for I felt that it had led me to his door, and was sure that that was done in reward for that wife's steadfast faith and confi- dence in the intercession of the Mother of God. No one could have doubted it, could he have seen her at prayer ; and I felt from the beginning that there could not be a God in heaven if He refused to assist me in my efforts to restore that unfortunate mother to her children. Xf^H ^-UrJ-^-J -^rt' iift>)ii?JJ4'i* •■T'K'^i'.-,!""^ Having read once more the accusations, I began to calculate how I should catch Meurand, so as to make the most of the exequatur; and I began to pray God to inspire me what to do, for I could not at once decide the best use to make of so slight an advantage in an- swer to such a catalogue of charges. The next morning 1 went to the Pantheon, as usual, to make my offering. But as soon as I started, I began thinking of what the lady of charity had said to me, and my conscience began to smite me for changing my confessors so often. I had sense enough to know that it was not from virtue that I had ever changed them, and that the only fault I had to find with them was that they found so much fault with me. When I reached the Pantheon, I went immediately to St. Genevieve's altar, and thanked God that I had escaped the woman that morning, for I did not wish to see her. In my outburst of gra- titude, I promised our Lord that, when He would make me a better woman, I would stop changing my confessors. I WRITE TO THE MINISTER. When I returned home, I was disappointed in not receiving a letter from England, from the English girl's family ; but I still hoped that the afternoon's mail would bring me some intelligence from *heni, for I dreaded being obliged to have the girl buried in the potter's-field. I wrote a few lines to the Marquis de Moustier, which were to accompany General Dix's letter. I was afraid that the fact of living in the Abbaye aux Bois would prevent him giving me an audience, as he might suspect that it was some pious old woman after a subscription, ^ and refer me to his secretary. In order to prevent any possibility of being refused, I wrote him to send an immediate answer to my resi- dence at the Abbaye aux Bois, so that I might not be delayed in receiving it, as I otherwise would be, if he sent it to the American legation, and I hoped that the fact of residing at the Abbaye would not prejudice mv request to such an extent, that I would receive the custouiary unva. ,ing ministerial reply, thai ^^ His Excellence was out, or his Excellence had gone to his chdteau,^' when it was well known that his Excellence was at home ; but, to allay any prejudice that my pious asylum might raise in his mind, I thought it prudent to add, that 1 was not residing at the Abbaye for seclusion, but (ox protection. That it would be useless to refer me or my case to his secretary, for neither of us would go to him ; that I wished to see himself, only himself, and if he would give me an audience and immediately grant my request, if ever he built a temple to Gratitude, I would volunteer to serve in it, as high-priestess, for the rest of my life. I then took what I had written, and wrapped it around General Dix's letter, and enclosed the whole in a white perfumed envelope, with rose-tinted lining, upon which my initials were neatly stamped in lilac and gold. I knew that if he was as gallant as Laferrifire represented him to be, he would not fail to reply. I had hardly finished my letter when Laferriere's carriage drove into the yard. I thrust the letter quickly into my pocket, for I did not intend that Laferriere should see the ap- pendix to General Dix's letter of introduction, as he might prevent mc sending it, out of respect to the General. I went to the window, and saw that his footman, who was with him, went into the kitchen to chat with the cook. The moment Eaferri^re entered he remarked that he had brought l^ouis along, to go on an errand for him, and he was afraid that il was "ill over, now that he got with the cook. I proposed that he should y/y THE ANSWER. ^a I take General Dix's letter to the minister's. Laferridre went towards the bell. I unc)<^rstood his movement, but pretended not to notice it. Before he had time to speak, and tell me to stop, X was out of the room into the kitchen, where I quickly thrust the letter into his valet's coat-pocket, telling him not to touch it for fear he might soil it. I then gave him the order, and begged him to go at once, telling him to be sure and leave my letter, no matter if they told him the minister was dead ; for 1 was afraid he miglit be stupid enough to bring back the letter, and that Laferri^re would see into the ma- noeuvre. " Well," exclaimed Laferri^re, as soon as I came into the room, " tl are is an end now to the Giustini affair for the present ; for good- ness knows when you will ever hear from the minister, and when you do, he will refer you to Meurand or his private secretary. I would just like to witness an interview between you and Meurand, to see which of you got the advantage in the dispute. Of course he would get it de facto ; for he never would yield so far as to grant anything that he had once set his seal against." I said nothing to him about the important paper that I had found, for I was not decided what use to make of it. Laferridre threw him- self back in an arm-chair, and closed his eyes, as though he was half dozing. He must have remained in that position for at least twenty- five minutes, when we were startled by a loud ring at the bell. " Oh," said Laferridre, " that rings like Louis. But it does not seem as though he had had time to do both of our errands." The door opened, and the waiter handed me a letter, which Laferridre immediately took and opened, while I signed the receipt for it. " Well," said Laferridre, greatly surprised, '* what does this mean ? I cannot believe my eyes. The minister writes you, appointing an audience for to-morrow morning, at eleven o'clock. Well, he must be courting favor with the United States, to give such prompt attention to a letter of introduction from the American Minister." I was imprudent enough to say, "That depends." "Ah," said he, " perhaps you have met the Marquis at court, and you know each other already by sight." I saw at once that there was a tempest brewing for me, if I excited his jealousy, and I quickly assured him that I had never seen nor heard anything about him, except what he had told me iiimself. He scanned me closely for a few moments, and then said : I r c V t: h f( g o ONLY A PAUPER.' 397 "Don't go to dressing up much. Dress simply : wear your neat, little, gray costume, your plain hat, and your little black lace veil ; and be very reserved, because these noblemen have a light opinion of the American women in general." I could see that he regretted having consented to let me make use of General Dix's letter. He never would have done ac, had he thought it would ever come to this. While he was advising me to dress very simply, I decided upon wearing the richest and most be- coming costume I had. ; ; .•' .o-: i '••»; • . . > •• • The bell rang again. This time it was Louis who presented him- self at the door and said : *' I gave Monsieur le Vicomte's message. I called first at the Minister's, but his Excellency was out. I left the letter as madam ordered me to do." That set us both laughing, and instantly all suspicions and jealousy vanished, and he passed the rest of his time preparing my mind for a disappointment, and hoping that, after I had seen the Minister, I would be satisfied with my efforts, and leave the Giustinis in the hands of God. n ' ' *i; CHAPTER LXXIX. SA^ MEMORIES NEARLY THWART MV MISSION OF CHARITY. — THE MAROUIS DE MOUSTIER. ■ , Ig ;h The next morning I rose early and repaired to the hospital. I found the body of the poor girl laid in the coffin I had ordered, and placed in the chapel before the altar. I ordered a cross to be made, and marked with her name, and placed over her grave, for 1 could not give up the hope that the parents would come to claim the body of their deceased child. I was the only one in the chapel, besides the priest and the boy who served at Mass. As I knelt there alone, praying for the soul of this poor girl, I recollected that my mother had died in a convict's hospital, and that there was no one near her to follow her to the giave, or to mark the spot where she lay. I thought, too, of her suf- ferings and her remorse, and compared them with those of the poor girl whose corpse was within the shadow of God's altar. I was so overcome by those thoughts that I gave vent to my feelings and wept •' <" 398 O YE TEARS.' bitterly. The priest, when he approached the coffin and had sprin- kled it, handed me the asperges, and as he did so, he threw me a piti- ful glance, for he doubtless mistook me for a relative of the dcceasec). His look only made me weep the more, for my heart instantly filled with memories of my mother, and I thought how little the priest knew what was passing in my mind. . After I had sprinkled the coffin, I knelt down again and continued to weep. When the service was ended, and the corpse placed on the hearse, a Sister joined me, and said that the cross had been attended to, that she had written the name, and that the boy said it was ready. As the hearse moved off, the priest asked me if I was not going to fol- low my friend to the grave. I told him that I had no time. He showed his surprise. When I told him that the girl was no connection of mine, that I was merely a lady of charity, who had promised to bury her, he asked me to excuse him, saying that he had judged from my tears that I was a relative. " Oh," said I, interrupting him, " I am not weeping for her, but for another. The soul that I am weep- ing for, father, needs our prayers more than she ; " and I pointed to- wards the hearse, which was just moving out of sight. I asked him to pray for the soul that I was weeping for. He then said a few words to console me, and I instantly recollected my engagement with the Minister at eleven o'clock. All my grief in- stantly fled, and I was as furious as I could be with myself, for having wept. If I had committed a crime, I could not have been more pro- voked. 1 abruptly left the priest, flew to a water-spout, and washed my eyes ; then rushed into the porter's lodge, to look into the glass, to see if my face was red and my eyes swollen. " Yes," thought I to myself, " you will stand a pretty chance with such a man as the Mar- quis de Moustier, if he sees you with a face like a lobster." I was annoyed at my discomposed looks, and felt that my foolishness would be the ruin of the Giustinis ; for I reckoned my chances of success more on the impression I would make on his imagination and his heart, than I did upon the justice of my cause, or any sympathy I might awaken in him for the family. When I got to the Abbey, I noticed a hack standing at the gate, on which was a little trunk. My maid met me at the door, and told me that there was a lady up-stairs waiting for me, who could not speak a word of French. The thought did not instantly occur to me who THK MOTHER. 399 it might be ; but the moment I saw her, I knew that it was the mother of the deceased girl. She had written to her daughter, as soon as she had received my letter, that she would leave for Paris the next day ; but a raging storm had set in, which made it dangerous to cross the Channel, and she was detained twenty-four hours on the English side. When she arrived in Paris, she drove at once to the hospital, but it being very early, and she not being able to make herself understood, the portress would not permit her to pass the lodge. She then drove to the Abbey, where she had been waiting for me ever since. She apologized for her impatience, and begged me to have the kind- ness to take her at once to her daughter ; for every moment seemed an eternity, so great was her anxiety and her impatience to be with her child. I felt dreadfully when I found that she was at the hospital door, while the services were being said over her daughter, and the portress would not let her in. My heart was filled with grief. I was so choked with my efforts to control my feelings, that I could not speak, and I feared I should again burst into tears. The mirror showed me that theiedness of my face had disappeared, and was succeeded by a death-like pallor ; but 1 was determined not to weep again. My maid was astonished to see me look into the glass, instead of answering the woman. She asked me if I could un- derstand her. Said I, " Too well : leave me alone, and get my things ready, I am in a hurry to go to the Minister's. " By this time the English lady had nearly fainted. She was looking at me, as if to see whether she was speaking to a woman in her right mind or not : for I seemed to be more intent upon admiring myself in the glass, than in listening to what she said, r, ji ....t,^;^ ;>:..,.., t.- An instant more and it was all over. I had conquered myself, and was as cold and as rigid as marble. My whole soul was bent on send- ing the Giustinis back to Syria, and I would not let my pity interfere with the execution of this object I told the woman that I had just returned from her daughter's fune ral, and would have followed her to the grave, but was prevented by an important engagement that I had at eleven o'clock, and it was already half-past nine. The woman, instead of going into a paroxysm of grief, as I ex- pected, clasped her bands together, and raising her eyes, she asked me : " is she really dead ? " " Yes," said I. " Thank Heaven," ^ 400 AT THE MINISTER S. V 4- f she exclaimed. But in a few moments afterwards, she began to weep : all her sympathies for her erring child had come back. We breakfasted together, and she related to me the same story that her daughter had told before she died ; and she added as she finished : *' I am glad that she is dead, for it is a relief to my heart, and it will also relieve the hearts of my husband and children." She told me that she left them in the greatest affliction, at the very thought of bringing her home ; for they all feared that she would bring upon them some terrible disgrace. They had already reported ner as dead, in order to silence the suspicions and inquiries of the society in which they moved. I explained that it was impossible for me to accompany her that morning to her daughter's grave, nor could I that afternoon, as it was my reception-day. We deferred it until the following morning. As I drove to the ministerial mansion of the Marquis de Moustier my bosom was filled as hnich with hatred for Meurand as with com- passion for the Giustinis. I was determined to have revenge for his insolence to Laferridre, and I began to devise how I might manage to torture his pride ; for I knew that a man whose decisions had always been above reproach, and from which scarcely an api)eal had been made during thirty years, must be on pretty good terms with himself, and would be keenly sensitive to any rebuke, particularly from the Minister himself, and from such a Minister ! '-' cv;' v • As soon as I gave my card, I was ushered into the presence of the Minister, who rose as 1 entered, and received me in a courtly n)an- ner. For a second I was abashed by the grandeur and magnificence of the apartment, and the graceful and indescribable dignity of the Marquis. He was a man of about forty, of most prepossessing exre- rior, and charming address. •" ' • j', 'Ufi i '. I began the conversation by remarking, that I had applied to my Minister for the interview, because I thought it was more en regie ; but perhaps it would have aided my cause, if I had made his ac- quaintance through his cousin, the Countess de Montalembert, who was my intimate friend. At the mere mention of the Countess' name, the whole expression of his countenance and his manner changed, and I saw that he hoped that it was in his power to oblige me ; for, after speaking admiringly of her talents and her wit, he re- marked that she had treated him coolly since he had accepted a position under the Enipire, which treatment he deeply regretted. PLEADING THE CASE. 401 Presently our conversation became animated and extremely amus- ing. All at once he recollected himself, and said : " But you came to ask a favor of me ? " I laughed as I replied : " And you have just reminded me of it." v !•>'!•/ He was not insensible to the compliment ; and we must have con- tinued to chat at least twenty minutes longer, when he reminded me that 1 should not go, without telling him what he could do to serve me. I then pulled two papers out of my pocket. One was the list of accusations, and the other was the exequatur. And I related to him ♦:he scene of last Friday evening, when I visited the Giustinis. I began with the doorkeeper, and ended with the vow I had made, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, never to abandon them until the Government sent them home. The Marquis was deeply moved and exceedingly interested. As soon as I ceased speaking, he said with earnestness : " I will attend to it at once, and see that justice is done." ; '''i'.'h'vi Wi ■'•■.■ li* : r v I replied : " I have not come for justice, but for mercy, — and re- venge ; and I instantly handed him the list of accusations. He began reading them attentively, but had not read far, when he turned over the leaf to glance at the signature ; and the moment he perceived Meurand's name, with his official seal, he said: "This man must be an arrant knave and impostor." Said 1 : "Which of them do you mean, Meurand or Giustini ? " ', *jdi-? -wc-^ i v,.. -: 'i .ti ,:■ He replied : " Why, your proteg^, of course." Said I : "It will take a good deal to convince me that Meurand is not a greater one." Which reply made the Marquis smile. After he finished reading the paper, and was going to hand it back to me, I said : " But those ac- cusations are all lies." " That is impossible," he answered ; " for here is Meurand's name, with his official seal. Whatever he endorses, can be relied upon." " Yet," said I, "take my word for it, they are all false." The Minister then undertook to explain to me who Mr. Meurand was, and what were his re^Donsibilities. I impatiently interrupted him and said : " You cannot tell me anything about Meurand, for I know more about him than you do, and I have come here to expose him. A foreign family have served the French government eleven years, and are induced to come on here by such men as the Mayor of St. Germain, Chatry de Lafosse, the Count de Lesseps, and other diplomatists, to demand remunera 402 THE MINISTER CONFESSES. fc I tion. They came all the way from Syria, and have been here seven months, without being permitted to speak to anyone but your vilets.' " But," said the Minister, " look at these accusations. The chiefs of the departments have too much business to attend to, to be able to receive every impostor and knave who dares to set up a claim against the government." " Oh," said I, " that is just what I expected ; that you would side with Meurand. He appears to have deluded the whole Empire into a belief in his infallibility." *' My dear Madam," replied the Mar- quis, " you would not wish me to side against truth and justice ? " I replied : " I do not wish you to ; but it appears that you are determined, whether I will or not. And I assure you that if Giustini is a scoundrel, Meurand is not much better, and very impertinent at that, to make up such a list of accusations, and not permit a man to come forward ana defend himself. Why, he even presumes to insult one of his Majesty's officials, who comes and demands that something shall be done for this man. It would be a nice bone for the hostile press to pick at, to be able to say that one of the Empe- ror's consuls, who had been in office eleven years, was permitted to die of starvation right in sight of the Tuileries." The blood mounted to the Marquis's face, as I spoke. I did not give him a chance to reply, but took advantage of his emotion to add : " And that is just the way business is conducted in this depart- ment. Everybody knows that you pass most of your time at the chase, in boudoirs, or at the races, and that it is impossible for you to surmise all this, unless somebody has the charity to come and tell you of it." M. de Moustier tried to suppress his smiles, leaned over, and strik- ing his breast three times, exclaimed, " Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa" He then added : " I confess that I am more deserving of your censure than the chief of the consulate depart- ment." "Yes," said I; "but you will reform, and put order up there now ; for it stands in great need of it, when Meurand will boldly declare that a man has received no exequatur when he has one." " Why," exclaimed the minister, " that is the most important accu- sation of all ; and therein Meurand cannot be mistaken." " But," said I, " he has an Exequatur." The minister continued to deny it, and I continued to affirm it, until I saw that his patience was at an 'y ■Si THE SUIT WON. 403 : an end. I then drew my chair towards him, and looking him straight in the face, I said to him : *' I will make you a wager that he has an exequatur. If I can produce it, you must promise me to send him and his family back to Syria ; and if I fail, I promise you never to mention the subject again." \- . " I agree to it, madam, most willingly," the marquis exclaimed ; for his patience was thoroughly exhausted. " What," said I, " do you promise me to send them back at once, if I can produce his Ex- equatur ? " " Certainly, madam, parole de mhiistre." Said 1 : " That is sufficient ; and throwing the paper to him, with a triumphant air, I exclaimed: "There it is." . ^"^ i)>ir ^ se ! : jv He opened it, and instantly rose to his feet, and advanced towards the table ; then hesitated, looked over the list of accusations, to see that he had read aright, and was just going to ring, when I begged him to wait a moment. Said he : "I am in no hurry : I was only anxious to serve you." "Yes," said I, "but I have my confession to make. I have been trifling with you all the while. I ask your pardon, and hope you will be my friend." ■ /'fi '"« jv- He smiled, and inclined, as graciously as when I first entered the loom. Said I, " I believe this man Giustini is guilty of every charge made against him. But for his wife and children's sake, I am deter- mined to have them sent back to Syria. That aftair is settled, as your Excellency has just given me your word." He nodded an as- sent. " But now," I continued, " I have another favor to ask, which I have still deeper at heart. I love Laferriere, and I hate Meurand for the unceremonious way he received him. I was the cause, be- cause it was out of devotion to me, that the Viscount interested him- self in the family ; and 1 look to you to avenge me. For we have caught Meurand." I then told him how I suspected the mistake had been made. He, agreed with me. I then begged him to take advantage of it, so as to give Meurand a pretty sound humiliation, before he gave him a chance of throwing the blame on Bentivoglio. The minister's face lighted up, and I suspected that he was not displeased with the opportunity I had given him, to say that he was the only minister that had ever been able to show Meurand that he could make a mistake. " It will be satisfaction enough for the Viscount," said he, " when he sees that I will oblige Meurand to send them home." " No, no, no," said I ; " that may be enough to gratify Laferriere, but 0rtr. 404 A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. nothing less than a good rebuke will ever satisfy me. Tlie Marquis began to laugh, and said that he might have suspected that there was love and revenge mixed up in the matter. I replied that T ^vas actuated by the best of motives, when 1 started out to assist this f;amily, that 1 did it from pure love of God and my neighbor ; but that the devil had mixed himself in the business, the moment Laferriere complained ♦'hal Meurand had treated him uncivilly. *' Well," replied the Minister, " I promise you that you shall have full satisfaction." As I felt that I had accomplished everything I came for, I rose to go, but he detained me, and all at once our conversation took a con- fidential turn in regard to the government and some of its officials, so much so that he lowered his voice, although we were sitting near a table in the centre of a spacious room. " Why," said I, " there is no danger of any one listening, is there ?" "No," he replied, "but — it is better to speak low." Said I: "I am not going to open my lips, until you look behind the portieres;"—: and we both of us rose. He went to one side of the room, and I to the other, and looked behind the drapery that hung before the doors. When we resumed our seats, I laughed and exclaimed, " I know more about those fellow than you think I do." •' What fellows ? " said he. " Ah, " said I, ** don't you suppose I know what you are afraid of? And you have reason to be. But I did not suppose that they would dare to insinuate themselves into the interior of this palace. You must go to America to breathe freely. I sometimes feel that my very breath is chained here." " In fact," he replied, in an under tone, " we never can tell whether our servants are enrolled among them or not." " You are talking to no novice," said I. " If you only knew my experience." This excited his curiosity, and he insisted upon my telling him my experience, promising on the honor of a gentleman, never to betray me. I had said so much, that I was afraid, if I did not tell him, he might suspect that I was among them myself; and as there is no character, that I look upon as more hatefully despicable than that of a spy, I was determined to rid his mind of any such suspicions,- -al- though some persons of rank did not disdain to occupy that position, not only for the Emperor, but even for Bismarck. THE PREFECT OF POLICE. 40s CHAPTER LXXX. ESPIONAGE, A TWO-EDGED SWORD. — THE SECRET POLICE OF PARIS. I WAS in splendid humor, for I felt that 1 had just triumphed over the lower regions, in securing Giustini's return ; and I kept the Marquis laughing the whole time I was relating to him what 1 knew about the Secret Police : • « . ,.. , >..'.■ ...- . ,1 . .. " Last summer, when I was at Mont Dore, I had my rooms in the centre building on the rear. Pietri, the Prefect of Police, arrives and takes two rooms opposite mine, and one on each side. There I was as it were actually hemmed into my apartment by the cuirass of the French Government. " I did not suppose that I was of sufficient importance to be placed under the surveillance of the police, except from the fact that I was intimate with ladies from the Faubourg St. Germain, who were bitterly opposed to ihe Empire. r < j.-...t .' J:t{«v "These ladies I never invited to my rooms, lest they should say something derogatory to the government ; and I did not wish to have my name mixed up with anything of the sort. " Whenever I give dinners, I always require an extra valet. I had returned but a few days from Mont Dore, when a young man pre- sented himself, and offered to come and serve me at my extra din- ners, for half the price I was accustomed to pay. He showed me excellent references from the best families, and I took him. He gave me his address in an obscure part of Paris, which was situated several miles from the Abbaye aux Bois, and told me that he had a friend residing near the Abbey, and, whenever I needed him, to ad- dress him in care of his friend. I found him very efficient, far more so than any servant I had ever had ; but, from the moment my maid laid eyes upon him, she declared that this man had been Pietri's valet at Mont Dore, and that she noticed that he was always watching me there ; that, when I was on the promenade, she had seen him looking at me from the top of the house, and had once caught him following us up the mountain. I told her that she must be mistaken, for Pietri's valet had a moustache, and did not resemble this man in the least. 4o6 THE prefect's VALET. m "My maid replied: 'I will admit that he does not resemble hirr much. J3ut every time I caught him watching you, he would dodge out of sight so quickly, that I could almost imagine no one was there. And this fellow resembles him in his ways, for when you were in your bedroom, the other day, I caught him in the narrow corridor, that leads to it, and he made the same quick exit, and goodness knows where he disappeared to.' ''■ " She told me that she had accused him of being Pietri's valet, but that he had denied his master, and declared that he never heard his name before ; and the more she accused him, the more vehemently he denied it. "As my maid, however, had more perseverance than the one who accused St. Peter, she one night borrowed a bonnet, a pair of spec- tacles, and a vail, and dogged his steps, till they led her directly to the Prefect's door. I rewarded her for her curiosity and perseverance, and told her not to intimate to him that we knew his true character. I suspected that she was trying to make me her dupe, and had trump- ed up this story to get rid of the young man, so as to bring back the valet I had discharged. " I determined to watch the fellow myself, and to play police on the police, so as to be fully satisfied before I discharged, him. When I engaged him for a dinner, he would always come in the morning, and pass the day doing extra work about the apartments. The next time he came, whenever I went into a room, no matter if there was any one with me or not, I would wait until I thought that it was time for him to be listening, when I would spring out of the room with the rapidity of a hare ; and I invariably caught him escaping with the movements of a Thug. ** One day I went into my bedroom, and knelt down and prayed : ' O God, help me to catch him ; ' and with that I made a spring, and 1 saw him vanish through a door that led into the main corridor. I tried the door and found that its hinges had been oilec!. I then went into the antechamber, and looking through the grating in the door I distinctly saw him dodge back into the narrow corridor, and, as he swept by me, he put a paper into his coat-pocket. I was afraid that it was one of my letters which he had stolen, and I began to think how I should get this paper. " I was furiously excited, and it was as much as I could do to re- strain luyeslf from going up to him, and snatching the paper out of WATCHFUL SERVANT. 407 his pocket. I first secured the door of the narrow corridor, by bolt- ing it on the inside. I told him to bring me the step-ladder and a brush. "'Now,' said I, 'dust the cornices. But you had better take off your coat, or you will get it covered with dust.' He instantly obeyed, took of his coat, and as he mounted the ladder, I opened the windows. After I did so, I leaned over the railing, pulled out one of my earrings, and screamed out : ' O Leon, one of my earrings has fallen. Run and get it for me as quick as you can.' " In an instant he was out and down the stairs. But this time I was quick as he was. I flew to the door, sprung the latch, and bolted myself in. I then ran and secured all the windows. By this time he was back again, trying to get in. I carefully took the paper from his coat-pocket and began to read it, — and what do you think Isaw?" •;,;.,, ^. .. . u.-.r- .j;-. .(..;; I . -: ■-; '■• ■ : ;- v.;,. ^/.:..;-v. i The Marquis replied : " I suppose you saw your own confession, written out better than you could have made it yourself." Said I : " Precisely, and it made every hair of my head stand on end ; for be- fore my eyes, I saw a long file and a correct inventory of everything I had been doing for the past week, — how often I had been to church, — how long I had stood before the glass, — who supped with me, — what they had talked about, — the hour they came, and the hour they left, — whom I had written to, and what I had written about, and who had written to me, etc. I knew by that that he must be in collusion with my cook, the porter, or some one else in my service, and I felt the most uncomfortable sensation pass over me that I ever experienced in my life. t. It While I was reading this document, you would have thought that the Abbey was bombarded, by his efforts to get in. After I had read the paper, I put it back into the coat-pocket, just as I had found it, and then went softly through the narrow corridor into my bedroom, and began singing. I continued singing until I reached the little door, which I opened, and he instantly darted by nie into the library. By the time I got in, he was hugging his coat, I went into the ante- chamber and quickly turned back the latch, then came back and asked him what they were doing to the Abbey, if they were tearing down a partition ; for I had gone into my bedroom, and it was im- possible to pray on account of the noise. " • Why, Madam,' he exclaimed, * it was T trying to get in.' I looked 4o8 BRAVING A SPY at him, apparently surprised. Big drops ct ^ spiration were stand ing on his face. Said I : ' Why did you not open the door with youi key ? ' 'Because,' said he, ' you bolted them both.' ' What,' said I, '/ bolted them ? as though I ever turned a key or shoved a bolt in mj life.' I smiled and began to saunter down the room. " But before I could think, he rushed to the door, and came back looking as white as a ghost. ' But,' said he, * there must have been some one else in here, for the latch is all right now. ' Oh,' said I, ' what nonsense ! You only imagined it was down.' T' ' ' - > > " He was out of my sight again in an instant, rushed into the kitchen to ask the girls if they had seen a man go out, then to the janitor. He came back, looked behind every door, into every closet, under the sofas, into boxes that a cat could hardly have crawled into, and not finding his man, he began to examine the car- pets, to see if they were all tacked down, then the wainscoting. I pretended to pay no attention to him. t " : !. .ii' : •, r ;. .-r !v -ii f *' I treated the valet-detective with greater confidence than ever ; for I felt it would be a sorry day for me if I made an enemy of one of those fellows, and Machiavelli taught me, years before, never to make a man an enemy, unless I had the power to crush him, or had no reason to fear him. I knew that it was of no use to discharge him, for I should be sure to have another in his place, and I felt that I had another already in the house. .-ft .■■. I'ir. vrrl I .-s.^hvs' v^-' 'ii *' One day your cousin, the Countess de Montalembert, came to dine with me. I told her to be careful what she said, for my house was full of mouchards. The moment we sat down to dine, she com- menced to abuse the Empire and everybody connected with it. She said that she had a perfect horror of perjurers, and that Napoleon in. was the chief of them ; — that the Empress was a frivolous co- quette, without wit or common sense ; that she had made herself President of a benevolent fund, and that everybody who made ap- plication J sceived the same uniform answer, ' Call again in three months.' After starving a few months on expectations, they would call again, but only to receive another stereotyped reply, * that the funds weie all out.' " It frightened me to hear her speak so unreservedly. She made me feel as though the guillotine were looming up in the distance, wait- in(_ for one of our heads. 1 interrupted her in the midst of her invec- tives, hoping to put a stop to them, and asked her if it was consistent THE SPY MADE USEFUL. 409 k '■1-ii with Christian charity to speak that way. ' Certainly,' she replied. *Il faut trancher le mal' (we tnust strike at evil). , : ■, , "As soon as I thought we were alone I asked her how she dared to speak in that way of the Emperor and Empress, after I had put her on her guard. ' Oh,' she replied,- * I should be rejoiced to have them both know my sentiments, and I could not allow so good an oppor- tunity to pass of letting them know what I thought of them.' " Her audacity and cleverness amused me, and I thought it was so worthy of imitation, that I was inspired to do likewise. So I in- stantly converted this terrible grievance into an instrument to avenge old wrongs, and new ones, as fast as they came. "All the maids of honor are against me. Two of them are La- ferri^re's cousins, and they have taken to hating me, through fear that I may one day become his wife. 1 have often tried to get some of the chamberlains to repeat to the Emperor and Empress remarks that the maids of honor had made about them ; for they are always attacking me, and saying that 1 assume a position which I have no right to. But now let me hear one word from them, and I cannot sleep until I get satisfaction. I give a dinner ; but instead of inviting ladies ot the Faubourg, I bring together a lot of gossiping disappointed chevaliers, and unfold to them, in the presence of Pietri's valet, what I have heard, and it goes straight to their Majesties. ; •• ^ ., j ■-.,. f » n ■•■ • " I keep the thing up, and I am playing the very devil among them. Eaferridre, Rollin, and other habitues of the Palace, come to see me, and talk over everything that occurs, who is in favor and who is in disgrace, and they are all mystified as to the person who strikes these blows ; for things are told in the Palace that they thought that none but they knew." The Marquis laughed heartily, for, in relating this to him, I told him the names of the persons whose heads I had taken off, what they had done to me, and what I had said tliey had done to their Majes- ties ; and I admitted that I had never been over-scrupulous about speaking the truth, particularly whenever it concerned Laferridre's daughter or the rest of his connections, who were all at war with me. " But," said I, " this is the point for you to meditate on. If you had refused my request, I should have given a dinner in a day or two, and in the presence of my indefatigable Leon, I should have read Meurand's accusations, and then produced the exequatur, to show how business was done at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs ; and it would 18 4IO " CHOICE OF DIRECTORS. have been easy enough for nie to persuade Laferridre, after tlie reception Meurand gave him, that it was his duty to take them and show them to the Emperor. But I should have first let the intelU- gence reach his Majesty, through his spies, and would have taken pains to add that if we went to Syria the probability was we would be able to disprove the other charges." 1 again rose to go, when the Mar- quis detained me once more by asking me : " But how is it, Madaju, that you can be a Sister of Charity in the morning and a Nemesis in the afternoon ? I should think that two such opposite characters would breed serious discord in the same bosom." " Oh," I replied, " they agree admirably in me ; but 1 never avenged wrongs until I became a Christian." This made him laugh still more. " Why," said he, " that dees not seem evangelical." " Well," I said, " I wish I had only the mischief I do my enemies to reproach myself with." Said he : "I would like to be your director." " Oh, no," I replied, laughing ; " we would quarrel if you were. But you don't suppose that I ever confess those things, do you ? I lay them all to the govern- ment ; for what business has it dogging me like a felon, when I am leading the life of a saint ? " " I always admired an enlightened piety," said he, " and I really think that you ought to choose me for yoijr director." *' If all I have heard about you," 1 answered, " be true, 1 am afraid that your direction would lead me the contraiy road, to that which goes to Heaven. The Viscount de Laferridre is my director. He makes me listen to him. But I never do as he tells me : if I did, I should have presented my- self before your Excellency, attired in a neat little gray costume, a plain hat, and a little black lace veil, and should have been very re- served; for such were his tlirections." '■'■ Mon Dieu, Madam ! " exclaimed the Marquis, "the Viscount is jealous, and it is he who is watching you." Here we both looked at the clock. It was just half-past one. " Goodness, Madam !" he continued : " we are both lost, if he ever knows that we have been conversing two hours and a half. Tell him I told you I was engaged in council, and that I kept you waiting two hours." With those words, he conducted me to the door of the ante-chamber ; and hold- ing up the papers, he said : " Au revoir, and I hope the next time we meet, I shall have fully satisfied your pity and your revenge." When Laferridre called on me that afternoon my conscience smoiv, me for having disregarded his counsels. He noticed my dejected ap SELF-REPROACH. 4U pearance and attributed it at once to my ill-success at the Minister's. I repeated the Marquis' lesson, that he had kept me waiting two hours, but had taken the papers which 1 had submitted to him, and said that he would give them his immediate attention. Said Laferri^re, "That is the last you will ever hear from him ; but you will probably receive a line from Meurand, that the consulate department respectfully de- clines to convert its calling to that of office of Public Charity." I told him that I had not been thinking of the Giustinis, but of him, because I did not treat him as well as he deserved, for all his kindness. " What have you been doing now that you reproach yourself with?" he inquired. Said I: "You are always giving me advice which I never follow." " Why," he replied, " you would not be a woman if you did. They are all alike : they never begin to speak the truth or to listen to others, until just about eight days before they die. Don't reproach yourself for anything you have ever done to me. I don't hold you responsible for your faults. Coine, cheer up, and let me see you smile again." But instead of smiling, I wept at my own ])erversity. He could not belive that I was reproaching myself in earnest, but attributed all my sadness to my failure in not being able to assint the Giustinis. ..^\-:-:- :'j ' H"!' ij.'.if' r i^^^^ l,.it-x- CHAPTER LXXXI. ELIZA AMORE. ..h. ■■>XYi The next morning I went to the Pantheon and made my usual offering. When I returned I found the mother of the English girl waiting for me to take her to her daughter's grave. We first went to the hospital, as she wished to thank the Sisters and remunerate the convalescent patients, who had assisted her child during her last hours. The Sister then gave me an account of the girl's last moments. She died soon after she was baptized, blessing the Catholics, and after having several times exclaimed, " Oh, if my family only knew what the Catholics really are ! What would have become of me. Sister, had it not been for you ? But I die happy now : I feel that peace and joy await me. A few moments more and I shall be at rest." 412 THE ENGLISH GIRL'S GRAVE. After hearing the Sister's story, I went to the mother, who was standing by the bed where her daughter had died; and, thinking to console her, I repeated to her what the Sister had just said to me. " What," she exclaimed, " my daughter died a Roman Catholic ! O mercy ! " and, for a moment, she appeared more distracted and dis- tressed than I had yet seen her. '• Well," she continued, " I would never dare to tell her father that, or he would curse her, even in her grave." Then recollecting that I was a Roman Catholic, she became more distracted than ever ; bu% this time, her face reddened with confusion, and, not knowing what else to say, she remarked : "I know that they are not all bad." It could easily be seen that the thought of her daughter dying a Roman Catholic, distressed her, perhaps, more than did her sinful life, and that she looked upon her dying in that faith as the climax of the infamy which her waywardness had heaped upon her family. One of the hospital attendants conducted us to the cemetery. The girl was buried in the cemetery Mont Parnasse. He left us at the graveyard gate, in care of the keeper, who promised to conduct us to the spot, where the bodies had been interred, that came from the hospitals the previous morning. The price for burying a body at the hospital is thirty francs. The Sister told me that that would cover all expenses ; it would pay for the coffin, shroud, grave, hearse, and services. 1 supposed that this meant one single grave, and I expected that the man would lead us to a newly-made grave marked by a black wooden cross with white lettering. We passed by a line of what appeared to me to be a wide, low, black hedge-fence. I did not pay attention to it, for I was engaged in earnest conversation with m/ companion. At last the man stopped, and said : " Here it is, madam." 1 looked down, and seeing myself standing close to one of these extra- ordinary looking fences, I called out to the man, who had already taken his departure : " You are mistaken, there is no grave here." Then throwing a glance about me, I neaily fainted. I had mistaken for a broad, low, black fence, innumerable little black crosses, about two feet high, which were closely knitted together, each one bearing a different name. There were at least twenty clustered around the one I was looking for. The English lady, not understanding French, was not yet con- THE HATED NAME. 413 con- scious that her daughter lay beneath her feet, and seeing me turn pale, and looking wildly about me, at the same time that 1 addressed the man, she impatiently asked me : "Can he not find the grave? It ought to be easily found, as she was only buried yesterday morning." I told the man that I would give him a franc if he would push the other crosses away from the one bearing the name of Eliza Amore ; and I told him to do so, while I attracted the lady's attention in another direction. I called her aside. Her back was turned to the grave. I began talking to her, while I kept my eyes on the move- ments of the man, who easily thrust aside the crosses in the newly* made earth, and arranged them so that this cross stood alone in the centre, while the others, interlaced around it, had the appearance of an impenetrable hedge. I then went and stood before it, and asked the man if he could not remove them a little farther, so that the lady might think that her daughter was buried by herself. The man shook his head, and said he could not do so, without violating the rules ; that he had already pushed them to the very edge of the trench to which they belonged. The lady, who was all this time impatiently waiting for the man to proceed, approached us, and was going to speak, when her eyes acci- dentally fell on the cross bearing her daughter's first name by the side of the name of the man who had ruined her. Nothing could equal her emotion, as her eyes fell on that name. All strength seemed to forsake her for an instant, and it was with the greatest effort that I could support her until the man came to my assistance. Presently her strength returned, and starting from us, and speaking like a maniac, who had just come out of a swoon, she exclaimed : " Why did you bury her by that name ? Let me bury it with her." So saying, she sprang towards the cross, as though she would have seized it, and have hidden it in the earth. But she was prevented from reaching it by the other crosses, which seemed to bid her defi- ance. Then, as if maddened by her fruitless efforts to grasp it, she turned upon me, and, with a defiant look, pointing to the cross, exclaimed : *' That man was a Roman Catholic 1 " ^di liuL "U he sinned," I replied, "he must have repented; for youi daughter told us before she died, that he taught her to pray." " Ah," answered the mother, with an angered look of horror and disgust, " she told us the same story, that he taught her to say the 414 ONE OF THE " FORTUNATE Catholic prayers. After enticing her away from school, and ruining her, he tried to make her a Roman Catholic, so that she could do what she liked without fear of God ; for all she would have to do then, would be to go to a priest, a man, and be forgiven." The very blood boiled in my veins as she made this as fii tion ; but 1 pitied her so much that I made no reply. She continued . "We caught her once with a string of Catholic beads, with a cross at the end. He gave it to her. She used to wear it around her neck under her dress." Here, turning io the grave, the mother exclaimed: "What a strange-looking grave ! how large and disproportioned ! Why did they fence it in with these clumsy black sticks ? " As she said these words, her eyes fell on the names that were written on them, and as the truth flashed over her mind, she uttered a shriek. ; ; ;. " What ! " she exclaimed ; " is she buried here with so many others ? " — and throwing upon me a reproachful look, she said : " You told me that you had paid for a grave." Said I : " I did ; and I supposed that she would be buried by herself. All this appears as horrible to me as it does to you." I then questioned the grave-digger, who had already begun to dig another trench He told me that that was the way they always buried those who were brought from the hospitals, and had been baptized ; that they dug a deep ditch and buried them all together. Said I : "How many are there here?" and I began counting the crosses. " Humph ! " said the man : " you cannot calculate by them ; for there are a great many buried there who had not money enough to pay for across." i ' • * • - " i J'' i jjj t.,n- !>; I was chilled with horror, when I reflected that, at the hospital, those who had money enough to buiy them, or who had found some sympathizing soul that would promise to fulfil for them this last office, were called the fortunate ones ; and the unfortunates were those who had not one single dime or a friend, and whose bodies were destined to pass through the dissecting-rooms. I then remembered that I had not had any particular mark put on the cofiin^ as I sup- posed that the cross would be suflUcient to find the body, any time it might be called for. As I was making this reflection the mother began to consult with me, about the means to be taken to obtain the body. I was obliged to tell her the truth, that all the coflftns weri alike and that there might A grave-digger's sympathy. 415 'red be thirty bodies buried in the same grave ; so thai they might be obliged to open most of the coffins before they could find the" right one. This difficulty did not seem to detei her from persisting in the intention of having her daughter disinterred. But in the midst of our deliberations the expression of her face suddenly changed, as though a thought had occurred to her, which settled everything in her mind ; she shook her head and then said, "No, no ; let her rest where she is ; our family would never permit a Roman Catholic to be buried in our burial ground. I will not have her removed." And she instantly withdrew from the spot, as though the very thought of her daughter having died a Roman Catholic, made her shrink from her grave. We both started to return. The men followed us and asked me what they should say to the overseer ; for it was necessary to have a permit, before the body could be disinterred. By this time I was incensed against the woman, and turning to the men I told them that she refused to have the body removed, be- caitse her daughter had been baptized a Roman Catholic, and had received the sacraments of the church before she died. " Well," said the oldest of the men, as though he wanted to protect the body that the mother refused to own, " if the woman is a heretic, we will never let her have the body, for this is consecrated ground, — et la paiivre enfant !" — and the tears started in the old man's eyes. I called the woman back, and told her that she ought to give some- thing to the old grave-digger. " Why," she replied, " what has he done for us ? I gave the man a shilling who conducted us there." "Yes," said I ; "but this one has done more than that, for he has just shed a tear for your daughter, at the very thought of your taking and burying her in unconsecrated ground, and he says that you shall not have her." "Why," said the lady, as she handed him an English shil- ling, " what is my daughter to him ? Jle never knew her." Said I .• " Your are mistaken ; for we Roman Catholics all know and love each other in Christ." As I repeated to the old man what she had said to me, and what I had replied, he looked earnestly into my face, and said : " Very good, mademoiselle. God inspired you when you spoke." He then reverently touched his hat, and took up his spade to resume his task. His last words made me reflect on what I had said. I found in my words a deeper meaning than I had intended. Instead of stopping to pass judgment on this woman's prejudices, 4i6 STURDY BEGGARS. /i let this be a lesson to those who profess to be Roman Catholics, that their sins may not bring down such odium and hatred upon their re- ligion as to make those who are ignorant of its truths shudder at its very name. ■ ■:■' • .;'.;■■ .'.-..• v "':;•■.;;.'■ ,,, CHAPTER LXXXII. . ■ ' THE TRIUMPH OF A MOTHER'S FAITH. ' That same Friday afternoon General Rollin and I.aferridre called. I.aferridre told Rollin of the Giustini affair. "'Well," said Rollin, "she will have this satisfaction if she does get them home, that they will not be able to return and ask her to do them the same favor again." "Ah," answered I.aferri^re, "that is the plague of obliging any one." ij!' ■ ;v ■':,! ---k' ;.*- -•,; ■■;;?.'., r :,; t . \ , . . Laferri^re had a fund attached to his appointment, which he had the privilege of distributing among the poor, in the name of the Emperor, as he saw fit. Said the General : " I would not accept your position for all France unless the Emperor would transfer that fund to somebody else. If I were in your place I would keep a gar- rison at the door to fire on every one who came saying, * Monsieur, you assisted me on a former occasion, and I take the liberty to apply to you again.' Assist them twice, and this time they leave their ad- dress, and if they need you again they present themselves with a haughty air of command and ask you to serve them, in a tone which is as much as a reproach for having given them the trouble to call. They expect you to send it to them, and if you refuse them this fourth time they will curse you to your face, abuse you behind your back, sue you and swear that they have a claim against you, and that you have been paying them off by instalments. Whenever I want to relieve the poor," continued the General, "I do it so that they will never find out where it comes from ; it is one of the precepts of the gospel that I most adhere to. Our Lord must have understood that kind of fellows pretty well, when He put us on our guard against them, in tl it passage of the gospel where He says, * Never let your right hand know what your left hand does.' " ■i /■■'K THE VISCOUNT AVENGED. 417 '.'^»' ^ The General's remark created no little amusement and laughter, in the midst of which an attache of the consular department entered, and said : " Madam, his Excellence, Monsieur le Marquis de Moustier, has ordered me to say to you that he has granted your request, and has given orders that Mons. Giustini and his family should be sent back to Syria at the expense of the government." Laferridre could not conceal his astonishment and delight at the discomfiture of Meurand, and exclaimed, " And that Cretin, Meu- rand, what has he to say ? " "I left him foaming with rage," replied the young man ; " for the Minister had made him affirm several times an accusation against Giustini, and after he had done so, his Excellence, in the presence of several gentlemen, handed him a paper to prove that he had made a mistake, and had accused the Syrian ex-consul unjustly." " His Excellence," 1 remarked, *' stole that from me, for that is the way I caught /im." And I then related part of my interview with the Marquis. n;^*:/.! ^<:\-\-.\v.:.> y.^ rj^' -ih o: ];;:/•./ i vi!;:;:rV> jji-s-u' The young man then took his departure, and the Viscount and the General loaded me down with praises and compliments for my perseverance and tact. When they rose to leave, and had already reached the door, the Viscount turned towards me, and making me a most courteous bow, said : " If ever I need an appointment, Mad- am, I shall apply to you." ,^. ,;. >, , , -i ,.,;i. r:t,-. .. u >; ,,; ,,,,in ■•'■ • ' -'i'^ j-' As soon as I entered my library, I wrote a note to the Giustinis, announcing my success with the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and then went to the Pantheon. When I reached St. Genevieve's altar, I be- gan talking to our Lord, the Blessed Virgin, and St. Genevidve, as though I were speaking to them face to face. Since my conversion, there have been intervals when my mind is so freed from doubt, that the objects of faith are to it a living reality. In such moments I will converse with God, the Blessed Virgin, and the Saints, in the same way as I used to talk with the chairs, the foot- stools, and the table legs when I was called "Tick," and with the shrubs, the rocks, the trees, and the sun, when I lived in the High- lands of Dutchess. That evening I went to the Opera Comique. Laferri^re smiled when he saw me, and said: "We did not expect you at all. We expected that you would stay with the Syrians all night." I replied : " Why should they thank me ? I did nothing for them. I left it all to God and He did it." His face brightened as he said : " That is the true spir- it. That is the spirit of God. Always render the glory and success to Him. It is the first time I ever heard you speak like a Chris- tian. y^iis ■ji ■.lifi'.-i'.tM'f The next day, I called to see those gentlemen who had promised to give me something for Giustini, if the government agreed to send him home. I called on the old man of reason and good sense first, and re- lated to him the whole affair. In the midst of my narration he inter- rupted me and said, " That is a fact. I forgot to reckon in the gallan- try of the Marquis." " Oh," I replied, " you forgot to reckon on more than that ; for you did not give Faith its full value." " Well," he Added, " I will rectify my mistake, by adding what I subtracted from it to the Marquis' gallantry, and reason will deduce from it, that you owe more to the Marquis than you do to God." " 1 ask you, sir," I replied, " who made the gallant Marquis ? " He answered : " God made him ; but I think you will admit that you owe more to the devil, for the Marquis' training, than you do to God." The devil," said I, " can do nothing without God's permission. If m MY "director's" approval. 419 He owe lod." If m . you are a Roman Catholic, you should believe the same; but you see that reason and good sense are leading you astray." He then sighed, and pretended to be very serious, by trying to as- sume an earnest expression, as he continued : ** The Marquis will never know how much he is responsible for ; for your success will make you more crazy than ever." I replied: "Ifyou call an increase of faith, and putting all my trust in God, getting more crazy, I will con- fess that I am more demented than ever. Besides my director, for * the first time, sanctioned my conduct. He told me that I was right, that I should always render all the glory to God." " Oh," exclaimed the old man, " Priest-cant ! " Said 1 : '* There was no priest about it ; for the first chamberlain of the Emperor is my director." " What ! " he exclaimed with astonishment, " the Viscount de Laferri^re, that you are sure t > meet every night in the coulisses of the opera ? " " Pre- cisely," said I; " and he is better than all the priests ; for he knows as much as they do, although he has not the strength of will, nor the courage, to practise what he preaches. Therefore he is modest about it, and will point out to you your defects, and tell you their remedies without scolding and'frowning like a Pharisee; for he knows how it is himself." " Well, well," cried out the old man, *' I will congratulate the Viscount upon his fair penitent." " The Viscount," I replied, " will tell you, that you have not much to congratulate him for on that score : he fin(^=: me furiously unmanageable." " Madam," said he very seri- ously, hall not accuse reason or good flense for leading you astray." Said I . Laferridre would tell you that it would be a libel on both, if you did, for I have neither ; but that those are your defects, — and that tnine are a fonduv^ss for pleasure and for having my own way." " Mad- anj," he replied, " I easily divined them ; since you have been taught by a Bishop our religion so thoroughly, and you afterwards chose a courtier instead of a priest to be your director." *., . v ' ?■ ' ■ ig ■?:-■■.'. :', , '::< t'i: 'j'^'' CHAPTER LXXXni. REMORSE OF RENEGADE NUNS. — THE HEARTLESSNESS OF THE POOR FOR THEIR FALLEN SISTERS. My rescue of the Giustini family and victory over Meurand were bniited about, and gave me that importance which 1 had so long coveted ; but I found it a never-ending cause of weariness and an- 420 CLINICAL STUDIES. noyance. I never let anything interfere with my morning visits to the hospitals. 1 went there to study and reflect. I would learn more at the hospital in one hour, listening to the simple stories of its unfortunate inmates, than I could in a whole year in the flash of the world. Standing by the bedsides of suffering souls, whose life was stripped of all illusions, I learned the value of a sympathizing look, of an encouraging word, and the untold value of a slight cai-ess. Patients would implore me, with streaming eyes, to come and stand by them, when they were about to undergo some painful operation. A slight pressure of the hand, a sympathizing look, a fond word, or a hand gently passed over their foreheads, seemed to take away half their agony. From the Sisters of Charity I learned to control myself in these scenes. At first I would become faint with pity, but they taught me to master my feelings in the presence of suffering. One day I was standing by the sick-bed of a young woman, who could not have been thirty. She noticed a little medal of St. Benedict, which I wore around my neck, and reaching out her hand towards it, she begged of me to let her kiss it. She then asked me how I came by it. I told her that the Mother -General of the ladies of the Holy Family had given it to me. I had hardly spoken those words, when she buried her face in her pillow, and fell to sobbing and weeping. I asked her to tell me what there was about that medal, and the name of the Holy Family, that affected her. I remained beside her at least half an hour, imploring her to speak ; but the only reply that I could obtuin, through her sobbing, was, "Don't ask me." I was most curious to know her secret, and the next morning I repaired at once to her bed. She at first refused to answer my question, and said : " You are so intimate with the Sisters, that I am afraid to tell you, lest you should betray me ; because they all love me, and are so good to me, and they would have a horror of me if they knew what I have done." 1 promised her faithfully that 1 would be a true friend to her, if she would only tell me the truth, and what there was between her and the ladies of the Holy Family. She then told me that she had been a religious in that society for four years, at their Novitiate in Bordeaux ; that her mother was op- posed to her entering, and was constantly coming to the convent, and importuning her to leave. During the foul- years, she had been ;! i ESCAPED NUNS. ' 'Hi' 421 r, if her for op- ent, )een ill a part of the time, and the nuns took the tenderest care of her. But her mother at last triumphed over her resistance, and she re- solved to leave. No sooner was she out of the convent than she became intensely miserable. Her mother died in less than a year. She applied to be received by the religious again ; but they refused to take her back. One misfortune succeeded another, until she was reduced to beggary, and her health being poor, she had been staying at the hospital, bff and on, now for over a year. I listened to her story with the deepest interest, and was delighted that Providence should have thrown the poor creature in my path. For since I had left St. Mande, many and many a hater of Catholi- city had said to me, "They took good care to hide their deviltry from you ; " and as I had always been deceived, and was easily given to suspect, I would have to struggle with myself, not to be influenced by these foes of the conventual life. I was determined to be convinced of the truth, if there was anything wrong about the nuns, or to silence forever any suspicions that ignorant, prejudiced souls might hence- forth try to resuscitate in my mind. I began questioning this lady in a way that would induce her to speak, ill of the religious, if any ill could be said. But whenever I insinuated the slightest thing against them, it would wound her, as though I were abusing a beloved spouse whom she had al»andoned, and who now refused to take her back to his bosom. She reproached only herself, and saw the smiting hand of God in all that she had suffered and still suffered. I asked why she dreaded to have the Sisters know her story. " Oh," she replied, " I never want them to know what brought me to this. I com- mitted a serious offence in giving up my vocation." Her heart was rent with remorse ; but at that time I could not appreciate her scruples. I met two other religious, who had made their novitiate in other convents. One of them had been sent away, and the other had left of her own accord. One's account was that a relative came, and incited her to rebel against the rules, and '^he was dismissed. The other had been enticed to leave. The manifestations of remorse and re- pentance were exactly alike. I was present at the death of one of these. Her last words : " Foi give me, beloved Jesus, for having abandoned Thy house," rang through my heart. As I heard those words, I sank en my knees, and asked God to forgive me, for ever having doubted the holiness that existed in religious life. / 422 THE " VIRTUES " OF PAUPERS. I have often felt since then that God had His designs in throwing these three repenting souls in my path ; for they have armed my weakness forever against any suspicions in regard to cloister-life. Listening to the regrets and prayers of these repentant souls, 1 felt the full enormity of my mother's fault ; and I often knelt at their bedsides, and implored God to inspire me what to do, that I might atone for her sin. I prayed Him to let me undo the wrongs that my mother had done, and I would offer myself up to God, and implore Him to do with me what He would. These offerings always brought peace to my soul — I felt that God was there to answer my prayer and to accept my sacrifice. Not only did I learn in the Hospital to feel the enormity of my mother's fault, but also to have charity and compassion for her. It was then, and only then, that I could feel how much more deserving of pity than of reproach she was. i.' i>vM.'i! , :i::i •■ -aL' ■! > /^ ^.y;^ : If the world wants to see the culmination of pride, intolerance, dis- dain, and hate, let it mingle with the paupers who frequent the first- class public hospitals and poor-houses. I have seen them torture the very life out of poor girls, whom they suspected of having been the victims of some libertine. I knew one unfortunate creature who left the hospital so ill that she could hardly drag herself away, choosing to risk dying alone in the streets, rather than endure any longer the disdainful looks and contemptuous smiles of those around her. No one would speak to her, except to insult her. She dared not approach any e ; but they would all abuse her among themselves, and not fai t her know it by their side-glances and leers. It was while studying the characters and manners of these pampers, that I conceived how my mother sought by every means to excuse herself, and to throw the blame of her own conduct on others. Be- cause females who have erred, and who cannot conceal their guilt, and are possessed of one grain of sensibility, can suffer no greater martyr- dom than to fall beneath the censure of this class, which, for intoler- ance, ill-breeding, insolence, and pride, far surpasses even a first-class " shoddy " aristocracy. But those whom '* shoddy " singles out as targets for its abuse and scorn, are more fortunate than their penniless rivals, since they have the means to fly, and to conceal themselves, from the darts of their Pharisaical persecutors. But for the pauper there is no escape : his r COMPARISONS. 423 t her indigence dooms him to stand face to face with his tormentors, and receive their blows. And what blows can strike deeper, and inflict greater pain on an erring soul, possessed of a proud and sensitive nature, than to be obliged to live in the midst of human beings, whose looks, words, and gestures are filled with scorn and disdain ? Many erring and unfortunate females are willing to resort to any crime in order to escape falling under such a ban. They know full v;ell the trials that await them if they do. By mingling with this class I learned to have feelings of compas- sion and sympathy for my mother, and to pity while I condemned her. She was proud and sensitive. She wished to make herself ap- pear the helpless victim of priestly crime, and in order to enlist the sympathy of the hospital attendants, she invented her improbable story. All these scenes would bring back to my mind my own erring days ; and my heart would rise in gratitude to God, for having spared me what seemed to be the common lot of all those who began life in the same way that I did. And often I would mentally exclaim, when I witnessed scenes that would make my blood run cold : " O God, why didst thou spare me ? " — and then and there I would make a firm resolve that the future should atone for the past. After having passed the morning trying to console the poor, I would return to the Abbey, loathing the rdle that 1 was to play in the afternoon. For those morning scenes would fill my mind with such serious thoughts and generous resolves, that they tended every day to disgust me more and more with my worldly life. I would often resolve to abandon society altogether, and devote all my tiine to good works ; for it was in them alone that I found any satisfaction. But instantly my attachment for the world's opinion would deter me from executing my resolution : I was so afraid that the world would say that my reason for not appearing at such and such receptions, was that I was not invited ; and I was too much the slave of opinion to endure that thought. But even when I sought to fly from the world, the more the world seemed willing to thro,/ itself at my feet. This but surfeited my vanity and my pride, while it left my heart empty. I would often ask myself, when I was making such sacrifices to opinion, what I was living for, any way ; and my heart always had its answer ready, which 424 HEART SICK. was too distinct to ever deceive me : it was to marry Lafeiiidrc. To marry Laferri^re, it was for that alone that 1 lived. 1 was even more attached to him then than I had ever been before, and that dolorous feeling of disappointed affection increased with my love. No matter whether I stood by the bedside of some penniless out- cast, or was kneeling before God's altar, imploring His mercy and protection, or in a palace, surrounded by courtiers, who vied in show- ing '.ne attention, that feeling of disappointed love, like a cancer, was eating into my heart ; and, to aggravate it, Laferridre treated me, every day, more and more as if 1 were his child. 'Uj* : 'i i; i i;. Towards the latter part of November my health began to fail. Everybody was finding fault with me for giving so much of my time and strength to the poor. One day I received the following letter from General Dix : .lurri . -.-> I, .^!..,.| ,, *' Sunday, A'iw^/w^^r 22, 1868. **Mv Dear Mrs. Eckel: " I am very thankful to you for your kindness, in sending me the ticket for Rossini's obsequies. The services were very interesting and the music exquisite. " I enclose the translations of the Dies Irae and Stabat Mater. The former was written in Virginia during the war, and the latter here. As they are in harmony with the monastic life you are lead- ing I thought you might like to have them. " I mean to call and see you at the convent, but you are so run down with visitors, and works of charity, that it ig next to iiiipossibk to have a moment's conversation with you. •■ • ; •■• /- - . r, 3;;i;n>;b :'';fM>fi!i ^'^rlt':'y!<>\iri^'nin>>i rt{:>i " Ever sincerely yours, ui-it i , yifft b«rM>l i'l/sdt .<;;*f*ffl winL m fjcvi ii wit- 1 ailiavr hrw « T a, Dix." xr. CHAPTER LXXXIV. ■■■jiStm ijtliiyv/Lrm'. THE DREAM. — THE WARNING.— WAS IT THE VOICE OF GOD? '.It was the 1st of December, 1868. Laferridre had gone to Com^ pidgne. I gave myself up entirely to visiting the sick, helping the poor, and to pray. This kind of life I continued for seven days. 1 had only intended to prolong it three days at farthest, but I pleaded 4 >i::'tu -/'. I instantly recollected the request I had made on going to bed. I rose at once, fell down on my knees before the statue of the Blessed Virgin, and screamed out : " Oh, anything but that ! anything but that !" For the recollection of all I had suffered in America came up vividly before me, and, to my mind, the saddest scene that could be predicted in my future, was to see myself bidding a long farewell to France, and returning to America to make it my home. I im- plored the Blessed Virgin that that dream might never come true, and I lay down again, after making the same request that I did on going to bed. I soon fell asleep, and the same vision came to me again, but more distinctly than before. When I awoke, I wept bitterly, and began to implore the Blessed Virgin to take pity on me. She ought to know, I said, what those Americans were, and how they would treat me, if they got a chance ; and I pleaded harder than before, that that dream might never come true ; and lay down again, making the II ■J-i^^^ 426 A LETTER ARRIVES. same request, that she would tell me what to do in future, to take away that aching from my heart. This time I fell, as it were, into a swoon ; for I was conscious, but I could not move ; and the same vision appeared before me, more distinct than ever. It vanished, and I awoke. But this time I was calm and resigned, and offered myself up to Clod and said : ** Do with nie as Thou wilt, Lord : not my will, but thine, be done. 1 will put my trust in Thee. I know that Thou art strong enough to jirotect me, even against the Americans. But tell me when I must go." ■<■'!-:) '^'ii ■trvv; ;, ..jj.^'l' «• ■ -i ••';.(!^ ■'; ••;■• . _f f . I passed the whole morning at the Church of our Lady of Vic- tories, imploring God to inspire me when to go. At noon I went to Munroe's, my banker's, 7 rue Scribe. Mr. Stone hf.nded me a letter from my brother-in-law, which stated that my sister had commenced a suit of divorce against him, and begged me to come on and try to induce her to withdraw it ; for if she persisted in her proceedings against him, it would bring ruin on us all, as he was determined to have the custody of his children, and would dis- close his wife's parentage, thinking it would have some bearing in his favor. I remembered that, in a former letter to my brother-in-law, I had intimated, in a casual way, that, if he would pay my expenses to New York and back again, I would come on and try to persuade his wife to live with him again. But I never thought that he would take my proposition as serious, and had even forgotten all about it ; and I should never have gone, had it not been for my visions of the previous night, for I was determined to go to Rome. But the mo- ment that I read the letter, I instantly decided to go to New York, as I felt that God had sent me those visions to decide me. As I had resolved to go, even before I got the letter, I returned to Our Lady of Victories, to thank God for having sent me such a good excuse to get off. I did not dare to speak of my vision to any one, for fear of being laughed at ; and I knew that it would raise me in the estimation of all my friends, to see me leave my child, my beautiful home, and all the advantages I had in Paris, to cross the Atlantic in order to make peace between my sister and her husband. Everybody was startled at my determination, and none more so than Laferri^re ; for he knew my repugnance to America, and it was a sacrifice he thought me incapable of making to a sentiment of dut}'. I A WARNING. 427 I Studiously concealed from every one, without exception, the motive that promjjted me to make such a sacrifice. I was thor- oughly convinced that God had made His designs known to me. I was so well satisfied of it that I was willing to risk all in order to obey Him ; for I believed that as a reward for obeying Him, He would be bountiful to me, and would grant me as many graces as there were numbers on that slip of paper, which I had seen in my dream the night after the day I was baptized. I was waiting in expectation of another vision to tell me that these numbers had been filled up. In memory I could still hear those words as distinctly as when I first heard them in my sleep, — "You will have to receive the grace of God as many more times as there are numbers on this slip of paper, before you can be united to me." I then thought that the union meant was with Laferri^re ; and I believed that by going to America, which was one of the greatest sacrifices I could make, 1 would hasten our marriage. It was thus that I inter- preted the vision. The steamer L' Europe was to sail on the 17th, and the Pereire two v.'eeks later. I decided at once to take the Pereire. One evening I was sitting by my window, facing the apartment which was once occupied by Madam Recamier. Over a terrace un- derneath the saloon windows, is a colossal statue of the Blessed Vir- gin. The twilight in Paris is of much longer duration than in New York, and whenever I was alone, I would always pass that hour say- ing my beads with my eyes fixed on the statue. I was always sad at that hour, and used to try to avoid passing it alone ; for if I was alone, I was sure to weep. That evening I was saying my beads, and at the same time invoking the intercession of St. Joseph, when I felt that God spoke to me, and told me not to go in the Pereire, but to take the Europe. I was as much convinced that God told me to- take the steamship Europe, as I was that he had told me that I must go to America. The next day I engaged my passage in that steamer. The moment it was known that I was to sail in the Europe, my bankers, and even the officers of the steamship company, tried to dissuade me from it, as the Europe had met with several accidents during her last trip. She had lost one of her paddles, and this was to be her last voyage. She was only going to take over a cargo of' merchandise, and was then to be repaired. Only three or four pas- sengers were going in her, because she would be at least twenty days :^ ANOTHER LETTER. crossing the ocean ; and finally, as December was one of the worst months in the year to cross the Atlantic, they all said that by all means I should take the Pereire, which was the safest and the fastest steamer of the line ; besides, Captain Duchesne and myself were great friends. I pretended to my bankers that I had a superstition about sailing on the 17th, that it was a lucky number for me, and I would risk all, and nothing could induce me to sail on the 2d ; for the twos had always brought me bad luck. That was the only reason I gave for sailing in the Europe. • , ' Laferri6re, when he heard these reports against the Europe, in- sisted that I should take the Pereire. He said that he was willing to let me have my own way in everything else ; but it seemed to him madness, on my part, to take a steamer that was pronounced unsafe by everybody, even by the officers themselves. But nothing that he could say or do could dissuade me from taking the Europe ; because I was sure that God had told me to take it. A few days after the receipt of my brother-in-law's letter, I received one from my sister. Her ' Jand had informed her of the proba- bility of my coming to New i ork, to try to dissuade her from getting a divorce. She wrote to me begging me not to come, saying that there was no need of it, since she did not intend to press the suit ; for she cared as much for her own name and her children's, as I did. for mine. That 1 piust not let her husband alarm me : she only made him think that she was going to press the suit, to frighten him into her proposals of settlement. Her letter, which I now have be- fore me, is clear and decisive. I believed her; for she reiterates several times, that she only pretends to press the suit, so as to try to influence him to agree to her proposals, or to that effect. I could not imagine that, after writing me such a letter, she was capable of acting quite in the contrary manner ; for she gives me to understand how she would shrink from any expns^ of her early history, as much on her children's account as on mine. I sincerely believed her, and felt that my departure was totally unnecessary, as far as the suit was concerned. I thought they would be able to settle it amicably be- tween themselves, if she had the foresight and delicacy that her letter expressed. But I was just as determined to go, and said nothing to iiny one about my sister's letter. I have referred so particularly to my sister's letter in order to show that I made the sacrifice through Faith alone ; for it was only the vision that deterred me from re- A FRENCH WOMAN ON DIVORCE. 429 nouncing it, after I received my sister's letter, and it was having heard a voice tell me to take the Europe, while I was saying my beads, that made me so obstinately persist in sailing in that vessel. I received letters and visits of condolence from all my friends, the moment it was known that I was going to make such a sacrifice to a sentiment of sisterly duty. The following letter I received from the Countess de Montalem- bert, just before I sailed : rmr n:h .■-.■■ ... :. ' ' ' ** Chateau de la Roche en Brunv, ) ■' . 13 December, 1868. J (Cdted'or.) " My Very Dear Friend : ** If my poor husband had not been seized with another painful at tack of sickness, you would certainly have had tidings of me. He charges me to say (for I have told him so much about you), that he, hke myself, is very much moved by the sad news of your departure for America. " I wished for some time past to write and ask you, if you went to Rome (as you talked oi doing, provided Mme. de Ferriere went), to come this way, — the place in which I live is on the road to Mar- seillcfc, — but I was so occupied in a correspondence with my husband's physicians, that I had not time, and so, alas ! the whole project failed. " I should have taken so much pleasure in receiving you, and talking with you. Truly, Fr. Gratry was right, when he said, a few days ago : ' If every one did his duty in his own sphere, the morals of the world would be perfect, and every one would be happy.' The motive of your departure, which you confided, dear Madam, to my friendly heart, has filled me with sadness ; an unhappy lawsuit between a husband and wife, and to obtain, what ?• — The absolute rupture of the sacred tie of marriage. Ah ! what a misfortune, what a scandal, what a lamentable situation for the poor children, whose father will not be any the less their father although separated, divorced from his wife. Yes, I sympathize with you with all my heart, and I admire the task you have so generously imposed upon yourself, of going in Bpite of the severity of the season, in spite of the terrible sorrow of ])lacing the ocean between yourself and your sweet little girl, to try to put a stop to this unfortunate trial. '' Wiien I used to meet in the world women who were made unhappy 430 THE PLEA OF THE CHILDREN. I'lii by their husbands, and who sought to console themselves by doing wrong in their turn, how many times, when I was young, aroent, im- passioned, have I thought : ' Yes, if they had no children, I should know how to understand such revenge, and such crimes.' Still I would think them guilty ; for our conscience tells us that we have not the right to become wicked because others are, or appear to be so. With- out children, these revenges, these shortcomings, could be under- stood, though not excused. But with children — mon Dieu 1 how could a truly maternal heart inflict upon these poor, little, weak, de- fenceless creatures such disgrace — such irreparable dishonor. " When we love, we know how to suffer everything ; yes, everything, for those we love ; a mother ought to suffer everything, rather than diminish in any way the reputation, the joy, the peace, of those who depend on her to the extent in which poor children depend on their mother, on her reputation, her sentiments, her conduct, her goodness, her love, or her hatred ! " Dear Madam, I hear the rain falling, and I think of your voyage. But God will protect you against all accidents ; for you venture to endure storms, and even shipwrecks, to protect, if you can, all these great moral and even temporal interests. For the honor of a family is a reward in this world. • ' * - . * " I will pray for you with all my soul — I did so to-day at vespers. I, who am always so sea-sick on the water, so afraid when the wind blows — I cannot tell you how I admire your sisterly devotion. I re- collect the portrait that you showed me of your sister, and which wa. so beautiful ; God could not permit so beautiful an exterior to en close a soul without tenderness for her children, and pity for her hus- band. You told me that she was travelling in Europe, and mean- while her husband had fallen sick in America. I cannot help think- ing that the world will ask, why your sister should put such a ilistance between herself and him. With us a woman would never travel alone in this way for pleasure, unless it were to alleviate griefs that she might have at home. And then, these poor little children 1 I do not know them, but you have so often told me how charming they are— how can she help thinking of them, help pitying them, when they open their eyes to what is going on between their father and mother I I know a little girl who died of grief, after witnessing the separation of her parents. She was the child of a distant relation of mine. KIND WORDS AT PARTING. 431 " May God then grant you the extreme joy of succeeding in the ad- mirable mission that you so generously attempt to fulfil. I will beg it often of Him, until you return to the charming apartments that you have arranged in the Abbaye aux Bois, where I was going to give myself a treat by visiting you in February, on my return to Paris. ~ " When I pass your gate, I shall see with a sad heart your closed windows. If you authorize me, I will go to see your dear little girl from time to time, during your absence. Mention me to the Reli- gious, so that they may know that I come by your permission. " I am so hurried that I write as fast as my pen can run. Excuse me for doing so. Allow me to embrace you with greatest tender- ness, my dear excellent friend. " M^RODE DE MONTALEMBERT." On the 1 6th of December, Laferri^re accompanied me to the train, which was to bear me to Havre, in time to take the Eiuope, which sailed early on the morning of the 17th. He advised me all the way like a fond parent, and dwelt long and particularly upon my relations with those I would meet on my arrival, and begged me not to be de- ceived by their protestations of friendship ; for many of my country- men must know the position I held in Paris, and might wish to cultivate my acquaintance, just to make use of me. He cited me a Latin verse, and was just going to translate it for me, when the train moved off. When I arrived at Brest I received the following letter from him ; and also another soon after my arrival in New York, which I will give in its proper place,, in which he gives me the translation of the I^atin which he had not time to translate for me before the train started, and wherein he also congratulates me for not having taken the Pereire : " Palace of the Tuileries, Paris, December 18, 1868. "My Dear Child, '* My thoughts are always with you, they accompany you in youi painful voyage, they follow you across the wide ocean which separates us, but which in spite of all its power cannot efface your memory from my soul, or destroy my hope of soon seeing you again. " I hid my feelings when we parted, to render the separation less painful, and to leave you the courage you will need so much in exi ecuting the difficult mission that you have imposed upon yourself. i /i:. II [i 1 ■ill 432 A LETTER WHICH IS A SERMON. *' In spite of the grief I feel, I cannot blame your determination : it raises you in my eyes, as it will in those jf all who know you. I love you too much not to be proud of your conduct ; it proves how worthy you are of my affection. ** You will undoubtedly succeed, and the consciousness of having ful- filled so great a duty will assuage your grief. ■ i i; " I regret that I cannot share your hardships and your weariness ; my advice and my experience would be of great service to you in these difficult circumstances. Still, I am convinced that you will act with wisdom. " You have become a fervent Christian, and your religion will give you strength ; it will help you to endure injustice and wrong. It has already taught you that the miseries of this world are the trials that lead the way to a better life, and that to suffer with resignation is most meritorious in the eyes of God. Be strong and patient, there- fore, my dear child ; do not give way to your first impulses ; ask your- self what I would advise under all circumstances. *' You have grown much more prudent and I'eserved, but you still have too much abandon with strangers. This is because of your excellent disposition ; you think every one sincere and true, because you are so yourself. You do not remember that men can act a part. Dear child, time and experience should have taught you that great and small, all are actors ; that every one here below wears a mask to hide their features. To distrust every one is sad, but it is better than to confide in them. '' ' " •■'.'; *' Women, generally, Avill be jealous of you ; they will try to find out your secrets in order to do you some ill turn. Men will pay homage to you, and if you give them the least hope, they will become your bitter enemies as soon as they find that they cannot possess you. All this is not encouraging : but it is better to know the danger, than to walk blindly along a way bordered with precipices. " You are warned, you are wise and strong ; so, God helping, you will escape all danger. . ^ _. ,^^ ^;, ,, y- ^;,iy;; ..-: -ju -'• " Be careful of your health, my poor child ; your body is too weak for the ardor and fire of your soul — it is a covering wearied by the strength of the passions it encloses. Try to be more calm ; it is necessary for the success of your enterprise, and indispensable for your health. When you find yourself troubled and agitated, take the * Imitation of Jesus Christ ; ' you will always find words of consolation there, which will bring peace to your soul. MODESTY, 433 ;, you "You have had, dear child, a life full of crosses, deception, and griefs : — undoubtedly you have not deserved so much misfortune. But you have never had any rule of conduct ; you have allowed your- self to be too much carried away by your passions : to-day you have some experience, but more than that you have religion, that solid foundation on which you can lean without fear. Therefore I hope that you will triumph over all difficulties. Do not forget what I have told you so many times, — that modesty is one of the surest means of success; and that it consists in speaking as Utile as possible of one^s self, and of 7vhat one has done. " In America you are all rather boastful. You love to tell of your life, your relations, your friendships ; this is a defect not known in France among well-bred people ; they have others quite as serious, but not this. " Now I have given you a great deal of good advice, dictated as you must know by my profound affection and my desire to see you per- fect. You will receive it then, dear child, with the certainty that I have only had your welfare and happiness in view. " While you are working so courageously for others, you may be sure that I will watch over your child as if she were my own. I will give her toys, bonbons, caresses ; I will try to take your place. " I hope, my dear child, that my letter will find you at Brest in tolera- ble health and in a courageous frame of mind. I do not speak of your heart ; I know it is torn, and I can give you no other consolation than to say that I pity you, and I share your sorrow. " You have grown much in my esteem ; I respect you now as well as love you. You were my good and loving child ; now you have become a strong and courageous woman, and my confidence in you is deeply rooted. I pray God to watch over and protect you, and to sustain you in your trials. Do not forget me in your prayers ; and be assured that my thoughts and my love will be ever faithful to you. " Ever yours, " Laferriere." 19 434 *' THE CAUSE OF ALL EVIL." CHAPTER LXXXV. DEJEATED BY A WOMAN, I HAVE RECOURSE TO GOD. THE PEREIRE. -ACCIDENT TO I SAILED in the French steamship L' Europe, and after a voyage of twenty days arrived at New York Jan. 5th, 1869. I took a suite of rooms at the Westminster Hotel. The first thing I heard on my arrival was that my sistei had begun to press the suit ; in fact, the papers had been served the day before 1 arrived. When my sister called to see me, her only excuse for pressing the suit was, that she had changed her mind. I up- braided her for the disgrace she was going to bring upon us all by the exposure that would be made about our past history in the trial ; but she appeared insensible to the odium that such a disclosure would naturally bring down upon her children as well as my own child. She was determined to get a divorce, and brave any» fucure humilia- tion which it might cause her. As is generally the case in such affairs, a woman was the cause of all the trouble, and, what rendered the matter more aggravating, this woman had been formerly one of my sister's servants. My sister was highly incensed against her husband, but I begged her so earnestly to defer the suit, for at least another month, to give me an oi:)portunity to try and arrange matters, that she consented. I persuaded my brother-in-law to get the woman, who was the cause of all the trouble, to call on me. I wanted to see if I could induce her to leave the country. She came, and, to my surprise, I found that she was young and good-look- ing, I might add prepossessing. I say I was surprised, because my sister hid given me quite a different description of her. She entered my pallor with a haughty air, and at first tried to treat me like an inferior, giving me to understand that she was above reproach, but that she kne-v I was far from it. She repeated to me all that my sister had told about me, not only to herself, but to other servant- girls. * While the girl was relating this to me, the thought struck me that it would be a good opportunity for me to do a good and noble action, ANOTHER SERMON BY POST. 435 and that perhaps God demanded I should do for this jjoor girl, what He had inspired a generous heart years ago to do for nie. I told her that if she would leave Brooklyn, and would go to some boarding-school, a few hundred miles from New York, I would pay her expenses ; she might remain there, until she was capable of earning her livelihood by teaching. She indignantly refused my offer, saying that she would never leave Brooklyn, until she had glutted her revenge on my sister, for affronts and insults received from her. That same evening, as I sat down before my looking-glass, to make my usual reflective summary of the day, I began calculating my chances of success in bringing about a reconciliation between my sister and her Jiusband, and I came to the conclusion that the woman was more than my match. From that moment I turned the whole case over to God, and implored Him to attend to it ; for only He was strong enough to thwart the machinations of such a woman. The moral I drew from my reflections on that day's ex- perience was : that it is a dangerous thing to offend a pretty maid, and that a wise woman will never engage one. I had not been in New York long, before I received the following letter from Laferri^re : " Palace of the Tuii.eries, Paris, Jan. Xlth, 1S69. "Mv Dear Child, "A whole month has elapsed without my receiving any news from you. I don't blame you, I only complain of the immense distance which separates us, when it would be so sweet to be united and live peacef dly together, in your pretty little corner of the Abbaye aux Bois. What a sad thing is life ! An incessant struggle against fate, a continual looking forward to a future which perhaps will never come, a disregard for the present, regrets for the past, and then at the end of all, death I Happy those who have a sincere, lively faith ; their last hour is welcome as the beginning of the end. " Even though you had found nothing in Europe but your faith, you ought to think yourself happy, for it is the sole treasure that we can keep t411 the end of life, and which gijves us strength when Death opens the doors of eternity. " I am very sad in my solitude ; you were my joy, and my yoiUh, 436 MY FRIENDS ARE EDIFIED. you flissipated my melancholy, and beside you my ill-humors were dispelled. I have no longer any one to whom 1 can open my heart. I am constantly obliged to hide my feelings under my official mask ; it is very painful, *' You, my love, are pious ; this will be your support and consolation in all your trials. Since you entered on the way of Sclvation, my affection for you has taken another character; it has become more grave and serious. 1 have a profound esteem for you now, as well as love. I am happy to see that many respected and distinguished persons profess for you the same sentiments which fill my heart, and which justify, so to say, my deep and unalterable attachment. " Every one praises and admires the resolution that you have taken. I am glad that they render you justice. All who Jcnow you speak of you with the utmost respect, and are interested in the success of your good work. I take care of your friends as if you were in Paris. I am on the best of terms with General Dix ; we often speak of you. He takes a great interest in you, and has promised me to assist you as much as is in his power. " Knowing that you had left. Madam d' A sent letter after let- ter to induce me to visit her ; but I remained firm. I sent her a tons les diables I You may be sure, dear child, that I will not take a sin- gle step which would pain you, and that I love you too much not to avoid your enemies and cherish your friends. *' You are so loving and good that one must be heartless to give you the least cause of discontent. Rely upon me as I do upon you ; I am certain that neither time nor absence can aller my affection, founded as it is upon esteem and the knowledge I have of your sentiments. Rest assured that everything that interests you will become a matter of great importance to me. You nuist know by experience that I never forget anything you ask of me j rnly I have my way of doing things, and you have yours ; you are always in a hurry, I go slowly, — but I succeed, which is the impor- tant point. "You remember that your friends, and I especially, wanted you to wait for the Pereire ; but you were impatient and not willing to lose time. Your decision was rewarded; this unfortunate vessel was obliged to return to Havre, ^nd lost several passengers. ** I have been very much put about, since your departure. I don't know which way to turn. The Rue de Sevres was my accustomed OVID WITH A TRANSLATION. 437 promenade, and I no longer know where to go. The world is odious to me. I cannot persuade myself to take part in this perpetual com- edy. 1 find it tiresome and ridiculous. My heart is so sad since you left, that everything wearies me. Towards the close, and at the be- ginning of the year, it seems to me that misery increases ; I am as- sailed by artists dying of hunger, and my purse is so empty that I can only give them words of hope, which cannot afford them much re- lief. "When I see so much suffering and am powerless to relieve it, I am lilled with a mortal sadness. I ask myself — is society well organ- ized ? Your heart is so tender towards the poor, that you will un-; derstand how the visits of these poor people pain me and sadden my thoughts. "When you were near me I could relate my impressions to you, and you inspired me with patience and courage ; you are no longer here, dear child, but I tell you my troubles from habit, instead of busying myself with your afiairs. " You have seen your sister, and you ought to know now if there is any way of bringing her to reason. I wrote a letter full of advice to you at Brest. I don't wish to annoy you by repeating, but I beg of you to be prudent and reserved, especially among Catholics. Prac- tise your religion simply, without noise, without any one's notice ; this is the true way to be a good Christian. But above all, my child, distrust yourself and your impressions : do not take impres- sions either in love or in hate. Be simple and kind with every one.* One very rarely finds disinterested friends ; the generality of people are disposed to make one pay dear for their pretended friendship. " Here are the Latin verses, which I have translated for you : Mill Donee eris felix, multos numerabis amicos ; As long as you are fortunate , you will have many friends ; Tempora sifuei-int nubila, solus eris. If bad times overtake you, you will find yourself alone. "To pass to a less serious order of ideas, — I often see your dear httle girl. The poor child charges me to tell you to come back boon, and that she will pray for the success of your voyage. " She is coming to see me Sunday, to get her bonbons and toys. You can be easy about her ; she will be just as well cared for as if you 1 438 GOOD SOCIETY. were here. Of course the best thing in the world will be wanting to her, a mother's care ; but I will watch her with the greatest solicitude. " I sent RoUin your letter from Brest ; the poor man will pass all his time in deciphering it. " All that you have recommended to me shall be scrupulously executed ; it is my only means of proving to you that I think unceas- ingly of you. " Dear child, may this new year be a calm and happy one for you ; may it reunite us and bring us cloudless days. *' Accept my most tender and affectionate remembrances, and the assurance of my unchangeable attachment. " Laferriere." Mrs. Dix and several other ladies gave me a cordial welcome. One lady, whom 1 had obliged in France, returned to Europe shortly after I arrived, and left me the use of her horses, carriages, and coachman, as a return for my kindness to her and her friends. There was a desperate effort made to prevent my being received into society ; but Mrs. Dix became my champion, and stood by me like a mother. I used to call her the Countess de Ivlontalembert of America ; as it was through her protection and influence that I was received by some of the best families in New York. Mrs. Dix was independent and could do as she liked ; for she was born a lady, and her husband had not been created by large con- tracts, or by ability to keep a hotel. She fully coincided in the opinions expressed by her husband, General Dix, in the follQwing letter to me : "Paris, December 17, i868. " Mv Dear Mrs. Eckel, ** I have received your letter informing me of your sudden depart- ure for the United States and the cause, I need not say that I deeply regret it. Your sister came to the Legation in the summer of 1867. I remember her very distinctly ; and I was most favorably im- pressed with her personal apjjearance and her conversation, as well as her lady-like manners. Nothing could be more unfortunate for her than to have her domestic relations made the subject of a public investigation ; for, admitting that she is entirely faultless in the un- happy difference between her and her husband, it will be a perpetual stain on the reputation of her children, if she succeeds in making out BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK. 439 . such a case against him as to justify a judicial decree of separation. It is far better to submit to the deepest of conjugal wrongs than to send innocent children through life with such a burden of reproach ui)on them. Even when the error is on the part of the wife, whom the world always judges more severely than the husband, it ha(l better be covered up, and the family shame averted by a (juiet sepai a- tion. If the true friends of your sister present these considerations, in such a manner as to assure her that they are actuated by a sincere interest in her welfare, and that of her children, she will not, I am sure, refuse to listen to them. "To you any public exposure would be most unfortunate, b) prejudicing your social position at court, and in the society of Paris. Divorces here are not allowed, either by the civil or the ecclesiastical law. They are a badge of dishonor, and so strong is the prejudice against them, that it extends in some degree to the other branches of a family. That a divorce in your sister's case would injure you very seriously, there is no doubt. " On her account, on that of her children, and on yours, I earnestly hope that such a calamity (I do not use too strong a term) may be averted. If she and her husband cannot live together, let them separate quietly. Life is full of changes, and time often brings troubles to an end much more satisfactorily than our own action, even when it is guided by the greatest prudence. " If there is anything which I can do for you to aid you, please advise me, and it shall be done promptly. " Very truly yours, "John A. Dix." „!! i; ' if 11 In the parlors I frequented most of the people were well bred , yet occasionally here and there could be seen some figures whose; manners and accent would betray their origin and training. In vain they tried to conceal it by gewgaws, and a feigned air of haughty re- serve. It was just as impossible to mistake one of these people for a gentleman or lady as it would be to take a genuine African for a pure Caucasian. 440 WHY DONKEYS EAT THISTLES. CHAPTER LXXXVI. MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS BEFORE THE LOOKING-GLASS. I HAD just returned from a first-class New York sociable, which ien:inded me of a field of full-blown clover interspersed with thistles. The clover, with its gracefully drooping blossoms, has an aspect of in stinctive ease and modesty, which seems to be innate in persons of good breeding, while the thistle stiffly shoots itself above the clover with that air of impertinent presumption which so readily distinguishes the upstart. Yet the blossom of the thistle and the clover have the same violet hue ; and the thistle even outvies the clover in the downy texture of its flower, which shoots itself up boldly, as though, like an aigrette of gems on the head of a haughty, ill-bred woman, it sought to attract the gaze of all. The thistle too can outdo the clover in bustle and show ; but just watch the cattle, and you will see that none but the jackasses like it and eat it. I once asked my husband why the donkeys eat thistles. " Because, darling," he replied, "they are jackasses, and they don't know any better." During the winter I passed in New York, 1869, I never went into society without thinking how many men there were in the world who resembled the jackasses in this respect. CHAPTER LXXXVII. A TRUCE BETWEEN HUSBAND AND WIFE. The parvenues of New York hated me for my success in Paris, and did their best to have me excluded from society. Fighting my way against such odds became wearisome and annoying. I tired of the excitement, and wished my enemies would attend to their own business and leave me alone. '' . . ; ■ ' ' ' r ' Not having any one to whom I could open my heart, I would com- plain to Laferri^re and would write him how, if ever I caught any of my hostile country-people on the other side of the sea, I would pay *I^SS*ik- DEMOCRACY. 441 them off for their insolence; and I would beg of him not to put his foot into an American parlor during my absence, but to sciatch off of his lists even the relatives of my new host of persecutors. At the same time, I would renew to him the sentiments of my affection for himself, which still overflowed my heart. He was a scrupulously punctual correspondent. In answer to one of my letters I received the following : — •' Palace of the Tuileries, " Paris, May 27th, 1869. •* My Dear Child, "On reading your very ardent letter, I feel what a difference there is in our ages. The misfortunes of your infancy, the griefs and deceo- tions of your youth, have not been able to cool the fire of your imag- ination ; it is an ardent flame that consumes you and destroys your poor body. I often ask how can such letters be addressed to a man of my age ; I Iflok in my glass to see how far the error can go — alas ! the faithful mirror shows me the ravages of time, and the need that I feel of calmness and repose indicates that my strength is diminishing, and that the moment of my long sleep is not far distant. " You will find the beginning of my letter very sad. It is because I have another affliction to add to those of the past ; my poor niece is dead. This poor child held no very prominent part in my life, but she was mild and good, and she loved me. I am quite overcome by this new grief j it awakens the many bitter memories that are laid up in my heart. Life is a sad thing. I don't know why we cling to it. "Be patient, resigned, and courageous, my dear, but above all, raise yourself above mere worldly motives, which have always too great an influence on your decisions. Of what importance will be the judgments of n>en at the end of life ? When the moment of eter- na. i^;pose draws near, all our plans will come to an end, everything that we leaned on will give way, and we shall acknowledge that we have worn out our bodies and fatigued our spirits in running after cin- meras. You possess elevated and Christian sentiments ; still there rests something in you which savors strongly of the American. It is easy to see that you belong to that wouM-be democratic country, where they will allow no aristocracy, but in which there is an inces- sant struggle going on between individuals, each one trying to raise himself by lowering his neighbor. This jealousy does not exist in France. Here every one who has a good reputation and a sufficient 19* ;M1 ii ^fv:*r:fc- 442 THEIR MAJESTIES AND GENERAL DIX. understanding can be admitted everywhere. We, the debris of mon- archy, are more simple, more devoid of prejudice, than the famous repubHcans of America. In France, pride and impertinence are only to be found among parvenues ; the real grands seigneurs possess a charming modesty, and do not carry their heads as high as the least of the merchants. You can prove this by the women of your acquaint- ance ; the more illustrious their birth, the greater their simplicity ; this is the great charm of the Faubourg St. Germain. Do not then trouble yourself too much about your position in America ; remember that in New York you will be estimated in proportion to the dollars you possess, rather than by any virtues you niay have. " I see scarcely any Americans since you left Paris. You were the connecting link between them and me. You may be sure that I shall not forget any of your friends ; they will always find me disposed to oblige them. I often see General Dix. I like him very much, and he is much appreciated by the Emperor and Empress." Rest assured all your friends shall be mine, and I shall consider it a happiness to oblige them, because it is a way of proving my sincere affection for you. " As to the * * * fan^ily, I have only seen them in the Champs Elys' js. I met the mother and daughter in a handsome carriage, with a fantastical coat-of-arms, surmounted by a Prince's crown. They saluted me, and I thought these noble strangers must be mis- taken ; it was only by searching diligently my memory, that I re- membered the name of Madam * * *. I inquired how it was that she could be riding in so .siristocratic a carriage, and the enigma was solved for me. The daughter was going to marry some Italian, who, like all other of his countrymen, bore the title of Prince. The pres- ents were prepared, the carriage bought, and the crown of the future Princess was placed on the panels ; but one fine day they learned that the SiciHan Prince was a Greek, who had neither fortune nor principality. The marriage was broken off, but the crown and coat- of-arms still lemain on the coach. " Your old friend Rollin is at his worst. When you receive this letter he will have ^nded his sufferings in this world. "Accept my most tender remembrances. " Laferriere." My sister withdrew her suit for divorce, and shortly afterwards r©- MY OLD HOME. 445 turned to her husband. I wrote to my friends in Paris, taking to myself all the credit of the reconciliation, which she and her lawyers both declared 1 had nothing to do with ; althdugh she has since re- proached me for my interference, and has told me that, had it not been for me, she would have succeeded in obtaining all she wished. I had prayed constantly that they might be reconciled, and in my heart I attributed the peaceful termination of their quarrel to the hand of God ; for He smote them both by the death of one of their children, a bright fair-haired boy of five summers. It was after this common heartfelt loss, that my sister consented to return to her husband. r''APTER LXXXVIII. BACK IN THE HlGr.hANDS. — AUNT HULDAH ON INFALLIBILITY. — THE MUCH-COVETED SPOT MY OWN. I WOULD have returned to France, but my physicians told me that my health was too delicate to undertake such a voyage. One evening 1 was low-spirited and dejected. I implored God to have compassion on me and to inspire me what to do, and not to abandon me. 1 prayed until after midnight, when 1 at last fell asleep. That night I dreamed that I was once more in the Highlands of Dutchess, roaming over the hills, and that my heart wa,- perfectly free and I was as happy as a child. As soon as 1 awoke I began to renew my prayer, that God would inspire me what to do ; when instantly my dream came up before m.=; like a vision, and I exclaimed : " It is there I ought to go." I had never thought of revisiting the spot ; but I instantly seized the idea as a happy inspiration sent to me by God in answer to my prayer, ani I decided at once to go. I had never heard from the place since I left it ten years before. I wrote immediately to one of my cousins, asking if it were possi- ble for me to obtain board, for a few weeks, with any one residing on the hill. That was the only spot dear to me, and the only one I ever cared to see. Shortly afterwards I received an answer to my letter saying that my uncle Horace was dead, that my aunt Mercy had moved off the -,r-a^ 444- MV BROTHER. hill, and was living down in the village — that I could obtain board with a family who lived in the little cottage near the pond. This was one of the spots I most cherished. It was the same lit- tle cottage, that I had looked upon in my childhood, and longed to possess, and the very same pond on whose brink I used to stand, and watch the waves as they seemed to whisper to me my father's name ; and it was on a ledge of rocks near that pond, that I used to sit for hours, looking at the far-off hills, whose outlines could be but dimly seen, on account of the blue haze, which always seemed to en- velop them, as it were, in a mysterious shade. I now longed again to see the beloved spot, and I replied by return of mail, appointing the day to meet me at the train. I left New York for Amenia in the latter part of June. I got off at Wassaic station, and at the moment I alighted from the train, and saw the old depot once more, I recollected that it- was just ten years since I had stood there and bade my Aunt Mercy good-by and had said to her that it would be ten years before she would ever see me again. As we pressed through the little village on our way to the hills, 1 found everything just as I had left it, and even as I had found it twenty years before, when my father brought me there a child. We stopped at Aunt Huldah's, and 1 found the old lady looking just the same, excepting that her step was not quite as quick. But her tongue was the very same : it had lost none of its vigor, She did not recognize me ; no one had told her that I was coming. The moment I made myself known to her, she stepped back, so as to take a good look at me, and then said, in a sort of exclamatory tone : " Lord sakes ! where did you get all those fine clothes from ? " Said I : " Never mind my clothes, aunty, but tell me how my brother is." " Your brother," she replied, " has gone and made a fool of himself, and thrown himself away. He has gone and got married to a Cadii.)lic girl, and she got around him and made him jine her church before she would have him, and that is just how it is." •' What," I exclaimed, " my brother a Roman Catholic ! " and I immediately recollected that this was one of the things I had asked for at the altar, immediately after I was baptized. " I am rejoiced," said I, "to hear that my brother is a Catholic ; for I am a Catholic myself." "What," she replied, "you don't mean to say that they have got around you too ? Well, I hope they will not make such a li^^. WAS NOAH A CATHOLIC? 445 fool of you as they have of him. Their meeting-house is six miles off, and your brother walks it sometimes, for his wife won't let him go to our meeting any more. Humph ! the Catholics say that God takes care of their church, and they will never come down, for God will never let them. Well, He did net prevent them all going under once." " When was that ? " 1 asked. " If you ever read your Bible you would know," answe'-ed Aunt Huldah ; "at the time of Noah's ark. Noah and his family were the only ones that were saved, and they were not Catholics." I burst out laughing, and said: "There were no Catholics then, aunty ; if there had been, Noah would have been one." " Don't think," she replied, " that you are coming back here to teach me Scripture, for I read it before you were born." Said I : " Let us talk about some- thing else. I have come here to stay a few \\eeks. I am rich." At that she opened her eyes, and asked me to sit down. [ continued : " I expect the people around here will tear me to pieces. But I have come back to see the country, and not the folks, and 1 hope you will not join in with the rest." Said she : " I will stand by you ; for I like people who know how to get along in the world. But tell me where you got your money from. We saw in the papers that you went to court, and that you had on diamonds and pearls ; and they all say around here that the Emperor gave them to you ; how did you manage to get in with such a big man ? " "Those are all lies," said 1 : " I made my money by speculating ; but just because I am a woman, people are envious of my success, and they will not give me credit for knowing more than themselves. But you know how it is with the St. Johns, they are all enter- prising." " Yes," she replied, " all but your father ; and I always thought that you would make another spendthrift, just like him, and give your last cent away to the first trooper that came along. Well, now, if you have got money, keep it, and don't go to fooling it away. " I always said that you were a St. John, and you have proved it by your smartness." " Don't you think I look like them ? " I asked. " Well, I kinder think you do, but anybody can see that you have been steady, fo vou look as young as you ever did." I returned her i'"»'.- compliment, and after making her reiterate her promise to defend me, whenever she heard me abused, i jumped into the wagon, and we drove towards the hills. The monjent that I got ^M,f-->: 446 A RETROSPECT OF BETSY DOT. a sight of the old big hill, was one of the happiest moments that I had known for years, and the pure fresh air, that I inhaled, seemed to in- fuse into me a new life. We passed my uncle's cottage, which was now occupied by strangers. I threw it a hasty glance, but had no desire to go in. Betsy Dot was sitting with her back towards the window : she was at her loom, in the same position in which 1 had left her ten years before. We then passed the spring, and when just a little beyond it, my eyes happened to fall on a little thick white marble stone, about six inches square, which was planted in the earth, by the side of the road ; and on its top were cut out two letters — N. Y. Thought I to myself: "This is something new;" and I began to wonder if they had buried a dog there, and had given him a monument. The thought had hardly occurred to me, when the man said : " Now we are across the liner "What does that mean?" said I. "Why," said he, " have you been in France so long that you have forgotten your English? 'Across the Hne' means, that we are out of York State into Connecticut." I never knew before that the whole coun- try did not He in " York " State. We had not yet reached the cottage, when I missed the large chestnut-tree, under which I sat the day that I was on my way to the shoemaker's, the afternoon that my aunt refused to let me come into the house, unless I would consent to be whipped. The tree had been cut down even with the fence, and formed a part of it. The trees had grown up around the little cottage, and gave it an air of modest reserve which lent it an additional charm. The moment I entered, my whole soul was filled with those same buoyant feelings that I had felt in my youth, and I raised my heart to God, and thanked him for having inspired me to come and visit this j:)lacs again. The same evening that I arrived, I drove down to the village to see my Aunt Mercy. She did not recognize me, and was very much moved when I pronounced my name. She was in ill health. I remained with her but a few moments, and left her, prom- ising to return and see her again in a few days. 1 wrote to Laferriere that 1 was once more among my beloved hills, that I was hourly gaining strength, but that I doubted whether 1 would be well enough to return to France before the Fall. I gave him a description of the state of my health, and requested him show it to Dr. Bouilleau, in Paris, and to telegraph me his prescrip- I BUY THE LITTLE COTTAGE. 447 tion, and I said I would telegrapli him back its effect. I thought that with tlie country air and proper treatment, I would soon be able to return. Ever since I had come to the cottage, as soon as I left my room, 1 would go and stand on the top of the trunk of the old chestnut tree, and would converse with God, the same as 1 used to do in my little bed-room in the Ad', aye aiix Bois ; and I never came down from it, without exclaiming ; " O Lord, may I triumph over my enemies, as much higher as I now stand above the trunk of this tree, or as much higher as this tree formerly stood above me ! " One morning as I was standing on its trunk, I began thinking about the troubles in Paris, and thought how nice it would be to fly to such a spot as this, if there was ever another reign of terror in France. The more I thought it over, the more probable it appeared to me that it might really come to pass, and I wished that I owned the place, so as to be prepared for such an emergency. The very thought of flying there, and hiding myself with Laferriere in those wild woods, ai)peared to me like a vision of terrestrial bliss. These thoughts rushed through my mind quicker than I can re- late them, and, last of all, came the recollection of the time that I sat under the old tree, when I was a penniless child, and how I had coveted the possession of such a home as that little white cottage. As soon as that recollection came back, I ran into -the house and asked the man how much he would take for his farm. He told me his price, and I at once agreed to purchase it. The moment I bought the place, I began to feel that my mission to America was ended, and that it was in order to buy that spot of ground that God had inspired me to return to the United States. A few days after the papers were signed, I received the following letter from Laferridre : "Chateau de Fl^ch^res. "My Dear Child, " I have just arrived at Fldchdres from the Conseil General. I shall leaive for Paris to-morrow. I take advantage of my few moments of rest at home to write to you. " I congratulate you heartily on the success of your mission : you have obtaiw.id an unlooked for result, you have done a good and no« ble action, and the gratification that you must feel on account of it, . as ; .1 448 FRENCH MEN, AMERICAN WOMEN. m will repay for the pain, the fatigue, and the trouble you liave en- dured. " As to your sister, far from loving you for the service }'ou have rendered her, she will detest you the more. But what does it matter? You did not expect any good from her : there is nothing to be looked for but deception on her part. You were animated by religious and noble motives, you were thinking of the future of the children, the innocent victims of their parents' disputes, — you have pre- vented the rupture of the family ties, your task is fulfilled ; God and all honest men will be pleased with it, that is the essential thing ; you have the consciousness of having acted well, and this interior satisfaction is a reward superior to all other. " Now that your difficult mission is ended, and the season renders the sea more calm, I await with inipatience the announcement of your return. " You need not trouble yourself about Mesdames . I do not see them. I have struck otf all the Americans from my list, ex- cept those you recommended to me. As for the others of your com- patriots, I have no intercourse with them, for two reasons : the first is, they would not amuse me ; the second, which is more serious, is because you are sure to meet at their houses Frenchmen who come from no one knows where, and who are taken to be t/es grands seig- neurs. You know I am the most modest of men, — I do not ask a title of nobility -for every one, — but I do ask honorable antecedents for all. The greater part of the elegants, who are admitted to intimacy among your fair countrywomen, are sharpers whom an honest man cannot and ought not to know. "But I find the American ladies very ill-informed, and if you speak to them on any subject but love, they don't know what they are talk- ing about. I would get my eyes scratched out for this opinion if I ever set foot on the soil of the new world. " I congratulate you on being among the beautiful and wild moun- tains, which recall the impressions of your infancy. We return will- ingly to recollections of that time of ignorance and innocence ; we recall with joy the thousand nothings of our first years ; it makes us smile to think of the tears we shed for so little cause. The trou- bles of that time appear very small compared to the hardships of life ; and we draw this conclusion, that the saddest things, viewed at a certain distai ce, fade away, and become almost indifferent. There- AUNT MERCY. 449 fore we must never yield to the extreme of despair ; for it, like every- thing else, yields to time. " You must positively send me your country address, — for where shall I send a telegram from Dr. liouilleau, if I consult him ? It seems to me a very singular idea, very American, to be treated by cable. If you insist upon it, I must satisfy you, spoilt child ; but I have kept the letter intended for the Doctor, until I hear more from you ; so I beg you to reply to my request. " I send you my love, dear child, my most affectionate remem- brances, and the assurance of my faithful and tender friendship. *' Ever yours, " LAFERRlfeRE." This letter amused me, for I had nearly forgotten all about my sister and her suit, which everybody in France believed had i nduced me to come to America. My head was now full of nothing but my farm. The more I thought of it, the more convinced I became that God had brought me to New York to purchase that little spot of earth, and that He had destined it for me, since the day that I .had sat before the cottage and wished that I had just such a home to my self. CHAPTER LXXXIX. RESTITUTION AND RETRIBUTION. After the first day I arrived I never went to see Aunt Mercy ; so many things were repeated to me which Aunt Mercy had said against me, that I never cared to call on her. Among other things, when she heard that I had paid Betsy Dot five dollars for bewitching her loom, Aunt Mercy declared that if I gave Betsy a thousand dollars it would never pay her for all the sighs and tears that I had caused her to heave and shed. When this remark was repeated to me I protested that Aunt Mercy placed too high a value on Betsy's sighs and tears. " For," said I, " I'll bet that she will take twenty-five cents for them, and consider her- self well i)aid at that." So the next day the man with whose family I boarded went with me to see Mrs. Dot, and we found her in the loom. I read to her a paper I had brought with me and told her that, mil fii •^'"fe ! : 450 A RECEIPT IN FULL. if she would sign it, I would give her twenty-five ce its. She readilj agreed to do so. The paper ran thus : — "Received from Mrs. L. St. John Eckel twenty-five cents in full payment for all the sighs and tears that she has ever caused me to heave or shed." She signed it, the man endorsed it, and I gave the paper to his wife, to show Aunt Mercy that she placed a much higher value on Betsy Dot's sighs and tears than Betsy Dot did herself. But a very little while after my uncle Horace's death, Aunt Mercy ■lad been married to a man, who had no religious convictions. I was told that my aunt had confided to some of her friends that she suffered intensely around the heart, and it was all caused by trouble ; that she was jealous "of her husband, and that no tongue could tell how wretched at times she was and how her heart pained her. Every- body knew, however, that her present husband was kind and devoted to her ; yet, notwithstanding all that, she was jealous of him, and that jealousy made her miserable. When this was told to me, I looked upon it as retribution, that God had permitted that feeling to be excited in her bosom, as a punish- ment for all the sorrow she had given my husband ; for few were the happy days he ever knew, from the hour she awakened the demon of jealousy in his breast. CHAPTER XC. THE SACRIFICE. I SAILED for France in the latter part of September. When I arrived in Paris, I found it almost deserted. Laferriere was at his chateau. Rollin and other friends whom I had left in good health were dead. I became low spirited ; and for the first two weeks I passed nearly all my time at St. Genevieve's altar, or at our Lady of Victoires. Notre Dame des Victoires is situated in the vicinity of the theatres and opera houses. There are evening services in that church evei ♦. night in the year. It was seldom that I ever arrived at the opera ot the theatre until after nine o'clock ; for I almost invariably attended the services at Notre Dame des Victoires first. I would leave my opera cloak in the carriage, and put on a large waterproof, with a hood, which I would throw over my head. Thus my hair, which was usually sparkling with gems, my bare neck and MIM OUR LADY OF VICTORIES. 451 white dress, were entirely concealed, and I would pass among the crowd unobserved. About ten days after my arrival in Paris, Laferri^re returned f'om his chateau. He yas overjoyed to see me, and showered upon me every attention and kindness ; but nothing that he could do for me could make me happy. The only consolation, the only real hapi)iness 1 found, even then, was in ])rayer. I was always sad when I thought of him, — was sadder too when I was with him, — and the bounties that he bestowed upon me made me miserable, because I loved him every day more and more. One evening, as I was praying before the altar of our Lady of Vic- tories, I had made a firm resolve to live a more perfect life. My heart was wrung with repentance ; and, after making a solemn proni- ise to God that I would try and sin no more, 1 rose and went into the first confessional I came to, and made a humble sincere confes- sion of all my sins. I told the priest of my deep remorse, and my firm resolve to lead a more perfect life, no matter if I should be driven to despair ; for my excuse was, whenever I did wrong, that I was led into it by the anguish of a disappointed affection. After I had made my confession, the priest gave me his blessing, and told me to come back again. This drove me nearly wild. I went home, and was so ill that 1 was obliged to keep my bed. Laferriere implored me not' to conceal from him what it was that preyed so much upon my mind ; but I did not like to tell him that a priest had refused me absolution. One evening, just to change the conversation, I told him that 1 had purchased a little home among the beloved hills where I passed my childhood. If I had announced to him my future hus- band, be could not have been more surprised. " Then," said he, "you intend to leave me, and abandon me for those woodlands that you are always raving about." " Oh," I replied, " I intend one day that you and I shall go and live there together." Said he : " I am almost inclined to think that you have lost your mind." '* But," said I, " if there is a revolution, and the Emperor is dethroned, and the whole of you are exih d, how sweet it would be to fly with you there ! " "Ah," he answered, '■^ pauvre Empereur ! do you think that I would ever abandon him ? His fortune is my fortune. If ever, for the misfortune of France and the world, he should fall before a revo- ution, I would fall with him. My destiny is linked with his ; the ser- vant of his happy days will be his devoted servant still in the days of 1t* - ( ^'^1^( 452 I WILL, LORD. misfortune. It is not then that I would abandon him. Would you abandon me in the hour of adversity? " My answer was a flood of tears, which spoke the devotedness of my heart. "Well," he continued, "no sooner would I abandon him, than you would me. But why should you have bought a home in America ? You certainly intend to go there to live." " Oh," said I, " 1 bought it under an inspiration. I cannot tell why I bought it ; but I felt that I was doing right. I cannot divest myself of the idea that we will one day live there together." He left me that evening feeling so sad that he could hardly restrain his tears when he bade me good-night. The next day I grew more despondent, and each succeeding day only increased my de- pression. At the end of the week I rose from my bed, and drove to our Lady of Victories, This time the priest gave me absolution : but he refused to let me receive holy communion, and told me to come again in another week. I wept and implored him to have mercy on me, told him how ill 1 was, and that he was killing me ; but he remained inexorable. The next morning I had a raging fever. Laferri^re came. He had seen my physician, who told him that it was nothing but grief that made me so ill. He did nothing but scold me, for being so sad and discontented when I had everything to make me happy. All that he said only served to exasperate me and make me worse. I prayed constantly that God would inspire me what to do in order to bring peace again to my soul. One evening I was kneeling in my bed, making that same request, and continued repeating it for hours. The clock struck one. I threw myself back on my pillow, and tried to sleep ; but I was seized again with such feelings of despair, that I instantly arose, and kneel- ing again in my bed, I recommenced praying and imploring God, more fervently than ever, to have mercy on me. At last I exclaimed : " O beloved Jesus, have mercy on me, and inspire me what to do, that I may be happy once more." I repeated those same words aloud twice, and as I was about to utter them for the third time, I heard a voire within me distinctly say: "Give nj. Laferri^re." I instantly replied : "I will. Lord ;" — and immediatelj my soul was calmed, and I experienced that same joy, and that same peace, which I had felt at the moment of my conversion. I was sure that God had spoken to me, and told me to give up Laferridre. I KEEP MY WORD. 453 I instantly got out of bed, lit the lamp, took my writing materials and wrote until morning. 1 made a brief sketch of my acquaintance with LaferritJre, and how wretched I had been, since he had told me that I could not be his wife, while his daughter lived ; that I had never known a really happy hour since. After writing a long letter, in a cool, determined, deliber- ate style, I forbade him ever coming to see me again unless 1 wrote to him to come. I knew that God had spoken to me, and that He had told me to give him up. I instantly consented, for I thought that He meant that I was to give him up only for a while, and I believed that, if I obeyed God, He would finally unite us before His altar. I could not imagine any other happiness on earth than to be wedded to Laferri^re. I^aferri^re wrote me a kind and affectionate letter in reply, attribut- ing all that I had written to him to a state of nervous excitement. He ho[)ed that his few words would find me peaceful and calm, and that I would send a message by the bearer of this note appointing an hour for him to call. There was a great struggle then between nature and the fear of God. But 1 dared not disobey the voice that 1 had heard speak with- in me that night \ for I firmly believed that it was the voice of God, and I feared to disobey it. lest God would never permit me to marry Laferridre. I believed that of myself I could do nothing, but that the destiny of all mankind was in His hands. Thus I succeeded in over- coming nature, and 1 answered Laferriere's letter, telling him that I was fully resolved not to see him ; and I begged him not to call at the abbey, for I would not receive him. No sooner had his messenger left than x shed a flood of tears. Yet I did not regret what 1 had written : I only deplored that I was forced t<: do it. I knew I had done right, for my conscience ap- proved ol my action ; but I was miserable that God should exact of me such a sacrifice., before he would let me reach the goal of earthly happiness. In a few days I was well enough to leave my room, and I repaired to our Lady of Victories. The priest still refused to let me receive holy communion, and told me to return again in another week. This was too much for my feeble condition to bear, and I nearly fainted in the confessional. For an instant all my strength failed me. He closed the grating of the confessional, and heard a confes- IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) W ■^1 ^ /. {./ :/- [/ <^ ^fi ^ iP 1.0 25 I.I M nil 2.0 12.2 1.8 1-25 1.4 111.6 . ^-. 6" ► m. /2 A ^a :^.^v ^^ O 7 /A Sdences Corporation 33 WtST MAIN STRHT WnSTIR.N.Y. 14580 (716) 172-4503 .<^ ^ Vj 454 OBEDIENCE AND SACRIFICE. sion on the other side ; then opening on the side where I was, he became extremely abusive, when he found that I was still kneeling there ; for he thought that I remained from obstinacy. When I tried to assure him that I had not the strength to leave, that he had nearly killed me by refusing me this time, he roughly replied that he did not wish .to see any such affectation in the confessional ; that he doubted my sincerity, for if I was as anxious to do right as I pretended to be, God would give me the strength to obey ; that my obedience would be as acceptable to God as if I received Holy Connnunion ; " But so long as I see you hesitate to be obe- dient," said he, "just so long will I doubt that you are worthy of receiving Holy Communion." I instantly rose and left the church. ? When 1 reached the Abbey, I found LaferriSre's valet waitin^^'br me with a note, in which he begged me to name an hour for him to call. I wrote on the back of the envelope "iV^f^r," and told the valet to take it to his master. CHAPTER XCI. MONTESQUIEU AND THE JESUITS. The next morning the Count de Clesieux called on me. He had not seen nie since i returned, and was struck with the great change in me. The (l^ount was a fervent Catholic. He had founded an agricultural school at St. llan, Brittany, where he support^ ' several hundred orphan hoys at his own expense or through his own ex- crtions. I told him that I had broken off with LaferriSre, and he congratulated me with all his heart. I then i-^ld him the reason I was so sad, because a priest refused to let me receive Holy Communion ; and I related to him the whole affair, except the cub- stance of my first confession. He was indignant at the severity of the priest, and begged me never to return to him again, but to let him introduce me to his director, Father Bazin, a Jesuit, who lived a few doors from the Abbaye aux Bois. A JESUrr CONFESSOR. 455 I told him frankly that I never wanted to have anything to do with the Jesuits, that I had heard enough about them, and 1 never forgot a maxim 1 learned once in Montesquieu. " What," he asked, " did that blabber say that could prejudice you against one of the bet societies that ever existed for the propagation of the Faith ?" *' That may be," said I ; "but I like to be let alone ; and it appears iiat the Jesuits are bad fellows to get into a quarrel with, for there is no escaping them." " People who do right have nothing to fear from the Jesuits," he replied ; " but they are a terrible power against evil-doers." " I don't consider myself a piece of perfection," said I, "and I think it is safest for me to keep away from them." " Well," he said, " let me hear Montesquieu's maxim. I remember having read some of his false sayings in which there was neither rhyme nor reason ; but I don't recollect any where he refers particularly to the Jesuits." " Here is what he says," I replied : " ' 1 am afraid of the Jesuits. If I offend a nobleman, he will forget me, I will forget him. I can go into another province, into another kingdom. But if I offend the Jesuits at Rome, I am sure to meet them at Paris. I am surrounded by them wherever I go. Their incessant correspondence with one another keeps alive their enmities.' " " I would pay no more attention," answered the Count, " to what Montesquieu might say about religion or its propagators, than I would to the braying of an ass ; for an ass understands the Jesuits and the Christian tenets just about as well as a skeptic, who only ad- mits the immortality of the soul just because it happens to suit his humors and self-conceit, to believe himself immortal like God, — anci such was the illustrious writer Montesquieu." After much persuasion I promised him that I would permit him to introduce Father Bazin to me. The day following I went to Father Bazin and made my confession, and he gave me permission to receive Holy Communion. Father Bazin was an elderly priest, most high-bred and agreeable ; but from the fact of his being a Jesuit, I was suspicious of him, and told him so, — which only made him laugh. He told me I ought to read the life of Father de Ravignan. Said I, "Was he a Jesuit ? " " Yes," he replied, " and a very holy one." " I'll wager," said I, " that a Jesuit wrote his life too." " That is veiy true," he replied. " Well," I said, " if I wanted to find out the tnith about m 456 ST. AUGUSTINE S CONFESSIONS. your people, I would never read the life of a Jesuit written by a Jesuit," I received the congratulations of all my friends in the Faubourg for having given up Laferridre. He sent his valet as usual every morning to receive my orders. He entreated me to receive him ; cut I was inflexible. I concealed all the pain and suffering of my heart even from Father Bazin, to whom I now went logularly to confession. I also went regularly to receive instructions from the Ladies of the Retreat, to whom I became every day more and more attached. I kept myself constantly employed, and began to study Latin, the same as 1 would have taken a narcotic to lull my senses to sleep, in order to forget Laferridre. I made everybody my teacher. Father Bazin, Mme. de la Chapelle, and every gentleman who called on me, I would require to teach me something in Latin. Father Bazin told me to get St. Augustine's confessions to read. I deferred getting them, supposing it was some stupid pious book, being the confessions of a saint. Every time he saw me, he asked me if I had got them. : • ' ^ . One day, as I was passing through the quartier Latin, on my way to the Pantheon, to satisfy the Father, I bought the book, brought it home with me, and it lay several days on my table untouched. The Marquise de Ferri^re le ""^ayer saw it lying there. She took it up, and said : " I don't think that you ought to read this book : you are too young." I replied : *' My director told me to read it." "Then," said she, " you are right ; for you should alv/ays do what he tells you. But who is your director ? " — and she gave me a quizzical glance, as though she suspected that it would be difficult for me to name a par- ticular one, out of the many I went to. But I answered very gravely : ♦' He is a Jesuit, and a very holy man at that." She replied : " They are all holy men, and I fini glad that you have put yourself under their guidance. Of course if he told you to read it, you ought to read it." "Well," I answered, ^' he certainly did." I could see, by the way she emphasized //, that she doubted that he had told me to do any such thing. As soon as this lady left, my curiosity was excited to see what there was in the book, that she thought I was not oldenough to read; and I began at once to make a habit of reading a few chapters of it every night before going to bed. •■ :1 A WRETCHED TRIUMPH. 45; CHAPTER XCII. INCONSISTENCY OF THE HEART. — I SEEK GOD'S WILL IN HIS WORD. I BEGAN to loathe what the world calls society, and would only fre- quent those houses where, had I not gone, 1 was afraid the world would think that I was not invited. I became less fastidious about my dress, and instead of appearing always in a new costume, I would say to our Lord : " I will wear the old dress, and give the price of a new one to the poor, for Thy sa"ke." Whenever I made that sacrifice, I was sure to pass a happy evening. One evening I returned from one of the Empress's private balls. That night I refused Laferri^re's arm when he offered to take me into the supper-room. I did it from pride, just to show others that I was determined not to encourage him to think that 1 cared anything for him. It wounded him. I was rejoiced at the moment ; for I felt that I wanted him too to know what it was to sufter, forgetting that his heart had been in mourning for years. I was rejoiced to see the expression of interior agony that passed over his countenance, and which he vainly tried to conceal. A few moments afterwards he spoke to me, and remarked how well I was looking. I was flushed with excitement, and rejoiced that I had, at last, made his heart feel, for an instant, what mine had suffered for so long a time. He observed that my health appeared to be entirely restored. I told him that I was perfectly well, and began talking to him in the most recklessly giddy style, telling him how happy I was, how I was enjoying myself; and I named over the list of my new acquaintances, taking pains to single out those who were as influential as himself. 7. saw how every word I uttered wounded him ; yet I delighted in it, at the same moment that I could have laid down my life for him. So inconsistent is the heart, when filled with pride, human attachment and disappointed love. The moment I entered my room, I broke out into a hysterical laugh. I felt that for once, at least, I was gratified. I knew that he was wretched, and, in his misery, I seemed to find satisfaction for all the humiliations that his delaying our marriage had heaped upon me, 2C I i 1; 458 RECOLLECTIONS OF PROPHECY. My soul gloated over its revenge. I tried to convince myself that I had done well. Even when I knelt down to pray, I endeavored to iraw some resp>onse from God, some consolation to justify me for the way in which I had acted. My spirits were elated ; but my heart soon became true to itself again, and I was troubled in spite of the efforts 1 made to deceive myself with the thought that I was happy. Morn ing dawned before I fell asleep. The following night I was reading St. Augustine's confessions at the place where he speaks , of his return to faith. After I finishe .1 reading I began to review the past, to see if I could draw any con- clusion from it, that I should one day be Laferrifire's wife. I thought of the many difterent fortune-tellers who had all predicted that I would marry him. Even the famous Edmond had told me so. But the last fortune-teller I had consulted, had told me that I would not marry him. That night I felt inclined to give her credence over the rest. It was true that, on the night of the day that I was baptized, I was sure that our Lord had come to me in my sleep, and had told me that, after I had received His graces as many more times as there were numbers on the piece of paper which was shown to me, I would be united to //////. ]5ut I also recollected that, on the night that Lafer- ridre told me that our marriage must be deferred until after his daugh- ter's death, I had as plainly seen written on a scroll, in my dream, " You will 7iever marry I^aferridre." This dream and the prediction of the last fortune-teller were up- permost in my mind, and my heart became deathly sad. I began to feel that there was no use of hoping against hope, and I would say to myself: "What is the use of all this sacrifice, if I am never to marry him ? " In my agony, I exclaimed ; " O God, why didsi Thou create me, and why dost Thou delight in torturing me ? " And I began to im- plore God to sjjeak to me, and to give me hope, or to let me die, for I was weary of such a life. I reproached Him for being kinder to St. Augustine than He was to me. I did not believe that I had ever been worse than St. Augus- tine : besides, He had given St. Augustine a good mother. At last I exclaimed v/ith indignation : " Just look at the kind of a mother you gave me ! How could you have ever expected me to become a Christian ? The least you can do is to let me marry Laferridre. CONSULTING THE BIBLE. 459 Yes," I continued, "how good you were to St. Augustine, to speak to him in the Bible." I then recollected the time that I had opened the two Bibles, in Brooklyn, before the birth of my child ; and I fairly screamed at the very recollection of the dreadful words I had found there. / ] had never read but one chapter in the Bible since. I took out the Bible and began to kiss it, and talk to it, and implore it to tell mc the truth, and give me hope, and to let me know if the old for- tune-teller and the dream spoke the truth or not, when they told me that I was never to marry Laferrifire. - ^ ^ - ' Then raising my heart to God, with my eyes fixed on a painting of the " EccE Homo," I opened the book, and my eyes instantly fell on these words of Jeremiah : (Chap, xxix.) " 8 For thus saith the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel ; Let not your prophets and your diviners, that be in the midst of you, deceive you, neither hearken to your dreams which ye cause to be dreamed. " 9 For they prophesy falsely unto you in my name : I have not sent them, sai(:h the Lord. i..^- ,^v " lo P'or thus saith the Lord, That after seventy years be accom- plished at Babylon I will visit you, and perform my good word toward you, in causing you to return to this place. " II For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. " 12 Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. ••13 And ye shall seek me,*and find me, when ye shall searcli for me with all your heart. •* 14 And I will be found of you, saith the Lord : and I will turn away your captivity, and I will gather you from all the nations, and from all the places whither I have driven you, saith the Lord ; and I will bring you again into the place whence I caused you to be carried away captive." 1 had no sooner finished reading those verses of Jeremiah than my whole soul was filled with peace, hope, and joy. I interpreted them in this manner : that the fortune-teller had told me a w. and that the dream came from the Devil. As Paris is called the modern Babylon, and as it was then the beginning of the year 1870, 1 was sure that oui Lord promised me that the next year I should be happy. I could not 4^ MY DIRECTOR DISAPPROVES. 11 then give a meaning to the 14th verse, as I could not imagine that there could exist any other happiness for me, than that of being wedded , to the man I loved. I felt sure that in a year, all my troubles would be at an end. ' .'.'?'•: . ■- .; . I soon fell asleep, and awoke the next morning as happy and as refreshed as though I had not been shedding a single tear. As soon as I rose, I went to see Father Bazin, and told him how miserable I had been, but how happy I was now ; and I related to him that all my joy came from having opened the Bible, and having read certain words therein. '^ ' .- ■• rr- ' ;' " My child," replied the Father, " that is all wrong : you must never do such things as that. It is presumption and superstition. Suppos- ing you had happened to open at something that was just the reverse ; instead of being peaceful and happy, you would have come to me with your heart wrung with despair. You niv-jt never do that again." Said I : ** I don't care what you may think or say about it, father; but God spoke to me then, and I know it." The good father tried in vain to convince me that I was wrong. ' :!-]'> From the time I had opened at those words in the Bible, for weeks and weeks afterwards, I would read them over regularly, two or three times a day. In them I now found all my hopes of happiness. Nothing troubled me. I was firm in the belief that God had spoken to me, and that He had promised to give me peace. I was passing the time as best I could, waiting for the year 1870 to roll round, at the end of which I believed the time was fixed for the consumma- tion of all my hopes. ^ ' CHAPTER XCin. DEATH OF THE COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. — MY FIRST "RETREAT." — A SUPERNATURAL COMMAND. March came, and my director and some ladies in the Faubourg tried to ^-ersuade me to make a retreat, which was to be given in the Chapel of the Ladies of the Retreat, by Rev. Father Ducoudray Superior of the Jesuits in the Rue de la Poste. I hesitated about going ; but one morning, at Mass, I determined to g?ve a whole week entirely to God. SACRED DEATH. 4^1 On Sunday morning, the 13th of March, the Count de Montalem l)ert breathed his last. I went to see Mnie. de la Chapelle, to ex- press my regrets for not being able to attend the retreat ; for I wanted to be at the de Montalemberts'. She replied that that need not interfere with my retreat ; that I could come to the instructions, and then go and make my meditations in his death-chamber. I could not choose a more fitting place. Monday morning, after the instruction, I called at the de Monta- lemberts'. There was a constant flow of callers ; yet none but the clergy were permitted to go in. The others left their cards. I bribed the portress, and she allowed me to go up by the ser- vants' staircase. Never can I forget the impression that the solemnity which reigned in that room, where the body of the great Christian orator lay, made on my mind, as I approached his corpse, and knelt beside it. The Count de Montalembert was beautiful, as he lay there in death. His countenance bore an expression of manly virtue, and of true nobility. At his feet lay a cross of Parma violets, in the centre of which was arranged, with white flowers, the initial of his last name. The whole room was impregnated with the odor of the violets, which stole upon the senses like incense lighted by friendship's hand around a hallowed bier. 1 never prayed as fervently as I prayed there ; and my constant prayer was : " Lord, have mercy on his soul and mine. Inspire me, beloved Jesus, what to do. May I do a great deal of good before I die ; and may I make Thee and Thy Church beloved ! " I did nothing but repeat that prayer, and it seemed as though my soul could pour forth no other. Madeleine, the daughter of the deceased count, knelt silently at tl\e bed-side. As she rose to leave she saw me, and threw her arms around me. We tenderly embraced, and then kneeling down together, our arms entwined around each other, she wept, while I continued to pray, ever repeating the same prayer. Tuesday morning I went there again, and also in the afternoon. It was but a repetition of the day before, only new faces ; yet none but the clergy entered the room. I offered up the same prayer. Wednesday I attended his funeral, and made my meditation there. Thursday was the 17th, and my birth-day. I went to see Madam de Montalembert, during the interval of the instructions. Friday 1 462 AN INSPIRATION. remained the whole day at the retreat. Sa urday morning, which was the feast of St. Joseph, I prayed with greater fervor and faith, and implored St. Joseph to intercede for me, that God would inspire me what to do. , I. . Just before I rose to go to receive Holy Communion, my heart began to burn. I could not remember ever having experienced such peace and joy. As soon as I had received Communion, as I was about to rise from the altar, I cried out, from the innermost depths of my soul : " O beloved Saviour, do not refuse to answer my prayer. St. Joseph, pray for me that God will inspire me what to do." Instantly I heard a voice clearly say : "Go home and work for God." I replied, " I will." I went back to my seat : and my whole bosom was aglow, and I cOuld have swooned away with delight. I at once began to make preparations in my mind to leave, and resolved to reduce my expenses, that I might have more money to employ in God's service, when I reached America. v." i.- . That day we finished the Retreat at St. Genevieve's tomb, in the church of St. Etienne du Mont (St. Stephen of the Mount), which is situated near the Pantheon. While I was there I could think of nothing but returning to America ; and it was there that the thought occurred to me, that I would build a little church among my much-beloved hills. I had no sooner decided upon it, than it seemed as though God Himself sanctioned it : I was perfectly at peace and at rest. I felt that that was the work God required of me, and all the way going home I kept mentally exclaiming ; '* I will go to America, and will build Thee a church ; and then I know that those numbers will be filled up, and that Thou wilt bring me back again to France, and let me marry Laferri^re." My friends, and even my new director, Father Bazin, tried to dis- suade me from leaving; and when I persisted in my resolution, they said I was crazy. I wrote to Laferridre. He replied that he would not try to deter me from my resolution, but begged of me to consider it, at least two months, before I engaged ray passage, or made any alterations in my apartments. On the i6th of May, the two months had nearly expired, and I was more sanguine than ever, that God had called me to go to America, and build Him a church. MR. DE CORCELLES. 463 I was kneeling at the altar of Our Lady of Victories. , ,? n,-,',, While I was invoking the prayers of the Madonna, the idea occurred to me, like an inspiration, that, before I left Paris, I ought to make use of the influence I had among prominent Catholics in France, to secure the protection and co-operation of the Archbishop of New York. While 1 was invoking the prayers of the Blessed Virgin, the thought flashed through my mind what the course was that I ought to pursue. It was this : to get Monsieur de Corcelles to write to Archbishop McCloskey for me, and ask his permission ; for Monsieur de Corcelles had been sent to Rome twice, as Minister Plenipotentiary of France, once under Louis Philippe, and again under the French Republic. I had reason to believe that Monsieur de Corcelles was on terms of intimate friendship with the Pope, as the Holy Father had requested him, in an autograph letter, to investigate the state of the Papal finan- ces, for the use of the members of the Vatican Council, which was then in session. When I returned to the abbey 1 found Monsieur de Corcelles wait- ing for me. He had just seen his publisher, and had in his hand a printed copy of his report, which he handed to me ; and I read such portions of it as he pointed out. After I had finished reading I handed back the pamphlet, with the remark that 1 was glad my finances were not in such a state as the Pope's were. That made de Corcelles laugh, and I instantly took advantage of his good humor to add : '* I am glad that you are in a cheerful mood. I believe God sent you to me, for I was just going down to your house." " I want you," said I, *' to write to the Archbishop of New York, who is now in Rome, and tell him that I am an intimate friend of your family ; that I was introduced to you by your cousin, Madam de Montalembert ; that I am intimate with the Czartoryskis ; and that 1 am greatly esteemed by you all for my piety and benevolence. And then you will say to him, that I am going home to the United States, to build a church in Amenia Union, Dutchess county. New York, and, if possible, a school-house for Irish children. Be sure to put in Irish children ; for he has an Irish name himself, and he must be an Irish gentleman ; the word * Irish' will take. Tell him I am a saint ; and you must ask him if he will not influence the Ladies of the Sacred Heart to 4^ THE ARCHBISHOP OF NEW YORK. educate my child at half the usual price ; which, you see, wo >ld give me more means to spend on my church." Monsieur de Corcelles is one of the kindest-hearted men 'lat ever lived. He only knew me, as he had seen me while interesting my- self in good works. The moment I requested him to do me this favor, he sat down immediately and addressed a long letter to the Archbishop. The letter was just such as I had desired ; and Mr. de Corcelles added, that the Archbishop would be doing him and his family a personal favor, if he would give me his protection, in my present undertaking. He also begged him, as I requested him to do, to use his influence, in my behalf, with the Superior of the Sacred Heart in New York. While M. de Corcelles was writing the letter, several people called on me, and I received them in the parlor. As soon as he had finished it, he brought it in, and read it aloud. My friends all simultaneously exclaimed: ^^ Magnifique /" and they all declared that I deserved all the praise that he had lavished on me ; for the letter was a perfect eulogy of ray virtues and devotion. ** Now," said I, " that you have told His Grace who I am, you nmet enclose your report of the present state of the finances of the Pope, — that he may know who you are , and 1 am sure that he will feel flattered to receive tiie first copy." I gave him a large envelope, and he did as I requested him. In good time Monsieur de Corcelles received the answer; of which the following is a translation : " Rome, May 27M, 1870. " Sir, " I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your esteemed letter of the i6th inst. " What Mrs. St. John Eckel asks, is not, I am sorry to say, in my power to grant. I doubt if even the local Superiors can, of them- selves, effect such an arrangement. " To obtain it, they would be obliged to submit the matter to the Very Rev. Mother- General, who resides in Paris, and from whom, by all means, Mrs. St. John Eckel, coining from Paris, ought to have letters. Besides, the Vicar, who represents the Rev, Mother- General, does not live in my diocese, but at Kenwood, in the neigh- boring diocese of Albany. "As regards the project of this good lady, I must remark thattli'^re Wr' OF THE SAME OPINION STILL.' 465 exists already in Amenia quite a commodious and spacious church. I dedicated it, and I administered the Sacrament of Confirmation there a short time before e. ^barking for Europe. A priest Uves in Amenia, and serves at Dover, where there is also a fine church. As the faithful are dispersed here and there in the country, it would be difficult to find a common point to build a school, which the children could, at least for the present, easily attend. In the meantime the parents send them to the schools nearest their dwellings. " I can understand how, having been so long a time absent from the country. Madam is not aware of what I ha just pointed out. God will not fail, I hope, to take account of her good- will, and to reward her for it. It is needless for me to add, that it will be a pleasure to me to assist her, when the wants shall be more real and urgent. "Allow me, at the same time, to acknowledge the receipt of the work accompanying your letter. I thank you heartily for this mark of attention, and I beg you to accept the very sincere expression of my homage and respect. " Your very humble and very devoted servant in J. C, "John McCloskey, " Archbishop of New York." As soon as Monsieur de Corceiies had finished reading to me the letter, he added : '* I nope that this will put an end to your determi- nation to buiid a church." " No," said I, " I find authorization and encouragement enough in that letter. There is enough there for me anyhow." " Why," said he, " His Grace shows plainly that there is no need for another church there ; and he intimates, as delicately as possible, that he does not desire it." " He may not want it," I remarked, " but our Lord does ; or He would not have told me to go and build one." Monsieur de Corceiies replied : " I am surer that our Lord told us to be submissive to those who are in authority, than I am that He told you to go to America and build a church." I found his reply a little perplexing. While I was meditating how I should persuade him that he was wrong, and that I was right, I jrecoUected the little boundary stone, and that I was not in Amenia, but in Sharon, Connecticut, and I exclaimed : " The Lord is certain- ly with me ; for I am going to build it in Sharon, and not in Amenia." " Why, then," asked M. de Corceiies, '♦ did you tell me to write to 20* 466 THE ACHING HEARTS. him that y >u were going to build it in Amenia, if you were going to build it in Sharon ? " Said I : " I never thought of it. But it is all the same thing, for you cannot tell the difference when you get there." I then qi\ietly took the letter out of his hand, saying : ** I had better keep this letter myself, for I m need it some day to remind His Grace of his promise." :;t s.^ < < I ■■ :t] Vi\ ,,: CHAPTER XCIV. REASON AND LOVE. — PEACE TO BE FOUND NOT IN MAN, BUT IN GOD. The two months having expired, I wrote to Laferri^re that my mind was still unchanged, and that I was firmly resolved to leave France. He came the day after he received my letter. Nearly seven months had passed since he had crossed my threshold. We both burst into tears, as we clasped again each other's hands. As soon as I told him where I was going, and my plans, he set before me all the difficulties of such a position, among people who were already predis- posed against me. 1 told him that I could not suffer more there than I did in Paris j for to live so near to him and not to see him, was a continual martyrdom. Said he : "It was your own wish." " I wislied it," said I, •' because I believed God demanded it of n e ; and I believe so still. But whether that was an hallucination or not, it would be impossible for us to renew our former relations, because I have gone, so far that all my friends would despise me and turn their backs on nie, if I did. If I were your wife, I would not care ; but situated as I am, and on account of my child" — He interrupted me — " It is true, and it would be wrong for me to permit you to make such a sacrifice, on account of your child. Her future dep':'nds on the esteem others have for you. But because you would liOt be willing this moment to sacrifice the consideration of others for me, on account of your child, do I reproach you for it ? anr' (So 1 love you less, because I do nc t try and persuade you from /'J A I. ngto is all get had mind HUMAN LOVE. f46; doing your duty ? The happiness of my child is just as dea to me as yours should be to you. Religion should teach you to bear youi cross, instead of seeking to fly from it as you are doing. In trying to evade one cross, we often encounter heavier ones, and I hop< you may never have cause to regret having placed the ocean be tween us. "When you are in America, you say, you are going to give up tbt world. If you do, you will then have time to reflect ; for the world soon forgets us, when we no longer stand in its way, or it can no longer make use of Gs. Wait until you find yourself abandoned and alone : you will then reflect, and you will do me justice. But I pity you, and wish to spare you that. I do not consider that you are conscious of what you are doing. I look upon your imagination as diseased. I would that my words might have some effect upon you, and you would change your mind, and try to be satisfiec' to live here ; for certainly if we could not see each L/ther frequently, we could occasionally at least, without the slightest impropriety. I am willing to make my share of the sacrifice, for I see that my doing so increases the esteem that otiiers have for you. And if I have remained away from you so patiently, and have not persisted in seeing you, I made the sacrifice, knowing i: at it would be for your good. My senti- ments for you may not he as ardent and as demonstrative as yours are fo" me ; mais, croyez r'oi, que les miens valent bien les votres (but be aeve me, they are none the less real and enduring)." " All very well," said I ; "it is easy enough to talk about a diseased imagination, and to niake light of a sensitive and impassioned heart. That heart may not have the sterling value of your own ; but I am as God made me. I can only love as I do love. I cannot command my heart to love you in a mathematical avoirdupois way, as you can, and say I will love you just so far, and no farther, submitting every pulsation within me to the voice of reason. I lose my reason when' I think of you." " Cold and passionless as my heart may seem to you," he replied, " I sometimes believe that my love for you will outlive yours for me. I have always had a presentiment of it. I have a deep and tender affection for you, and you know you can always look up to me as you would to a father ; and the time may come when my words may coaie back to you, and you will wish that you had some one to love 468 TRUE REST. V you and care for you, even as a father, much as the word may displease you now. .;.;>■.:; ' .^' " For we are not always young, and the heart is not always warm and passionate. Age, sorrows, and disappointments often chill it. They have chilled mine, and you should not reproach me, when I give you all the warmth that still remains in it." Said I : " I have implored God to inspire me what to do that will bring peace to my soul. He has made His will known to me, and I shall do it ; for I believe, that as a reward for my obedience, He will give me rest, and we shall yet both be happy." »,V-.>. ry;';;! 1 took his hand and covered it with kisses. He old not withdraw it from me, but looked at me, with an air of profound sadness, mingled with pity. He continued to talk to me for hours, trying to dissuade me from my project. After he became convinced that nothing he could do or say would deter me, he said : " If you will go, go, and may God give you that peace and rest of mind which you so eagerly seek. But you are seeking that which you will never find, until you seek it in God alone ; for God has reserved that power to Himself, of giving peace and rest to the souls of His creatures. When you ask it of me, you are asking of me what I ask for myself. We should not ask it of each other, for we have it not to give. And that peace, even then, which God alone can give, does not exempt us from suffering ; for peace consists only in doing our duty, and being resigned to the will of God. " I was once young, and, like yourself, I sought my happiness in mortals. I thought that I had found it. I ought not to complain, for God permitted that I should revel in that illusion for years. But when I least expected it, the illusion vanished ; and I often ask myself if the pleasure that those we love give us, is equal to the pain and desolati m that we feel, when God takes them from us. The bitter pangs of disappointment that still sweep over my heart answer, No." Here he buried his face in his hands, and wept. As soon as he re- covered from his emotions, he continued : '* I now see that you are making this sacrifice, believing that, if you do so, God will one day unite us. But I am not worth such a sacrifice, and God will punish you by disappointment ; for peace of iiittii VACILLATION. 469 may from mind can only be obtained where we do our duty. And your con science should tell you that your duty is to remain here, with youi child, where God has given you a protector and a friend. No one car foresee the future ; but the best way to prepare for it, is to always dc our duty ; and you owe it to yourself, to your child, and to my ten- der solicitude, to remain where you are and try to be contented." , ^ .^ CHAPTER XCV. ' *■ ^ ' " MY DOUBTS, GOD DISPELS THEM. While Laferridre was with me that afternoon, it seemed as though I could think of nothing but the recompense that God would give me, if I should obey Him ; and it was my faith and hope in Him which sustained me, and made me insensible to everything that Laferri^re could say, to try to induce me to abandon my project. But as soon as I was alone, I was beside myself with grief ; all my courage and hope forsook me. That evening I was tempted to write to him that 1 would remain ; but I began to pray, and then I dared not write. The next morning I repaired early td the church of Our Lady of Victories, and while praying at the foot of her altar, all my courage and hope returned. I became incensed with myself, for having even hesitated ; and to prevent any further vacillations, after I left the church, I went to the office of the Transatlantic Steamship Co., and secured a passage for myself and child in the Pereire, which was to sail on the 17th of June. But I was no sooner back in the abbey, than all my strength and resolution failed me again ; for rny apartment was beautiful, and was most richly and artistically arrayed. I cast my eyes around it, and exclaimed : " How can I leave thee ; and all my friends ; and Laferri^re?" After my return to France, a young woman of about thirty had ap- plied to me for a situation. She was verydistingud and prepossessing. I hesitated for a moment, then thought : " Well, I will run the^risk, and see how a pretty maid can work ; for, with all my precaution in singling out homely ones, they have all turned out to be rogues." I engaged Fran^oise on trial, and soon found her a most excellent, 470 A BUGBEAR FROM MONTESQUIEU-. i it: trustworthy, and serious person. My motto now is, that a pretty maid is the best to have, after all, — but you must be sure and see that she is pious, as well as pretty. -i>' < •^>' ; ■ '■^:y<'0'- /'^^/v iiVicr; Fran^oise did all she could to cheer and encourage me, and of- fered to accompany me. " Ah, Frangoise," said I, "you don't know the country that I am going to." " Oh," slie quickly replied, " I fear nothing, because my director this morning advised r.ie to go with you." I instantly recollected that her director was a Jesuit. The moment she pronounced those words, I did not deliberate a second, but told her that 1 would not permit her to accompany me. My only reason for refusing her was on account of her intimacy with the Jesuits. I was resolved not to hold any relations with them in New York, for feat they might find out things about me, and write back to their house in Paris. I had only told Father Bazin a very fine story, and he sup- posed that I was as much of a lady at home as I was abroad. I could liOt divest myself of the prejudices I had conceived against those priests, particularly the one that Montesquieu had put into my head. It was a great sacrifice I made to fear ; for Franqoise would have been a great consolation to me. In spite of my refusal to let her accompany me, she encouraged me to keep my resolution, and told me that it was too late to give it up now ; that everybody in the abbey had seen Monsieur de La- ferri^re's carriage standing for hours before my door, and it was already whispered through the abbey, that he would persuade me to remain ; and she advised me to go, if I returned in the next steamer. The next day I left the abbey for good, and went to board at a liouse recommended to me by the Ladies of the Retreat. For three weeks I did nothing but while away the time in the salons of my friends. My favorite resort was the jalon of the Mar- quise de Blocqueville, in which I had the happiness to meet the most distinguished men in the world of letters. The Marquise's apartments were the most elegant and sumptuous in Paris. They were fitted up in genuine Oriental style, under the immediate supervision of the Marquise, who is gifted with extraordinary natural abilities, which have been nurtured and developed by education, study, and associa- tion with the most refined minds in French society. This lady was among my dearest and most charming friends. Looking back on my chequered career, I cannot remember any period, when I was so ONE FRIEND AT HOME. 471 happy, in the worldly sense of that word, as during those three weeks, during which I communed with the highest order of minds. As soon as I had decided to leave, I wrote to Mrs. Dix of my in- tended departure, and, a few days before 1 sailed, received the follow ing reply : . . • ,i : ,•:•,. ■, ; . y^;,.!. j, ,' " New York, Jl/ay 2ii/', 1870. "My Dear Mrs. Eckel, " I am glad to hear that you are well, after so long a silence, and not surprised to know that you are coming home ; although I hoped that your anxieties and troubles, whatever they may be or have been, had come to an end, and that you were happy a.id at peace again. But if this is not to be in France, you are quite right to break away from everything that holds you there, and try, amid other scenes, to forget the past, and begin upon a new, and, I trust, brighter and tiappier page of your life's history. "Bring your child with you too, and be contented here. The change may be hard at first ; but if it is a sacrifice that is worthy, it w'\\\ in the end bring its full reward. You know that you have never confided to me your history. I have only surmised many things ; ind I cannot advise you, as if I had your entire confidence. " Present us with pleasant remembrances to Monsieur de I^aferri^re. "Their Majesties' names are often upon our lips, and are always cherished with grateful remembrance in our hearts. The Imperial v^ases are the pride of our home, and are the admiration of all who see them, " I only wish I could express to Their Majesties how honored we feel in the possession of such a souvenir of our happy residence in Paris — the finest c".cy in the world. ** Very truly your friend, " Catherine M. Dix." As soon as I read this letter, I exclaimed : ** Thank God, I have one faithful friend ! that is enough." I was really attached to Mrs. Dix, and did not raie if all New York went against me, so long as I felt that I could go to her for sympathy and encouragement. Madam de Montalenibert, in the meanwhile, had put me in rela- tion with the ladies of the Sacred Heart. She introduced me to the Assistant Superior-General, Mme. Dessoudin, a middle-aged lady, and one of the most charmingly sympathetic persons I had ever met. J::,! lun At7^ INDECISION. Tnis lady gave me an excellent letter to their house in New York, in which she begged of them to do for me all that they could to assist me and encourage me in my undertaking. No sooner were all my things packed, — except my harp and some statuary, — than all that consolation and hope, which had buoyed me up during the past three weeks, left me, and I began to dread re- turning again to the United States. All that Laferridre had said «o me came back to me, and I felt that he was right, and that I was really deluded. From the moment I had announced my intention of returning to America, to build a church, nearly everybody I knew had said to me : " Why, you have gone crazy." I had had nothing, it seemed to me, but that poured into my ears, since the moment I had made my de- signs known ; and I began to think that they were right, and that I was crazy, and I wondered how I could have been drawn into such folly simply by imagining that I heard ar> interior voice, on the 19th of March, say to me, " Go home and work for God," — as if God would ever send nie to America, after all my effort to do right and to please Him ! And Laferridre ? had he not always predicted true ? " Oh," thought I, " it is too much. Rather will I go, and confess to everybody that I was deluded ; that I imagined I heard a voice, when I could have heard nothing." Yet all the while that I was trying to convince my- self that I had heard no voice, I was sure that I had heard one. I went to St. Sulpice, and knelt before St. Joseph's altar. While on my way, I was arranging in my mind how I could undo my folly. I would store my furniture away ; and I made up my mind to suffer any humiliation among my friends, rather than return to my native country. As I prayed my faith increased, and I began conversing with God as I would with a fond and tender parent. I prayed there and wept until I was so exhausted, that I had hardly strength enough to walk back to my home. When I got to my apartment, I sank on the bed, and continued to pray and to weep until nearly midnight, ever vacil- lating as to what I should do. At last I thought of my Bible. It la^' on a table, at the head of my bed. I rose, struck a light, took the Bible, and pressed it to my bosom, and began to implore it not to forsake me this time. I knelt down by the side of my bed, and said to our Lord : "I want to do right. Thou knowest I do. If I have done wrong, forgive me. But Thou THE BIBLE DECIDES. 473 knowest that T was sincere. I thought that Thou didst speak to me. Oh, inspire me, Lord, what to do. Speak to me now, and whatevei Thou tellest me to do I will do it, whether it be to go or to stay ; but . et Thy words be clear." So saying, I opened the book, and my eyes fell on these words in the 26th chapter of Ezekiel, beginning at the 24th verse : " 24. For I will take you from among the heathen and gather you out of all countries, and will bring you into your own land. " 25. Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean from all your filthiness, and from all your idols will I cleanse you. "26. A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you : and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh. • "27. And I will put my spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes, and ye shall keep my judgments and do them. ** 28. And ye shall dwell in the land that I gave to your fathers ; and ye shall be my people, and I will be your God. " 29, I will also save you from all your uncleannesses : and I will call for the corn, and will increase it, and lay no famine upon you. " 30. And I will multiply the fruit of the tree, and the increase of the field, that ye shall receive no more reproach of famine among the heathen. "31. Then shall ye remember your own evil ways, and your doings that were not good, and shall loathe yourselves in your own sight for your iniquities and for your abominations." I instantly rose and said : " Lord, I will go : I know Thou speak- est to me now." My eyes had no sooner fallen on those words than all my doubts left me, and 1 received the same light, the same peace, and the same courage to make the sacrifice, that I had felt at the altar, when I heard that voice say to me, "Go home, and work for God ! " The next morning I went to the Abbey. I was no longer afraid to look on its bare floors and unornamented walls. The moment I entered my room I saw that my harp was still unpacked. I took off the cover to loosen the strings, when, to my surprise, I saw it was broken. Who broke it ? That I never knew. I suppose that some of the workmen must have let something fall on it, or have knocked it over. While I was examining it, the door-bell rang. I I \ 474 THE BROKEN HARP. I made a quick motion to go and open the door, for f was there all alone. The bottom cf my dress caught in one of the pedals of the harp ; 1 pulled it over, the top of it broke, and all its strings were loosened. This made a fearful impression on me for a moment. I looked upon it as a bad omen. But I immediately recollected the vision or dream, which had repeated itself three times, wherein I had seen myself on board the Pereire, and my harp lying on the shore, with ail its strings broken, and the vessel moving off without it. I had engaged my passage in the Pereire without any reference to the dream, and was only that instant reminded of it. As 1 looked at my harp, all unstrung, I saw therein a fulfilment of the vision that I had had about eighteen months before, and 1 felt more satisfied than ever that it was the will of God that I should go. I sent word to Erard, the harp-maker. He sent his foreman to ex- amine the harp, who said that it would be ^everal weeks before they could repair it; and they would ship it to me to i\ew York, as soon as it was finished. '. :*!>; o.ii ■"»,(; CHAPTER XCVI. ADIEU, LA FRANCE. — MY GOOD LITTLE ANGEL. Laferri^re came to see me the day before I left. It was not to say good-by, for he said that he would come to the station, and see me off. I never saw him look so sad : he scarcely spoke ; and I too could hardly speak, but I wept as though my heart would break. We were together over an hour ; and to my sobbings he would say : " ydui Favez voulu — vous Favez voulu^ (*' You would have it so — you would have it so.") As I expected he would be at the station to bid me a last fai'ewell, I had forbidden my other friends to come ; for I wished to pass those.^ few precious moments alone with him. I arrived at the station with my child and Fran^oise. Laferridre's valet was there, waiting lor me ; and as I descended from the car- riage, he handed me two letters. They were both from Laferri^re : one was for me, and the other was for Gen. Dix. I opened mine. It ran thus : AN ANGEL OF CONSOLATION. 475 "My Dear Child, ;>Mf ■'i v ; , ' : - ** I have thought it better for you, as well as for me, to avoid a last interview, which the presence of others would render distressing. I send you a last and tender adieu, and my ardent wishes that you' voyage may be calm and happy. "May you find in your native land peace and repose, and forgcc- fulness of the past. When the immensity of the ocean is between us, you will do me justice, and you will say that I have been a good and faithful friend. " You may rely upon my attachment ; it will always be a pleasure to me to give you proofs of it. Adieu, my dear child, — may God watch over you, and give you the happiness that you no longer find near me. I press you to my heart, and 1 embrace tenderly your child. *' I shall write to you at Brest. In the meanwhile, receive the as- surance of my sincere and devoted affection. " I.AFERRlfeRE." I I nearly fainted at the disappointment. His valet and Fran^oise supported me to the railway-carnage. When the train started, I threw myself back in my seat, and gave full vent to my tears. It was the saddest disappointment I had ever met with, not to find him there, to give me a parting farewell kiss. Every stride- that the car made onward, shook my frame, as though an iron hand had grasped my heart, and was wrenching from it, root by root, the idol to which it clung and to which it had given all its affecticrns. I must have remained there for over an hour, with my face buried in my hands, and my heart plunged in the direst agony, when I sud- denly thought of my child, and looked up to see what had become of her, I had forgotten that she was with me, and that I was no^ alone. She had nestled herself up in a corner of a seat, and was praying with a little chaplet that Madam Dessoudin had given her. Her eyes were cast downward, and her infantine face wore an expres- sion of peace and devotion, so sadly sweet, that it seemed as though an angel of consolation had suddenly appeared before me. As I gazed upon her, my tears ceased to flow, and for a moment 1 forgot my sorrow. I looked silently upon her until she had told her last bead ; then, raising her eyes, and seeing that I was no longer weeping, but looking at her, she sprang into my arms, and 476 " OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. cried out : " Oh, mamma, I knew that you would stop being sad ; for I have said my chaplet for you three times through, and I knew that the Blessed Virgin would be good to you." She covered n)y face with kisses ; but, instead of making me happy, her symjjathy only brought back to my heart its desolationi and I fell to weeping more bitterly than before. ,, , , ■ "Mamma, tell me your sorrows." , ,. • , , .; ,.; ;'; .\ r,. >i,j " You are not old enough, dear little one, to understand them." " Oh, yes, I am, mamma," she answered. " You just tell them to me, and you will see that 1 am old enough. I can understand them : do tell them to me." She coaxed me so sweetly, that at last I pretended to yield, and she got on my knee, and began to pass her little hand soothingly over my forehead. Then I said to her : " Mamma is all alone in the world ; she has no father nor mother to take care of her ; she has no other father to look after her but God, and no other mother but the Blessed Virgin." The child quickly interrupted me, and in the most serious tone replied: "But they are the best of parents, mamma." ■..'■ri '' vi: Her pious and cheering remark drove away \11 my sadness, and I began to laugh at the serious expression of countenance the child had assumed, and the way she had uttered those words. She tried to stop my laughing, and begged me to continue and tell her my sorrows, mamma, Please go on." ** I was sad," I replied, " before X told you what was the matter with me ; but since you have told me that God and the Blessed Vir- gin are the best of parents, I have no more reason to be sad, for I find that I am better off than I thought I was." She was not satisfied with the abrupt termination of my story, and turning from me, she began to look out of the window. In a few moments she turned towards me again, and said : " Tell me, mamma, all about our little mountain home, where you are going to take me." But before she gave me a chance to reply, she called my attention to the view, and wanted to know if our little home looked like the one that she saw in the distance. At the same time she asked me if we passed through there, when we came to France, when she was a little baby. " I have none no^ " said I. " Oh, yes, you have, she replied ; " you had just begun to tell them to me. "MY NDRMANDIE." 477 I look«.d out of the window. The country wore the same aspect as it did the first time I saw it. It seemed as though, in a second, my mind traversed all the varied scenes through which I had passed for the past seven years, back to the day that the train was bearing nie towards Paris for the first time. Instantly I recalled the buoy- ant feelings of hope that had filled my breast as I entered for the first time that beautiful city. But now how changed was I ! and how different, too, were the feelings that overflowed my heart 1 I sank back again into my seat, closed my eyes, and tried in thought to live that day over again. Instantly that old French song, Ma Normandie, came to my mind, and I began humming it in thought. But this time, instead of the first verse of the song, the words of the last rose in my mind — t ■ (V " II est nn Sge dans la vie Ofl chaque reve doit finir ; Un Age ofi rSme recueillie '''"' A besoin de se souvenir. Lorsque ma muse refroiclie Aura fini ses chants d'amour, J'irai revoir ma Normandie : C'est le pays qui m'a donnfe Ic jour." " There comes an age in all our lives, When ev' ry dream must have an end ; An age, when fond remembrance strives To long-past scenes new charms to lend. When chilled by years my muse shall be, Nor more to songs of love invite ; Then must I see my Normandy Once more, where first I saw the light." I had hardly uttered them in my mind, before my child, turning to me again, asked why I did not want to tell her all about our little home among the hills. Said I : '* Sweet child, that shall be our Normandie j and when we get there, you will pray for mamma, that God will help her to forget her sorrows." She quickly remarked : ** I am not going to wait until we get there for that : I am going to pray for that now, that God may make you forget them directly ; for it would be a great deal better for us to enjoy ourselves going there. So don't look sad any more, mamma." She commenced talking to me and reasoning with me, as a person 478 "THE GOOD SHEPHERD. of three times her years would have done ; and I soon actually be« gan to confide in her, and said to her that I thought it was cru'jl in the Viscount, not to come and see us off. " But, mamma," she re- plied, "you know how much he has to do ; so you must not cry for that. And he told you once that you were always complaining of him, and he never deserved it." ' I took the remark as a well-deserved reproach, and fell to weeping again. I longed to reach Havre, to write to Laferri^re^ and tell him how much I loved him. and that I had faith and hope in God that all would yet be well. As soon as I reached there I wrote him a long letter, in which I unburdened to him my soul. The next morning I arose early, and went to Mass with my child, and received Holy Communion. We were just about to leave, when I noticed that we were kneel- ing by St. Dominick's altar. This was Laferri^re's patron saint, and Dominick was also one of the names given to my child. I was struck with the coincidence which had led nie to that particular altar, and the fact that it should be the last shrine I was to kneel at before bidding a final adieu to France. On leaving the church I felt strong and hopeful ; and all the way back to the steamer 1 wa? joyful, because I had obeyed God. I felt that it was no illusion, but that He had called me, and that I was now doing His will ; and I was certain that, in return. He would give me a rich reward. On the morning of the 17th of June, 1870, the sun shone brightly on Havre, as the steamer Pereire moved off from the harbor. I was standing on her deck, beside my child, watching the receding shore. My heart was raised to God in prayer, and I continued to implore Him to watch over me, and to guard and protect me. All at once I chanced to se-i that same old sign, which had at- tracted my attention the first time T saw the shores of France. It was the clothier's sign, *^ au bon PastdurJ' "The Good Shepherd" was represented by a life-size figure of our Lord carrying in his arms a poor sheep, which had wandered from the fold. Instantly my heart overflowed with pious gratitude towards God. I found that picture symbolic of our Lord's ways with me, and was so moved by the just application of it to myself, that the tears streamed down my cheeks, from a sense of God's goodness and my own way- wardness, and I mentally exclaimed : " That represents you and me, A VISION VERIFIED. 479 Lord ; for I have always gone astray, but you have never ceased to seek me and to follow me, through all my sinful paths, and at last you overtake me, and carry me in your arms. I am so glad that I obeyed Thee, J^ord ! I know that Thou wilt not abandon me, and wilt bring nie back to these shores again. For I promise Thee that I will jje good, and then I know that Thou wilt not refuse me anything." 'I'he triple vision that 1 had received, eighteen months before in answer to my prayers, was now realized. For I was standing on the deck of the Pereire, which was leaving the shores of Havre bound for America ; and I was obliged to leave my harp in France with all its strings broken. I now looked upon the vision as a happy omen, typical of my future. I firmly believed that all the cords of sorrow with which my heart from childhood had been strung were one day to be forever broken. ■ But how soon we turn from God to man I I had no soonei entered my state-room than I began longing to reach Brest, so as to receive Laferridre's letter ; and my impatience increased as the steamer advanced. To wait so many hours seemed like being obliged to abide an endless eternity — especially to pass those hours at sea, where the moments were mostly counted in my berth by the motion of the ship, as it rocked to and fro on the water. At last we came in sight of Brest, and the postmaster of th-; ship brought me a package of letters. I hastily ran my eyes over them. I recognized the handwriting of many of my friends, — but there was no letter from Laferridre. This disappointment I felt far more keenly than the first ; for my heart was worn out with expectation and impatience, and to reach the shore, and then to be disappointed, was too much 1 I went to the postmaster, and asked him if he had not made a mistake, and mixed one of my letters with somebody else's. He replied : " I handed you twelve ; that was all there was for you." I -counted them, and would have willingly thrown them all into the sea without break- ing their seals, in exchange for but one line from him. For an instant my soul rebelled ; but it soon submitted. A sense of fear came over me, and I felt that I was alone in God's almighty hand, and I at once asked him to forgive me, and give me His divine protection, I went up again on the deck, and sat down on a bench by the side of my child, and remained there with my eyes fixed on the shore, 480 LAST GLIMPSE OF FRANCE. until it receded from my sight. When its last glimpse disappeared, and I could see nothing but the horizon's verge on the water, I was seized with that sickness of the soul, which spreads itself like a pall over the heart, as it sees all its bright hopes and visions of years vanish suddenly from view. "O beloved France ! " thought I, ns I wept, "how could I leave thee ? and when shall I ever see thy shores again ? Will he live until then, and will he love me still ? " My soul, buried in the deepest gloom, was awakened by a sweet, gentle voice, saying : " Mamma, mamma. Monsieur de Corcelles writes better than the rest, because I can read his writing." I looked at my child, and saw that she had been opening my letters, and was busy trying to read them. " Mamma," she continued, "let me keep Monsieui- de Corcelles' letter, because I want that poetry that he has written to you ; I will say it to my doll." She took up his letter, and read the words which pleased her so well, which were : " La toUette N'est pas 1' esprit. ; On est belle, Sans dentelle, ^ Quand le coeur luit." . "Oft rich dress Small wit confines .v.; ,: There's a grace. Without lace, ' '. ,' Where the heart shines." I then read the following letter from my old and tried friend, the Princess Sulkowska. '''^ ; ' '' '^' rf. ,..- L ^y .,..., o, ;: t " "Fa^kis, ytsKf i6t A, tSjo. "8, rue Fortin. "My Dear Friend, ■' - - " You are now far from so many friends, who love, and who regret you, sailing on the ocean, which puts space oetween us, but can never succeed in making us forget, because, for the heart ana the mind, neither space nor separation exist. " Happily so many souvenirs which bind our friendship, will render it enduring and unalterable among all the changes of life. " I hope, dear friend, that yvu will write me a few words from Brest, and also as dOon as you arrive in America, so that I shall not be left WORDS FROM KIND HEARTS. 48 1 in suspense about you and your child. How M. de Laferridre must have sufl'ered in seeing you start on so long a voyage, poor wounded heart ! But I can understand how yours is rent on leaving Paris, where you have passed so many happy hours, where the divine light shone upon your soul, and where you leave behind so many friends, and others who feel an interest and sympathy for you. May God conduct you both in safety to your journey's end. May He guide you, and order His angels to watch over you ! " I embrace you tenderly, as well as my dear little godchild, who probably by this time has had enough of travelling by water. " Your affectionately devoted friend, ' - " Princess Marie Sulkowska." The next ''ne was from Madame Mayaud, daughter of M. Lou- vet, then Minister of Agriculture and Commerce, in whose family I had been treated like a daughter : "Saumur (Maine et Loire), '^June 17, 1870. "My Dear P'riend, ♦* I hope these few words will reach you, and will give you a final evidence of the sympathies which you leave behind you. " Your sacritice then is made ! You have withdrawn yourself from this intoxicating life of Paris, to go where God calls you, and where duty commands. " Journey then in peace towards your new destiny, and love God above all things. He will give you, in ])roportion as you accomplish His divine will, secret joys and a delightful intimacy, which the world could never bring you. You will enjoy peace of soul in love, — true, iTuc ! — because that is perfection itself. ♦' 1 shall await impatiently a line from you, to prove that I am not forgotten. My little Marie remembers her friend Genevidve. As for you, my dear friend, my prayers and thoughts will accom- pany you, and my affection will cross the sea with you. *'L. Mayaud Lou vet." The following is from M. Louvet, Madam Mayaud' s father . Office of the Minister of Agriculture and CoMiMERCE, "Paris, June i6t/i, 187a "Dear Madam, " At the moment of your departure from France, where we were so 21 482 HOLY WORDS FROM A STATESMAN. i » happy to nave you, allow me to address to you a parting salutation, in my own name and in that of my family. You carry with you the esteem and affection of all who have known you. Try and f?iid in your native country that repose of mind and peace of heart, with- out which there is no real happiness here below. " Our prayers follow you. We ask God to take you under His i)ro- tection. He will, 1 am sure ; for He loves you, since He sought after, pursued, and led you back to himself, like the Good Shepherd going after the loved and wandering sheep. Give Him therefore love for love, more and more. ... " You will have, besides other heavenly assistance, the Blessed Vir- gin, who holds so exalted a place in our Catholic religion ; then the holy Patroness under whose care your noble godmother placed you; afterwards the guardian angel, who, according to the traditions of our faith, watches unceasingly at your side ; and finally, the other guard- ian angel that God has given you on earth, — I mean your charming little girl, whom you love more than yourself, and whose caresses are like a beneficent dew, calming and refreshing your poor heart. So you see, dear Madam, you have a great many protectors ; if ever danger or trials overwhelm you, invoke them, and, believe me, they will preserve you. " Adieu, dear Madam ; when shall we meet again on this earth ? Never, perhaps. In any case, there is one place c* meeting which will never fail. Heaven ; where all pure sympathies and holy affection will be united, never to be separated any more. " A vous, Madam, cast a last look at the shores of our Brit^ny from your vessel, as you depart I " My highest expressions of tender and respectful attachment. ' '"' " LOUVET." M. Louvet's letter brought back the bright hope and consolation, that 1 had felt on leaving the shores of Havre, when I gazed upon that image of the Good Shepherd. It revived all my hopes and trust in God, and I felt that all would yet be well, as it was only from faith and confidence in God, that I had made my sacrifice. MANHATTANVILLE. 48j CHAPTER XCVII. ■■,«: ESCAPE FROM THE JESUITS IMPOSSIBLE. — MADAM HARDEY AGAIN. I BEGAN to think seriously wiiat I should do on arriving in New York, as I could not come into possession of my farm before spring. All my furniture was on board. If I should sell it at once, I should be forced to pay duty, which would cost me thousands of dollars. I came to the conclusion that the best thing for me to do, would be to take a house until spring, furnish it, and let it, keeping two or three rooms for myself; for I had not forgotten the trials of a single lady looking for board in the city of New York. ' ■ ^■' ' - r : I secured a large, commodious house on Fifth Avenue, which I rented until the first of May. Shortly after I arrived, I called on Madam Galvvay, who was then the Superior of the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Manhattanville, to give her the letter that I had brought from their house in Paris. She did not even read the letter, but begged me to explain what I desired. As soon as I told her my intention of building a church, and requested her to educate my child for less than their usual price, so as to leave me more money to devote to my work, she gave me a blank refusal ; and said that I ought to use my money to educate my child, instead of building a church, if I could not afford to do both. I told her that I had come on to build a church and was going to build one, and gave her my reasons, none of which seemed to remove her impression that it was a foolish undertaking ; and all that I could say to her did not seem to have the slightest effect in awakening her sym- pathies, either for me or my work. She rose and was going to take leave of me ; but I refused to take the hint, and persisted that she should read some of my letters. She replied : " They are all in French, and written by people that I know nothing about." " Then," I replied, " take them and give them to somebody to read, who does know." She hesitated a moment, doubtless considering what she should do in order get rid of me. While she was deliberating, I was beseeching her. I told her that Madam Dessoudin had assured me that I could count upon their pro- tection. Said she : " Take your letters to Father Beaudevin. He .a 484 A NEW YORK JESUIT. resides at 49 West Fifteenth Street. He is a Jesuit. Show him yout letters and tell him what you propose to do. I have a great confi- dence in his judgment : if he thinks that we will be doing a charity, by taking your child at a reduced price, to assist you in your under- taking, we will do so." She then rose, handed me back the letters, and left the room. I went into the chapel. 1 was so discouraged and so disappointed at my first step, that I burst into tears. I was provoked, too, that this lady obliged me to go to a Jesuit, when I had fully resolved not to have anything to do with them, and had even sacrificed Fran^oise, so as to get entirely rid of the order. After earnestly recommending myself to God, and praying that He would protect me against the wiles of the Jesuits, and that I might never meet another Madam Galway, I took out of my pocket a little book that I had carried about me since the day I left Paris. I opened it, and my eyes fell on these words : *' Z^ d'ecouragement seul a perdu plus d'dmes que toutes les passions reunies, Dans les causes du desordre, de la perversely 7ncme, il tient le premier rang" "Discouragement alone has ruined more souls than all the passions together. It holds the first place among the causes which produce moral disorder and perversity." Those words gave me peace. The following day I called to see Father Beaudevin. The moment he entered the room, I mentally exclaimed : ** Here is a mate to Mother Galway ! " and I prepared myself for the worst. He read my letters, among which was one from P'ather Bazin, which he had written to me from St. Malo. It was a brief note, which I will insert ; for I believe that I am indebted to its few lines for my success with Father Beaudevin. ; ■: ., , -/ ; ■ ... ' ' ' "■ ! "Hospital of St. Malo, "7««ther waved her hand, and answered: "No." The bride expectant fainted ; the brother caught her in his arms ; while the groom quietly descended the stairs, and went his solitary way. What happened the second daughter was still more heartrending, but far less humiliating. She was engaged to a son of one of the wealthiest and most estimable families in New York. He had gone to Euroi)e, and was about to return, when he wrote to his betrothed to meet him on the arrival of the steamer in which he intended to sail. Thither she repaired and was impatiently waiting, on the dock, for the steamer to reach the shore. At last the plank is thrown : it touches the wharf; and she hastens towards the ship, and wonders why he is not on deck. She asks for him, and is told that he had died on board, and that his body had been thrown into the sea. • i . .,' ! . ■ ■ Both of these were recent misfortunes, which I had seen com- ments upon in the daily journals. When I learned that these dire afflictions had happened to the " Sprats " who had engaged my rooms, all my sympathies were enlisted in their behalf, and 1 earnestly prayed that God would console them, and that I might ever do my duty to a family, on whom He had chosen to bring such great sorrow. On account of their excessive respectability, and their high i)Osition in society, I had let my rooms to them for one-half their real value. For the mother assured me that she could not go one cent beyond a stated price, and that I must take them for that or let them go. They had no sooner taken possession of their apartments, than they began a series of complaints. The rooms were not sufficiently fur- nished ; yet our agreement was that, if 1 would let them to her at a reduced price, I was to add nothing : they would take them just as they were. To please them, however, I laid out a considerable sum of n oney for extras. I had been foolish enough to engage a maid to wait on them who was formerly in the r employ. Several months passed before I ' discovered that they had had a seamstress, who frequently came and ICHTHYOLOGICAL STUDIES. 489 worked by the day, and was fed from my table, without my knowl- edge. My remonstrances were treated by the dowager with luiughty disdain, wliich she seemed to think sufficient compensation, 'I'hey were constantly inviting young gentlemen to dine with them. I was expected to be so overwhelmed by the honor, that it seemed gross ingratitude to think of so vulgar a thing as sending in a bill. They would keep tradesmen, who came repeatedly to dun them for the payment of bills, waiting, interminably, in the hall, while they chatted over the dinner-table. And their appetite seemed not to be in the least impaired by any compunction for this modification of the sin, that cries to heaven for vengeance : " the depriving the laborer o^ his hire." I exerted myself in every possible way to please them. My efforts in this respect were taken as signs of my utter subjugation. It would be impossible to relate all ^.le petty aggravations and gross injustices that I was subjected to by the " Sprats." Their con- duct was just the reverse of that of the "Bees," who were as upright and as civil as the others were impertinent and unjust. I had had considerable experience in witnessing how pride and malice would express themselves, in the actions and gestures of paupers. But these " Sprats," for pride, insolence, and vulgar airs, surpassed anything I had ever met in hospital or poor-house. I do believe that, for inso- lence and presumption, the paupers can beat the New York shoddy ; but they could not beat these " Sprats." I never met any of them in the corridors, on the stairs, or in the streets — when they would throw upon me a contemptuous look — without deigning to salute me -^but what 1 would instantly feel like wishing to be carried back to the hospital !" ' ' After I knew this family better, 1 could plainly see the chastening hand of God, in the humiliation and sorrow which had befallen them ; and I wondered how they could still be so hardened as not to be touched by it, and durst continue to live in so much pride and heartlessness. The explanation can only be found in that pride itself, which hardens and blinds us, and perverts our judgment in regard to ourselves and what is due to others. When I compared the manners and principles of these " Sprats " with the simplicity, modesty, and cordiality of the nobility abroad, no one need doubt me, when I say that I pitied them for their igno- rance. It was seldom that I ever felt the slightest resentment to- 21* r^^44^ 450 ICHJIIYOLOGICAL STUDIES. wards them ; mats il faiit trancher le mal (we must strike at evil) : and if I dwell on this family, it is in the hope that the "Sprats" may one day read this chapter, which I dedicate to them, and that their eyes may be opened and they may see themselves as they really are. Then I trust that, instead of being incensed againsf. me for having told the truth, hey will humble themselves, as we are all taught to do, and that when they are converted they will set a good example to all like them, and that all who have imitated them in their e\'il doing may imitate them in their repentance. The "Sprats" formerly lived in the same street with Mr. 's family. Everybody knows the Misses to be pretty blondes, and exceedingly well-bred. The Misses told me that they seldom ventured to pass the ''Sprats's" house because the Misses "Sprats" would sit in the win- dow and make faces at them as they passed ; that they would pass through another street, just to avoid passing the Sprats's house, for fear of being insulted. Nor are they the only ladies residing in the same street, who can testify to the same annoyance. Such conduct shows to what depravity pride will lead us. For certainly it would be hard to find emulators of such conduct, except- ing around the Five Points, as they used to be, before there was a mission there. While I was trying to eke out these five months, I would often ask myself : which suffers most, a woman keeping a boarding-house, and trying to please a family who belong to the " first-class society," or a single lady looking for board. In comparing the miseries of both these positions, I have always found them so evenly balanced, that I have never yet been able to decide. If a woman asi)ires to become sanctified, and cannot enter a con- vent, either of these positions will afford a splendid novitiate ; though both are fraught with perils. ^i.^-. KIND WORDS FROM FRANCE. 491 CHAPTER XCIX. 'i:' AID FOR THE VICl'IMS OF THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR. — FERNANDO , ^ WOOD AS A PROPHET. Months passed, and I received no line from Laferridre ; which si- lence was eating like a cancer in my heart ; yet I never lost hope. From the moment the war broke out I believed more firmly than ever, that God had inspired me to leave France in answer to my ])rayers. AD my friends wrote to me, telling me how grateful I ought to be to divine Providence for having inspired me ; for they all now had faith in me, and Madam de Montalembert more than all the rest, from the service that Providence threw it in my way to render her. In the early part of December, 1870, I received the following letter: " RlXENSART PAR AtTIGNIES, • " Belgium', Nov. 25th, 1870. "My Dear and Excellent Friend, "Have I not every appearance of ingratitude towards you? I have received your letters, full of so much affection for iie, for him who is no more, for my daughters, and finally for my cherished past, vanished^ never more to return in this worlds and for my sad widowhood. •,;: "You pray for him who exists no more on this earth, except in my remembrance ; but whom I see unceasingly in spirit, and whom we miss so much in the midst of the calamities that we. encounter in our exile. • -' - • ' -■• • ■ ' '■''-' ■ - ,.. " I have before me your charming letter of the 26th of July, contain- ing the details of your new life, and your relations with the Sacred Heart, with the Jesuits, and with F. Beaudevin, of whom you have) fniven me a description which assures me that your soul is in good hands This rejoices me greatly ; for with the great ardor and frank ness you have, and which I admire sincerely, as one of the most i)ovv erful levers for good, it is necessary to have some counsel from time lo time, to moderate your ardor. " I see, too, that your dear little girl is an inmate of the Sacred Heart, and that those ladies are very kind to her. Tell them that I liiank them for it, because I love you tenderly^ and, more than that, 492 A FRF.NCIIWOMAN ON FRANCE. that J have a true esteem for you, which to my mind is a sentiment very sweet, and very rarely met with. You seek (Jod, His glory, the salvation of souls, and your own ; you desire to see Him one day, and you strive after all these ends (so forgotten by the most pirt of men, and women, too), with all the strength of your nature, and of your warn) heart. What a foundation for /r^/r?//;/^/ sympathy I One his so rarely the opportunity of working out these great things, and God has given you the signal grace of using, with reason and intelli- gent energy, the most practical means to attain these great designs with which you are inspired. Oh ! what cause for thanksgiving on your part, and of joy for your true friends ; I feel that 1 am one of them when I think of the great pleasure 1 enjoyed the first time we met — and every time I have seen you since. " 1 managed to put in order, before the war, all my affairs, and settle my children's ; then arranged all my husband's treasured pai)ers, so that I could bring them here, out of the way of all danger. I should have been heart-broken to have left them in the frightful position in which everytlijng is among us, on account of this horrible war, worthy of the Sioux, the Blackfeet, the redskins of America. Per- hai)s they are less barbarous than the Prussians. Is it not an un- heard-of thing, that Christians should practise such cruelties, in this age of civilization ? ' , ■ . "}?ut, my dear friend, in what a condition has the Imperial Govern- ment left our unhappy France ! To what an extent has France been, that is, the greater part of the people — the ignorant peasants and honest men of the masses — the dupe of this hideous crowned knave ! VVould you believe, that he, and his intimate friends, were embezzling the funds of the War Department, using them for ill sorts of base jnirposes, and political intrigues, in order to purchase ])artisans for the Empire ? Our taxes yielded 500,000,000 to the liudget, and when the war broke out, there was almost nothing in the arsenals, and magazines ; we were not ready. " This imbecile sovereign, whom so many among the higher classes persisted in believing skilful, no sooner declared war like a true fool, than he filled our army with parlor generals, incapable, covetous, and egotistically ambitious. Bazaine is the type of these last ; he has not ceased to think of benefiting his personal affairs, hoping, after the shamefid capitidation of Sedan, to play the role of Regent of the kingdom for the Prince Imperial. He reserved his army for this, A CRY FOR HELP. 493 instead of fighting for the wclfiire of France. Without any other calculation, he thus allowed the Prussians time to starve the city of Metz ; and when he had no more provisions, he shamefully surren- dered, without fighting, giving up to our enemies (what is without ex- ample) a considerable amount of artillery, accumulated in Aletz, in- stead of destroying it so that it could not be turned against us, as the Prussians immediately did against our poor, new, little army of the Loire. ' ' > " All these acts of unheard-of dishonor, on the part of a marshal of France, would be incomprehensible, if behind them there was noc some intrigue planned by the Prussians with this cynical personage. Everything goes to prove that some promise had been made of the Imperial restoration, i)rovided that the provisions and the fortress of Metz were delivered intact, the Prussians having the pretension to keep it, along with Strasbourg and Lorraine. Thus the very soil of France has been sold to the Prussians, i.i the hopo of maintaining a dynasty in this country, so weakened by iis financial crimes, and its military blunders. We have now 350,000 prisoners in (Germany, and 27 departments invaded, burned, utterly devastated. The suffering there is beyond all descri[)tion. The accounts that reach us from these departments, so prosperous three months ago, are heart- rending. * i • r ** France, in other times, assisted America to gain her independence and her wealth ; my grand-uncle, de Lafayette, went to her assistance : he expended, himself alone, 1,500,000 francs to equip a vessel. " Many others among-our gentry, M. de Rochambeau among the number, hurried to lend the assistance of their arms to your country at the risk of their lives, v .-. :■.:;,, v ;• ^ + r- *' Can America forget all this ? Can she rest, like England, in a state of cold and heartless non-intervention ? Shall we always be llie chivalrous nation who aid all the world in their distress, and to whom no nation renders the like ? I often ask myself sorrowfully, if such will really be the case with a nation so powerful, so rich, and free, as your own ! I must at the same time, in order to be just and grateful, say that we have some warm friends in England, and that these neighbors have already sent us help in money, provisions, etc., for the plundered. "I read in the papers that a few hundred American volunteers had landed at Brest, and were fighting for us. But what is this small num- 494 CLAIMS ON OUR GRATITUDE. ber against 900,000 Germans ? Shall we not, at least, have a large and general subscription for our burnt villages, which we reckon by hun- dreds ? for our three hundred thousand unhappy prisoners, whose gar- ments are in rags, and who, from the depth of Germany, ask pitifully for stockings, flannel, and shoes, to protect them against the rigors of winter ? They would need three hundred thousand of each of these articles ; and the Prussians are draining us by requisitions, not only in money, but of hundreds of dozens of all these articles of clothing, for their own army. They empty all our warehouses, and leave us in many cities (as at Rheims) only the empty shelves of the shops. Try, my dear friend, and organize a committee, which will occupy itself quickly and generously, for the relief of our distress. If each person gave only three or four francs, we would have an immense sub- sidy, and it would scarcely tell at all on the most modest purse in America. We deserve this fraternal sympathy, these alms of affection and gratitude, since, without us, you Americans, so free, happy and rich, would not perhaps, have arrived so quickly at all that you pos- sess, — all which I congratulate you on from my heart, though not without a little sensitiveness at the indifterence which you show to our actual suffering. " The good king Louis XV"!., who had not a very great mind, but whose heari was noble and generous, loved you ; he compassionated your griefs, and he assisted your weakness. Then, let this great Ameri- can nation in its turn pity our wrongs without number, in so un- equal a struggle. If we have sinned, in accepting the detestable gov- ernment which has just fallen (and you know how many of the most noble souls among us, my husband, the Due de Broglie, M. Cochin, M. de Corcelles, M. Daru, M. Buffet, M. Vicard, and so many others, have never admired, never recognized it, except as the public enemy), — if we have sinned in this point, thanks to the system of uni- versal suffrage exercised among us by the ignorant masses, the Ame- ricans ought not to look at that, 'jut at the actual situation of a pe.O' pie who have heretofore held out their hand to them in their reverses. ■■/''. ,.,■ • • • • •^■■^•■:v;■I,■ ** But adieu, dear friend ; may God inspire you ; , and if you can create a movement in our behalf, you know well how good a work you will perform. " I embrace you tenderly, "CtSSE. MiRODE DE MONTALEMBERT." FATHER HECKER. 495 " P. S. November 26M. '* I re-read my letter before sealing it, and I wish to add, as a post- script, that it will be a favor if you will send me some news of your church. It occurred to my mind to night, that, if you need your influence among your acquaintance for the erection of this dear church, which determined you. to quit Paris, you must not expend it in furthering those objects that I insisted upon with so much warmth in my letter. The Due d'Aumale has just made (under the name of his secretary, M. Laugel) a very fine and noble appeal to America ; let us hope it will be listened to. The papers give this document, which is as truthful as it is moving and eloquent. " If, in order to succeed in building your church, dear friend, you must lead, like your patroness, z. laborious awdi hidden life (such as you seem already to have imposed upon yourself), do not leave it, to de- vote yourself to other good works ; one cannot do all kinds of good at a time. " You know I never could bear (when we used to talk together in Paris) the devout ladies who sought to make use of you : our public calamities have given me neither .he right, nor the wish, to do the like at present. " V ; ■' ■;, < ^^^ ** If you could not do what I asked, without the inconvenience I oave pointed out, be convinced I will never for an instant doubt your affection, — (and I embrace you now again from the bottom of my heart, my very dear and tender friend, for such I know you to be) — do not then act as if it needed to be proved to me. When you see F. Hecker tell him again that I can never console myself for having misse^l him this spring, and I beg him again, and earnestly, not '0 forget me, nor my husband. Walking here in the court of this chatean, where this Rev. Father interested so much him who is no more, and ..lybeit, I reflect very often upon the account of his conversion that he gave us one beautiful evening which I shall never forget. His words console me still when I am very sad, and I repeat them from time to time as if I read them on the seats and the pave- ment of the court near the little round table which is there still, and by which my poor husband, already so sick, was seated ! " If you knew the horrors, the ruin skilfully planned, worthy of cannibals, that these Prussians (so cruel by nature) systematically commit everywhere ! " If you have the tiuiC, and are conversant with your political affairs, 1 1 496 THE CRY HEEDED. tell me if there is any truth in the rumor that Americiis, ai this time, purchasing territory of Russia so as to help her indirectly to fortify herself, contrary to the treaty signed with France ; taking ad- vantage of our misfortunes to rupture without good faith, this treaty relating to the Black Sea. — Assisting the oppressor of Poland to become more powerful ! What a horror ! Would it be permitted for a country so far to forget all justice as to think only of its material profit ? In this case republican egotism would be equal to monarchical ! " Mf RODE DE MONTALEMBERT." • Mile, de Blossi^res, who was Vice-President of the Ladies' Fair for the Relief of the French Soldiers, called to see me, with a letter of introduction from Father Hecker, and it was agreed that she should take Madam de Montalembert's letter, and call on some of the ladies of the committee, and influence them lO vote, at their next meeting, that a part of the money which still remained, should be sent to Madam de Montalembert. - ^ ' I warned Mile, de Blossieres not to mention my name, or to inti- mate that the letter was addressed to me, as I was very unpopular in New York, and the ladies might refrain from voting in favor of my friend, just to spite me, if they knew I so earnestly desired it, several of the ladies on this committee being my inveterate enemies. ' Mile, de Blossieres is a lady of rare inteUigence and tact. • " '". At the next meeting she read to them Mme. Montalembert's letter. These ladies immediately decided to send Mme. de Montalembert twenty thousand dollars ($20,000) to distribute among the poor and disabled soldiers. The money was forwarded to her in due time, and later several thousand dollars more, all owing to the influence and ex- ertions of Mile, de BlossiSres. January, 187 1, came, and I tried to collect for my church. I had not yet seen any of those Americans, who were indebted to me for favors I had done them in Paris. But once I began my calls, I was soon undeceived in regard to their unselfishness, and whenever 1 de- scended their steps, I thought of the old saying : " Gratitude is a lively sense of favors to come." They nearly all laughed at me at the very idea that I should expect them to subscribe to a church. One day Mr. Fernando Wood called on me, and about the first ihing he said to me was : " You are not capable of managing a house "mm m FERNANDO WOOD S PROPHECIES. 49? I first ouse like tills. You ought to write a book. You would make more money at that than you will keeping boarders. Why don't you sit down and write a history of your life ? " I replied : " 1 never could write my life, because there would have to be too many blanks ; the most interesting part would have to be left out." Stiid he : " If you are going to remain a fervent Catholic you will become poor." I replied : "I don't care if I do ; I mean to perse- vere." He applauded my resolution ; but I did not speak the truth, for I had a perfect horror of poverty, and I did not believe that I was running any such risk. I disliked though to hear him make such a prediction. For I looked upon Fernando Wood as a kind of pro- phet, although I never heard of any of his followers adoring him as such. My belief in him as a prophet arose from these two facts : — Two days before I sailed for Europe for the first time, Mr. Wood called on me one morning, to give me letters of introduction to some of his friends in Paris. I asked him (meaning it as a compliment) if he would be the next President. " No, madam," he replied, " I will not, for the next President will be^ assassinated ; " which prophecy was verified, eighteen months afterwards, by the assassination of Mr. Lincoln. A few days after I arrived in Paris, when I returned from America after buyi'ng my farm, Mr. Wood called on me one day at the abbey. He had just come from Diepj)e, where the Emperor had been staying for a short while. Said he : "1 was here on the T5th of August, to see the Napoleonic feast. There will not be another such feast here next year on the 15th of August ; for by that time this whole govern- ment will have crumbled to pieces." When, therefore, Mr. Wood predicted that I would become poor, it annoyed me, for I remembered how truly he had predicted those two events. It annoyed me so, that I at last said to him : '* Oh, there is no danger of my ever becoming ])oor. I am going to look out for that." He replied : " Then you will change your convictions : be- cause, if you persist in this religious fervor, it will certainly bring you to poverty." The latter part of January I wrote a long letter to Laferri^re, tell ing him everything that had hai)pened me, since I left I'lance; that I still believed that God had inspired me to come on here, and would yet reward me for all the sacrifices I was making, and the humilia- I 498 DOUBTS DISPELLED. tions that I was suffering. I begged him to write me how he ivas situated, and if he needed a home to come to me ; and I said that if he was poor, I would willingly labor to support him. I concluded by telling him how truly grateful I was for all that he had ever done for me, and that I even found a consolation in the misfortunes that had befallen him, believing that they would give me an opportunity of proving to him my devotion. , ^ CHAPTER C. CONFIRMATION OF MY MISSION TO BUILD A CHURCH. '■ I NOW passed nearly all my time looking up my old friends and acquaintances (few of whom it had not been in my power, at one time in my life, to oblige), and begging them to assist me to build my church. Meeting with nothing but rebuffs and disappointments wherever I went, I soon became discouraged, and was willing to believe that God had only induced me to leave France to escape the war, and that the thought of building a church was all a delusion ; that He had not inspired me to build it. I commenced deliberating what to do. I went and got my Bible, wishing, in my heart, that opening it I might find such words as would lead me to suppose that our Lord forbade me to build the church. I knelt down before my crucifix, and holding up my Bible towards it, I exclaimed : " O Beloved Saviour, speak to me, and let me know Thy will ; and whatever it is, I will try to do it." I opened the Bible, and my eyes fell on these words : "2 Thus speakelh the Lord of hosts, saying, This people say. The time is not come, the time that tiie Lord's house should be built."' (Hagg. I 2.) I closed the book impatiently, saying : *' I know. Lord, that the people say that the time is not come to build Thee a church. But tell n\e what Thou sayest ; that is what I want to know. I implore Thee tell me what Thou sayest." I then opened the Bible a second time, and read : " 7 Thus saith the Lord of hosts ; Consider your ways. *' 8 Go up to the mountain, and bring wood, and build the house ; SILENCED IF NOT CONVINCED. 499 and I will take pleasure in it, and I will be glorified, saith the Lord." (Hagg. I. 7.) My heart palpitated with joy. I kissed the Bible and exclaimed : " How good Thou art. Lord, to give me such a proof that it is Thy will. I will now persevere ; for I know that Thou wilt be with nie and wilt surely help me." I began pacing the floor, wild with delight and had not put my Bible away when I heard a rap at my dooi, The door opened and the servant announced Father Beaudevin. He noticed my astonishment at seeing him, and he began at once to explain the object of his visit. Said he : "I have com*' to try to per- suade you to give up the idea of building that church, fo/ I fear that" • -"Father," said I, interrupting him, "you are just ten minutes too late. If you had come ten minutes sooner, one word would have put a stop to it." . . . I confessed to him my despondency, and how I had doubted, and had recourse to the Bible, to know the will of God. I then showed him the two passages which I had successively opened at ; his face lightened up ; he slightly bowed his head and said, " That is enough ; continue ; I shall not try to dissuade you from it." From that after- noon the question of building the church was settled in my mind. I believed that God had inspired me to come to New York and build it. I now had but one thought, and that was to execute His com- mands, believing that my reward would be, that He would unite me to the man 1 loved. When I wrote to Madam de Montalembert that I had put her letter in circulation, and it had succeeded in getting twenty thousand dollars, which, on account of the exchange, only made 93,000 francs, 1 stated the facts to her, just as they were, and begged her not to lake the trouble to write me an acknowledgment, but to utilize the time that she would waste on me, by thanking the ladies who managed the French Bazaar, and particularly Mile, de Blossi^res, to whose efforts and zeal she w^as chiefly indebted, and to be particu- larly careful not to mention my name, as I was very unpopular here, and if she gave me any share of her thanks the probability was thai she would not get any more. I received from her the following answer : 500 THANKS FROM FRANCE. "RlXENSART PAR ATTIGNIES, BELGIUM, "February I2tk, 187 1. •' My Dear and Excellent Friend, •• How shall I express iny gratitude for your incredible efforts, and for the splendid success with Avhich God has crowned them ! My cousin, de Merode, was wild with joy at being able to relieve so many poor people in the environs of Paris, Ardennes, and other places, out of that magnificent sum of 93,000 francs, which he re- ceived, and at once made use of. I would have liked to embrace you at once, and express my gratitude ; but I commenced by execu- ting faithfully your instructions : I wrote to Mile, de Blossieres, sc that she might personally express my gratitude to all the ladies of the Bazaar, whose great zeal has given us this efficacious relief." After relating to me the multijilicity of affairs that she has been engaged in, Madam de Montalembert goes on to say : — " This is why my letter to Mile, de Blossieres was delayed a little, and why I have allowed you, dear friend, to wait so long for my thanks. They filled my soul, however, and I was anxious to express them to you and the good ladies, who so generously assisted poor France. "France is at present in the chaos of electoral discord ; our jjoliti cal training is still wretched, and this frightful Em])ire which has just given way, in bequeathing to us shame and ruin, both military and financial, has contributed not a little to our moral incapacity. " M. de Bismarck and the new Emperor of Germany, all bathed in our blood, are for us at present what the Emperor, that first scourge of Europe who finished his days at St. Helena, was in Prussia. Let usnotceasetohopetherefbre. ; '^ ^t-^- .;^/ ' '* What a charming portrait you have drawn me of Madam Hardey ! Embrace your child (this charming future young lady) for me. " How will you find time to read my letter, with all that you have to do in managing your large house ? But I shall be satisfied if you can succeed in building your church. '* I press you to my heart " COMTSSE. M^RODE DE MONTALEMBERT." One evening T went to the chapel in St. Xavier's Church, and im- plored the Blessed Virgin to intercede for me, diat God would inspire me what name 1 should give my church. A CHURCH TO ST. GENEVIEVE. 501 While 1 Avas praying, all that St. Genevieve had clone for me came up vividly before my mind, and 1 recollected that, the first time 1 had knelt before her shrine, I had promised her a beautiful present if she would grant my request. I remembered how she had obtained for me everything I asked of her that day, and, for an instant, I was con founded at my own ingratitude ; for I had never done anything more than put a few francs into her poor box, and offer her a few flowers. I asked God and the Saint to forgive me, and looking uj) at the statue of the Blessed Virgin, I asked her: " Mother, shall I dedicate my church to St. Genevieve ? " Instantly 1 felt as if a flash came over the statue, and that the Blessed Virgin had replied : " Yes, dedicate it to St. Genevieve." The same impression was produced on my mind as had happened three times at St. Mande ; and each of these times I was just as sure that the Blessed Virgin had answered me as I was sure of my oifn existence. CHAPTER CI. A JESUIT ON THE TEMPORAL POWER. I LIKED the music at St. Xavier's Church, and was often drawn to High Mass solely on account of it. One Sunday in Advent I went there. At that time the whole Catholic world was protesting against the outrage commited by Victor Emanuel on the temporal power 0/ the K_pe. A.ter the gospel, a young Jesuit mounted the pulpit. Father Mer- rick, a stranger to the congregation, who had been invited to speak on the temporal power of the Holy Father. When he raised his head to address the audience, I was struck with the earnestness of his manner ; and his remarks served to remove many of my prejudices, and to put in a rational light, what had hitherto seemed to me incon- sistent with the spiritual character of the Pope's oflice, and obstruc- tive of his mission. He showed that this power had served as the safeguard of the in- dependence of the spiritual authority. He argued against the right of a mere majority of the unorganized people to change an established form of government, regardless of vested rights, and the written, or 502 A HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY. unwritten constitutions by which nations have their being. Even though the Roman people should be sometimes restive under the Pope's temporal rule, their will or caprice need not be admitted to be a sufficient reason for the ignoring of those vested rights, which the Catholic world has in ♦^he civil independence of the Popes ; — rights, which it enjoys by the prescription of centuries, and for which it has paid, over and over again, even in the material treasures and benefits it has lavished upon Rome and its territory. Without these benefits, both Rome and the Papal States would probably long since have been reduced to a wilderness, about whose government it would i\ot be worth while to quarrel much. This certainly would have been a simplification of the Roman question. T CHAPTER CII. "THE GOOD COUNTRY PEOPLE." Spring had come. I was in possession of my farm. After it was paid for, the cottage enlarged and repaired, and my stables mounted, I found that I had spent a great deal of money, and had little to show for it, compared to the expense. :.';«< On the 27th of June I left Ne-iv York for my country home. For months I had been anxiously anticipating that happy day, for I longed to breathe again the free air of the mountains, and to have my lit- tle house in order, so that if ever Laferri^re answered my letter about coming to America, I should be prepared to receive him. In- deed, I never could divest myself of the belief that we would pass many happy hours there together. Such were my dreams of living in the country ; to have a little home daintily furnished, and have La- ferriere come and reside with me until such time as we could both return to France. Those were my dreams ; but the reality can only be told in " What I know about farming." One of the religious of the Convent of the Sacred Heart had intro- duced me to a widow lady, whom I will call Mrs. Voice. She was an accomplished musician, and sang divinely. She was to come and pass the summer with me, I thought I could build my church in a few months, and its success would be assured by having a choir. T "RURAL DELIGHTS •> 503 I had engaged a young man and his wife to take care of my farm. He knew, and so did all my friends, of my inexpressible devotedness to my little daughter. ,■;• The evening before I expected Mrs. Voice to arrive, who was ta bring my child, this man got beastly drunk, and I ordered him at once to leave the place ; for it was one of the conditions I made when I engaged him, that if he ever became intoxicated, he forfeited his place. He was determined not to go, and begged and ini])lored of me to let him remain only a few days, that was all that he asked, just a few days. That evening I surprised him in conversation with his wite. She was weeping, and looked idiotic from fright. I caught enough of their conversation to know that there was a question of my child, and ; I wondered what it could be, when I heard his wife exclaim : "That would be too crUel ; you could not treat her so ! " The man an- swered her, with an oath, that she should see that he would. I called the wife, and begged her to tell me what her husband had said. "Oh," she replied, "don't let him stay; he has often threat- ened to steal your child, and now he declares that he will do it." Said I : " Steal my child ! what could he do with my child ? " The • wife replied : " He would keep her until you gave him a large reward ■ to bring her back." I could not believe that a devilish spirit like that could exist in a human heart, and particularly in the heart of this man, whom I had known for years, and whom I had always tried to help, and to whom I had even then advanced money. I asked him if what his wife told me was true ? . ' He did not deny having made the threat, but declared that he had said it in fun. I refused to accept his excuse, and insisted that he should leave ; then he vented upon me the vilest abuse, and threat- • ened me in every conceivable way. Some of the neighbors were passing. I called them in to protect me. He then left, and shortly afterwards his wife followed him. The next day Mrs. Voice came and brought me ray child. Mrs. Voice's father accompanied her. They were both afraid that they would not be able to remain, for, ■ &t that season of the year, it was next to impossible to hire a man, as every one was engaged for miles around. I told him that 1 had placed my nouse under the protection of St. Joseph, and I had not the slightest doubt but what the saint would send me a man. 1 i .'I .If 504 I ENGAGE A RUSTIC SWAIN. On the morning of the 5th of July I was in the kitchen with Mrs. Voice, who was expressing to nie her doubts and fears about my be- ing able to get a man-servant, and to whose anxieties 1 made but the one reply, " Oh, Saint Joseph will take care of me, never you fear. I have been praying real hard this morning." These words had hardly escaped my lips, when I heard some one spring over the fence, with the agility of a hare, and, turning round, I saw a sprightly little Irish- man, who, without the least ceremony, came into the house. He wore a ruffled shirt, and a large red rose in his button-hcle. The moment I saw him, I said to Mrs. Voice : "There is my man." Without waiting to hear what he came for, I asked him : "What is your name, sir?" He replied : "My name, madam, is Mr. Costello; but everybody around here calls me Mike." Said 1 : "You will per- mit me then to call -you Mike, will you not? " " Certainly, madam." Said I : " Don't you want a job ? " " Oh," said he, shaking his head, " 1 am dressed uj) too much to work." I began coaxing him In a few minutes I made him forget his clothes, and he said that he would pitch right in and heli) me. Mike was as ingenious and active an Irishman as one might wish to meet. He set to work, and did more in an hour than any other man I had had would do in a day. Towards night, when I offered to settle with him, he said to me : " Madam, I have taken a fancy to you, and I would like to hire out with you by the month. I think that you and I would get along tirst-rate together," I answered : " I thought that you were engaged to Deacon Reed ? " . He replied : " Oh, I'll quit the Deacon for you, if you will take me." Said I : " Would that be right ? " "The Deacon," he answered, "has lots of men working for him : you have nobody at all. I feel sorry for you ; for everybody is trying to take advantage of you. You need a smart man to overlook things, ^ some one who will take an interest in the house. Besides, I like the looks of that woman in black : " meaning Mrs. Voice — " I think she is a mighty pretty woman, and can't she smg/" I was overjoyed that he was so anxious to come and live with me, and I engaged him on the spot. Mrs. Voice and her father con- gratulated me upon my good luck. The next day, after he had worked until nearly noon, Mike came to me, with his eyes lowered on the ground. He appeared greatly embarrassed, and hesitated for a moment before he spoke. At last WITH WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN. 505 he caught hold of some high grass, and began breaking it, while he stammered out : " I forgot to tell you, madam, when I engaged with you, that I had a wife. She Hves down on the corner, and she doesn't like to have me stay up here nights, and leave her down there all alone." "Why," said I, " bring her up here : it is just what I want; she can cook and do the housework. I am very glad that you have a wife." He thanked me, and went off to his work. A few hours later, he came to me again, appearing more embarrassed than before. With- out raising his eyes, he said to me : — " Madam, I forgot to tell you that my wife has got a little baby, about seven months old. Her name is Delia, the cunningest little thing that you ever saw in your life. She never cries a whimper : all my wife does, after she nurses her, is to put her on the floor, and she will sit there and amuse her- self for hours ; so that my wife can do just as much work as though she had no baby at all. It wont cost anything extra to feed her. What am I going to do with the baby?" "Why, Mike," said I, "you can- not separate the child from its mother : of course the baby is in- cluded : she must bring the baby along." After he had finished his work and was ready to go home, he came to me again, and said he : — '-Madam, I forgot to tell you that I had a little son, about three years old ; we call him Neillie. He is very delicate, never eats anything : it would cost nothing to keep him — never stays in the house with his mother, but is always hanging around me, — never speaks, and keeps so still that you would not imagine there was a child on the place. What am I going to do with him ? " "Mike," said I, " how many more children have you ?" "Oh, m^- dam," he replied, " I have no more : I have only two." " Well," said I, " you can bring them both along." In a few days, Mike and his family' were installed in my house. The first day, the " cunning little thing, whose name was Delia," screamed the whole time, in spite of the father's and mother's com- bined efforts to pacify her. The following morning I heard an in- fantine voice swearing like a corsair. I rushed down stairs to see what it meant, and I found " the delicate little Neillie, who never spoke a word," cursing my child, who was earnestly listening, trying to catc^ his words. The instant I appeared Neillie scampered away, and my child ran up to me exclaiming : " Mamma, I cannot understand Neillie's Eng- 22 ! 5o6 AND MOTHEU, COUSIN, COW AND PIG. lish. Tell it to me in French." Said I : "It would be as dinficull for me to put it into French, as it is for you to understand it in Fng- lish ;" I told the parents that they must prevent their boy from com- ing to the front part of the house ; which prohibition the parents did not seem to like. Things continued in this way for several days, until my ears were fairly stunned by the cries of the baby and the oaths of the boy. Since they had moved in, I had noticed an old woman hanging round the gate, and I, at last, asked Mike who she was, and what she wanted. " Madam," he replied, with a deep sigh, '* it's my mother, and it is breaking the old woman's heart to be separated from the children. 1 am afraid it will kill her, if she cannot be with them ; for she walks up the hill every day to see them. She is not very strong, and she doesn't eat much." ** Mike," said I, "is she strong enough to keep those children quiet?" " Why, madam," he replied, " she has always taken care of them." " Thank goodness I " said I ; "go and bring her in, and give them up to her ; and 1 will consider that she well earns her living if she succeeds in keeping them still." The house was in the greatest confusion. We were arranging and setting up the furniture, but the greatest disorder still reigned in the kitchen. The meals were served at all hours in the day : baking after baking was thrown into the swill : half of the time we were without bread ; and a greater part of the time the meat had spoiled for v^ant of care. -* Mike came to me one day, and said he forgot to tell that he had a cousin who lived under the hill, who was a thrifty servant-girl, and asked me if I would be good enough to engage her, because his wife had too much to attend to. I engaged the cousin. The same afternoon he came to me again, and began as usual : " Madam, I forgot to tell you that I had a cow. She is worth a hundred dollars ; but I will let you have her for seventy, and you can pav me for her whenever you choose." Said I : " I will take her." A few days afterwards he came to me again. Said he : " Madam, them two little pigs of yours don't eat up half the swill. I forgot to tell you that I have a fine pig. She is worth twenty-five dollars, but I will sell her to you for fifteen." Said I : " I will take her." A week rolled by, and he came to me again. " Madam," said he, " I forgot FATHER TANDY. 507 to tell you that I have a fine lot of hens and a potato patch, and I would like to sell them to you cheap," "Mike," said I, " stop I don't recollect anything else : you have remembered enough. In order to get you, it seems that 1 must take all Ireland with you. I began to count the things which he had added to himself since I bargained to take him. There was his wife, his baby, his boy, his mother, his cousin, his cow, and his pig, to which he wanted to add his hens and his potato- patch. 1 thought I had quite enough already, for I found that they made a large sum in addition. But soon the reader will see how I subtracted them by short division off of my place, all of them excepting the pig, which was the remainder. , , ; ;. CHAPTER cm. A MEEK LAMB, AND A LION-LIKE SHEPHERD. ' As soon as I came to reside on my farm, I tried to make friends with the parish priest, Father Tandy, who resided in Amenia. I was determined to conciliate him, so that he would not be making complaints against me to the Archbisho]) ; and, if possible, I was going to try to get him to go and speak a good word for me to His Grace. V/ < The first Sunday I went to Mass in Amenia, he made a short dis- course. The moment he turned round to address the people, I was quite taken aback, for I saw in him a formidable adversary. But in- stantly I decided on my mode of attack ; I must be gentle with him, and kill him with kindness ; for it was the only possible way that such a man could be caught. When Mass was over, I went into the, sacristy, accompanied by Mrs. Voice and her father. The moment I addressed the Father, I saw that his mind was already made up in regard to me. He received me very coldly, and looked at me frown- mgly. Mrs. Voice and her father were received by him with a most gracious manner and complacent smile. To appear very frank and ingenuous, I launched out at once about my church. His first words were : " I would advise you to go and see the Archbishop, before you begin it." " Oh," said I, " that will m 5o8 PARING THE LION'S CLAWS. f be all right ; as I intend to deed it to the diocese, it will give you a parish the more." He replied : " I have as many parishes now as I can attend to. But I understand that you are going to build it across the line. You take my advice, and go and see the Archbishop." I only spoke with him a few moments ; but, during that short in- terval, he advised me three times to go and see the Archbishop. I begged him to call and see me, and see what a lovely situation for a church it was, and what a beautiful little house I had ; I was sure he would be pleased. I tried to appear as me-^k, as harmless, and as in- nocent as a lanjb ; and well I might, for I felt that I was stepping on the claws of a lion, by putdng up a church on the borders of his parish. In a few days, we all called on him at his house, when I renewed my gentle attacks. But his manner towards me as much as said : *' I know very well what you want ; but I am not to be caught that way." This day he advised me four times to go and see the Arch- bishop. Shortly afterwards he returned our call. The best things in the house were spread before him ; if it had been the Archbishop him- self, there could not have been more fuss made ; and if there had been a fatted calf on the farm, I believe we would have killed it. After a collation, we all started out to climb the hill, where the foundation of the church was already laid. While we were mounting it, Father Tandy said to me again, but this time rather coaxingly : *' Why don't you go and see the Archbishop? " " Oh," said I, " it is too late now ; for I have already made the contract, and some of the money is already paid." " Well, then," he continued, " put it over in New York State." In a moment more we reached the top of the hill, where a mag- nificent view broke suddenly upon us. A beautiful valley lay at our feet, studded with villages, hillocks, and mounts. Directly in front of us, far in the distance, could be discerned the outlines of the Hoosack Mountains, whose peaks dimly rose above a circle of deep blue haze like a t'ision of peace. Father Tandy was unprepared for the natural beauty of this rustic view, and he instantly fell a victim to its charms. For a moment his whole soul appeared enamored with the scene, which seemed to render him oblivious of his parochial rights and sense of self-preser- vation. He stood erect, and stretching forth his hand, as though he would bless the ground on which he stood, he exclaimed: "God y HE ROARS "GENTLY AS A DOVE." 509 created this spot for His church. If I were stationed here, I would never leave it : I would make everybody come up here and worship God." This time it was our turn to be taken by surprise ; for we were tv^'ally unprepared for the outburst of approbation, and his gesture, his V ords, and his looks, showed plainly that he sanctioned my work. As we returned to descend the hill, 1 threw a grateful look on the valley and over the hills. That spot became dearer to me than ever. I felt that it had rendered me a service : it had effected for me, in an instant, what I might not have been able to accomplish in years ; it had ensnared Father Tandy, and made him forget himself, so far as to be willing to have me build a church across the line. Never afterwards did he repeat that ominous advice, " Go and see the Archbishop." The lion was tamed, I had nothing more to fear from him, at least for the present, for from the moment he stood on the spot where the foundation of the church was laid, whenever I be- sought him, to say "yes;" that he would take charge of the little church, after it was finished, he never said " no" but on the con- trary would smile as though he could not have refused to take charge of a dozen such churches, even though they were built across the line. • :v r: • ■ CHAPTER CIV. .; . ../ LAFERRlfeRE'S LAST LETTER. — DISCOURAGED — I AM REASSURED BY . . „ THE BIBLE. , , .; ' -, The position of the Imperialists was becoming worse and worse in France, and I lived in daily expectation of receiving a letter from T^aferri^re, accepting my offer. I fancied that the misfortunes of the French would be the foundation of my own happiness ; for I ever hoped that they would be the means of driving Laferrifire to me, to seek a home and consolation. I had arranged my bouse with the sole /iew of pleasing him, and there were moments that I would revel, in advance, at his joyful surprise, after crossing the ocean, to find in a wilderness a little home furnished with many things that were in his 5IO THE LONG-WISHED-FOR LETTER. apartment, when we first met. He had sent them to me when I went to St. Mand6, to fill up those spacious rooms. There was his chair, his table, his lamp, and many little objects that would remind him of the past ; and even some of his segars were there, — until Fa- ther Tandy came, and then they were sacrificed to him. ^ It was the 13th or 14th of July. Nearly everything was arranged : there was nothing left to be done, but to hang a picture or place an ornament here and there, when I received a letter. It was from France, and was addressed to me in his handwriting, and bore his seal. I had not received a line from him since the morning that his valet brought me that note, and handed it to me, just as I was going to take the train for Havre, more than a year before ; and not a day had dawned, since I placed my foot on the shores of America, that I did not awake, thinking and hoping that the mail might bring me a letter from him, perhaps stating the day, and even the hour, when I should be his bride. '- - ^' All these fond dreams, which had buoyed my spirits up through so many trials, crowded upon me, as I perused the following pages : " Chateau de FL^cni;RES, "y««y France, that one can- not predict its future. If nothing prevents it, I shall pass the most of my time at F'lecheres ; but, in case France becomes again un- inhabitable for those who have held any position under the Empire, I shall return to the mountains of Switzerland and buy a clidlet there. " I learned, with great pleasure, that you are contented and c'.o not regret in any way having followed your fancies ; the thought that you are almost happy consoles me for many of my present griefs. We are separated by the ocean, and by unsurmountable difficulties. I do not see any possibility of our ever meeting again in this world; it is a grief for me as well as for you, for your remembrance is very vivid to me. I often recall the past, and it is always with pleasure that I find the trace of so many happy hours passed beside you. This sweet dream hoi vanished., never to return I "I beg you to embrace your charming little girl for me; I shall re- main for her a souvenir of that happy France where she passed many years. May ttie dear child be happy ! May you also find a peaceful T i«B« ANGUISH. 513 life, and forget the pain I have caused you, to remember only the fe\Y good qualities which hide themselves behind my faults. " I send the most tender farewell, and the assurance of an affection which will only terminate with my life. '* LaferriJire." As my eyes ran over those lines, which I knew he intended me to consider as his last adieu, my courage forsook me, — but not the hope of seeing him again j for love does not so easily abandon hope. But my courage left me, — the courage to persevere and finish the work [ had begun. I had an impulse to rush back to New York, and take the next steamer that sailed for France. I knew that he loved me, that he was only wounded because I had left him, and that I had only to go back to hir.i, and throw myself at his feet, and all would be for- given. There I was, surrounded by everything and everybody that was most uncongenial to me ; and Laferridre's letter brought back to me all that I had lost ; and 1 believed that I might regain it all again, if I only went back to him. ^ I tried to conceal my anguish from those around me. The more I suffered, and the more my courage and strength to persevere failed me, the more I outwardly ajjpeared contented, hopeful, and happy. On the 17th of July they raised the frame of the church, and as the strokes resounded throuj. he air, each stroke fell on my ears, like a demon's voice mock! and deriding me for my obsti- nacy and folly. All the people around had predicted that my much-talked-c^ church would end in bemg made a barn. " Well," thought I, "be it so. What do I care whether they laugh at me 01 not ? Let them laugh. I will place myself beyond the reach of their deridings. I will go back to France, for I cannot live any longer separated from Laferridre. I will go back to him." I went up stairs, into a little room that 1 had fitted up to remind me of that little bedroom which I had dedicated to the Blessed Vir- gin, in the Abbaye aux Bois. The walls were pale blue, and on the ceiling were stars, and it was furnished with light blue silk and gold. The same statue of the Blessed Virgin, too, was there. I knelt before it, and there I began to pray, and to ask our I^ord to inspire me what to do. I never knew a sadder hour. I could hear cheerful and merry voices everywhere around me, but the heavy strokes of the workmen's axe jarred on every fibre of my heart. 22* 514 A DAY HAPPILY ENDED. After praying a few moments, and fervently imploring our Lord to let me know if it was His will that I should continue to build that church before I returned to France, I got my Bible, and kneeling down again before the statue, I said : " Lord, Thou shalt decide for me now, as Thou didst before ; and whatever Thou tellest me to do, 1 will do it." As quick as thought, I opened the Bible — the little Protestant Bible— at these words (L Chron. xxii. ii): " The Lord be with thee ; and prosper thou, and build the house of the Lord thy God, as He hath said of thee. " 12 Only the Lord give thee wisdom and understanding, and give thee charge concerning Israel, that thou mayest keep the law of the Lord thy God. "13 Then shalt thou prosper, if thou takest heed to fulfil the statutes and judgments which the Lord charged Moses with concerning Israel : be strong, and of good courage ; dread not, nor be dis- mayed." My soul was filled with the sweetest consolation as I read these lines. I felt just as though God were beside me, leading me by the hand. " Dearest Saviour ! " I exclaimed, " I will do as you tell me. I will build tlie church ; and I will be good, and will never doubt again that Thou didst send me here. Laferridre can call it caprice, fancy, what he will ; but I know now that Thou didst call me. I will trust in Thee, and I will ever keep Thy ' statutes,' and I know that Thou wilt not abandon me." I was as happy and joyous the rest of that day as I had been sad and despondent in the early part of it. The workmen, who had volun- teered to come from far and near, to assist the carpenters to raise the frame of the church, after it was raised came and sat on the green, where I treated them to sandwiches and beer, while Mrs. Voice played the organ and sang. As soon as they had left, Mrs. Voice, her father, my child, and my- self, went up to the church, where the old gentleman said the rosary, and the rest of us responded. The fiery rays of the setting sun were reflected on the eastern sky, so that the whole country appeared as though it were canopied by a radiant dome. I left them, and went down to the ledge of rocks, which lay by the roadside, opposite to the pond. My child came tripping after me, i.-K II.*- li§ '>ij OUR FATHER. 51S and, as we leaped from one stone to the other, she anxiously inquired, at every jump, if I would have a " steeple to the church, a cross, and a bell." I replied : " I will put on it everything that the Lord will give me ; but before we ask Him for a steeple, let us pray that He will give us the money to pay for the foundation." " Oh, mamma ! " she cried, " I am sure that He will do that ; but I think we ought to ask for a steeple too. I am going to pray the Blessed Virgin for that." As we leaped from rock to rock my heart was burning with gratitude to God for all His goodness. I stopped an instant to catch breath, and taking hold of my child's hand I said to her : " Let us thank God, my child, for all that He has done for us." "Yes, mamma," she replied, "for God is such a good Fatherr I was looking down at the pond when the word " Father" escaped her lips. A slight tremor passed over the water, and those tiny waves seemed to whisper back to me the words my child had spoken, " God is such a good Father." I then recollected the day and the hour that 1 had once sat there alone, when a child, without a home or a friend, and when I saw the water move, how I rushed down the rocks, and knelt down by the edge of the pond, and called on the spirit of my dead father to look down from heaven, and protect his child. I then looked towards the cottage where the shoemaker lived. He had long since died ; but his cottage was still there, the sight of which brought back a painful remembrance. I turned away from it, and said to my child : " Let us go home." As I came in sight of the house, my heart bounded with joy ; for I then recollected that I had, that very same day to which I allude, sat by the roadside, under the chestnut-tree, and coveted that little home. I said to my child : " How true it is, dear one, that God is good, for He has given me everything that my heart once desired. He does not even forget the prayers I made when a child." 1 could say no more ; my soul was too full for utterance ; for there too was the church already begun, which seemed to say that nothing was forgotten, and that our Lord had been watching over me, when I stood there, in years gone by, and had thought how beautiful it would be to go up on that hill to worship God ! In that moment I rejoiced, and was glad that I had left France ; for I felt that by leaving it, I had made God my Fatlier, and my 5i6 SUBMISSION TO FATE. \ Friend. But alas ! for the inconstancy of the human heart; before another day had gone, I was asking Him with streaming eyes, how long I still niuat wait before I should see Laferridre again 1 CH/iPTER CV. AN EXODUS. .Al The day after the frame of the church was raised, Mrs. Voice's father returned to New York, and we were left under the protectioa of Mike. He, and his wife, and his mother, and his cousin were principally employed in trying to pacify, to feed, and to clean the two children : while I was constantly praying God to make me patient and re- signed. One day I called Mike to drive out a heifer 1 saw in my lot. " Why, madam," he exclaimed, " that is your own : it is the fine little cow that you bought of me," "I don't want any such looking cow as that, and I will give you ten dollars, Mike, if you will take her back ; " to which Mike agreed. As I never made any complaints, everybody took me to be either crazv or a fool. I was a mystery to Mrs. Voice, who one day began telling me what her impressions were, whenever she chanced to go into the kitchen. . Said I, " Do as I do. I close my eyes, and stop my ears, and hurry through it as quickly as I can ; therefore I see nothing, I hear noth- ing." "Hear nothing!" she exclaimed; "why, you can hear the children crying all over the place." " You may," said I, " I do no* ; for when a child cries, I think of something else, and won't listen to it."' In a little w^hile, Mike came to the conclusion that I was neither crazy nor a fool, but that I was afraid to speak, for fear of losing them ; and he doubtless said to himself : " The woman is right ; for what could she do without a man to take care of her farm ? " The| reason why I was so lenient with this gentle band was, that I had) always made it a rule never to give an order unless I could enforce it, and whenever I gave one, I would be obeyed, or I would discharge tke servant at once. '■?•-''■■ M.i m u\ ■-'1 K. PATIENCE CEASES TO BE A VIRTUE. 517 f a m One evening Mrs. Voice was goading me more than ever, trying to open my eyes, when 1 said to her : " If I give an order, I will make them obey me, and if they refuse or are insolent, I will oblige them to leave." *' Goodness," she exclaimed, " let them go ! for what do they do but wait on themselves ? " The next morning I found the boy Neillie on the piazza, where he had been creating a disturbance with Mrs. Voice's child and maid; to avoid a repetition of the scene, I took the gentle Neillie by the Oand and led him to his mother. I had hardly left the kitchen when Mike came to me and said that he wished I would settle with him at once ; that he did not care to stay where his child could not have the privilege of going on the front steps ; that the mother would not stand it, and was so indignant that she had taken her hands out of the dough, and had gone to a neighbor's to hire a room. ' Said I : "Mike, you don't mean to say that you would leave me for such a trifle as that ? " Then he became bold. '* Yes," he replied, with earnestness, " we will all of us leave, Maggie and all ; and I would like to have you settle with me on the spot." Said I : " Mike, whenever a servant comes to me, and tells me that he is going to leave, I have but one reply, and that is that he has got to go. So pack up your things." - Mike was taken aback, and made no reply. At that niOinent his '^'ife returned. I went into the kitchen and found her at work. I "•ed her to stop, and give all her time to preparing to leave. But th had changed their minds, and had concluded to stay. ' S II: " Mike, you nmst leave, because you told me you would go." He then coaxingly requested me to let them remain. But finding that he could not mov;i me by kindness, he began to threaten, which had no effect on me either. At last, drawing himself up to his full height, which then did not make him appear very tall, he ex- claimed : '* Then we will settle, and you will pay me for my cow be- fore I will leave." Said 1: " I bought your cow, and for ten dollars you agreed to take It back, and I have given you time to go and sell it for yourself The cow is yoiirs, not mine." He swore that he would sue me. Said I : ** You can sue me, but that will not make me buy your cow." The court-house was in Sharon village, which lay about seven miles off. I thought it would be well for me to secure the nearest lawyer 5i8 A MICROCOSM IN A WAGON. to be had ; so I told Mike to put the side- saddle on the horse, and I started to consult Lawyer Swift, who lived in the valley. Mike, sus- pecting where I was going, took a short-cut across the lots, and got there before me, and secured him for himself. As soon as I got home, we had another pitched battle, Mike all the while threatening that he would sue me, to make me pay him for his cow. The next morning I gave them no peace, and kept right in the midst of them, urging them to leave. Mike began threatening again to sue me. Said I : " Mike, you talk just as though you thought that it would annoy me to go to court, whereas, I would love to go to court with you. It would be such- a luxurious change, compared to the mono- tonous life that I am leading on this hill." About an hour afterwards Mike came to me, as mild and as meek as a^ lamb, and said : " Madam, I would prefer not going to court, and I will settle with you for five dollars difterence." To which offer I agreed, thus anni- hilating all my prospects of having the pleasure of going to court. Mike had stored his furniture over the cow-house. In a few hours it was piled up on a large lumber-wagon, ready to leave. The clock struck two; and I heard a voice cry out: "Well, we are all ready now : let's go." At that happy cry I rushed out of the house, and sat down on the piazza, to view the parting train, taking for subject of my meditation the Exodus of the Israelites ; and I wondered if there ever was a widow, throughout all Egypt, who needed the services of a Jew as much as I did Mike's, and yet was as glad as I was to see him go. I concluded that, in my joys as well as my sorrows, I was destined ever to be alone, singled out by Providence as an exception to woman- kind ; and my heart bounded with delight at the strange sight of a wagon-load of furniture, with a kettle hanging down from the axle- tree behind, with Mike, his wife, the tender Neillie, the baby, the cousin, and the grandmother, all driving out of sight, and leaving me utterly without "help." A man soon afterwards came and drove away the cow, and then might have been heard a squealing, down towards the barn; it_was Mike's pig, the only living thing which still remained to remind me of what had been I A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS. 519 CHAPIER CVI. FATHER Tandy's story. In a few days after Mike left, I succeeded in getting two girls, and a boy about fourteen years old, to do my work. September had come, and it was time to take my child back to school. One morning I started off very early, on horseback, to call on' Fa- ther Tandy. I was almost there, when a terrible hail-storm set in, which frightened my horse ; and he ran away. He clinched the bit between his teeth, so that I had no control over him, and it was all that I could do to keep on his back. Just as I got in sight of the parson- age the saddle turned, and I was thrown to the ground without being injured j for as the saddle turned on his back, the horse instantly stopped. I had hardly time to open the gate before two tremendous dogs sprang towards me, and when I got into the yard one of them caught me by the heel. I had had a narrow escape in being thrown from my horse ; and be- fore I had yet recovered from the shock, to be attacked by two fierce dogs, in a hail-storm, made me feel for a moment as though the infer- nal powers had been let loose upon me. I had no sooner got into the house than I looked on my accidents as providential, as though the elements and the brute creation had leagued together to forward my designs. Nothing could have been more fortunate for me than to be caught there in a storm, with a horse that had just run away with me. I felt that it insured me the Father's hospitality for a few hours at least ; and that was just what I wanted. I did not want him to suspect the motive that brought me to his house that morning, lest he might be on his guard, and might refuse my request. I knew that he was going to New York in a day or two. I had done everything in my power to gain Father Tandy's good-will, my object being to try and get him to speak a good word for me to Arch- bishop McCloskey. At first he was on his guard ; but on further acquaintance I think that he began to consider me as a simple, good, honest-hearted ill! 520 AT FATHER TANDY'S. woman, who had little or no sense, and that there was no danger of my doing any '.larm, as I was going to deed the church to the IJitihop of Hartford, on condition that Father Tandy should take charge of it. On a better acquaintance with him, I concluded that I would rather not be subjected to him ; I merely wanted his influence, because I knew it was necessary in order to go on with my work. As I had an idea that Imperial reverses would yet force Laferridre to seek a home on this side of the ocean, I was determined to be prepared for such an emergency ; and in diat case I should want to occupy the place myself as a country-seat. I knew well that, if FathSr Tandy was once in possession of the edifice, he would have Mass only when it suited himself, and that if I attempted to interfere he would lock up the church, put the keys in his pocket, and perhaps threaten me with the thunders of the church, if 1 dared to murmur against his arbitrary rule. ' ; ■ ' • ' . • To return to my morning call, when the very elements themselves seemed to favor my designs on this unsuspecting priest : — in spite of my endeavors to arrive before he had breakfasted, his housekeeper, who came to the door, said that he had already breakfasted, and had gone out. On his return I related to him niy adventures, and wound up my story by asking him if he would please to tell me at once at what hour Mass was to be in Dover on Sunday ; for I ought to hurry home so as to get my breakfast. He instantly left me ; but returned in a few moments, and said that it would not be safe for me to ride back on that horse ; he had ordered breakfast for me, and would drive me home, as soon as it cleared off. I soon began to put on little womanly airs, and talk just as though I felt myself in his way, and appeared to be annoyed at the contre- temps that forced me to stay. I begged him not to let my presence interfere with anything that he had to do. I sat down by the window. Said he : "I am very glad that you are here, for I have nothing to do ; " and he came up to the window. Then I rose, and we both looked out. We saw a funeral, which was the only lively thing stirring in that inactive little place. Neither of us seemed to have anything to say ; but I would occasionally make such remarks as these : •' How nice it will be, when I get my church finished, to have Mass over there, and have Mrs. Voice sing." " But I should think that a man of your ability would die, put up in a place like this." ^ i^ ENMESHING THE LION. 521 i That made him sigh ; and he pointed toward a picture that hung on the wall, which represented St. Joseph's Seminary, at Troy, where he had once lived and labored, and he threw upon it a long and wist- ful glance. Here I felt a true sympathy for him, and, for an instant, I thought that I would like to have him join me in my work, as it would give hipi something more to do. But reason soon returned ; for I knew that he would be the stronger of the iwo, and that I would have to disappear. My breakfast was served up in the library, where we were. I then left the window, and sat down to my meal ; and we began to talk. ' Four hours passed ; and the whole time was consumed in talking, but saying nothing, I appeared all the while to be searching to find something to say ; but at last the conversation came to a dead pause, and Father Tandy went to the window, and remarked that it rained harder than ever, and that there was no sign of it clearing off. He resumed his seat again, which was right opposite mine, and he asked me if I would not give him a history of my conversion. 1 was delighted at the chance and instantly complied, making my story as pathetic and as interesting as I could. When I came to that part where I left the vortex of fashionable life, and immured myself, and had remained, as it were, cloistered for several months, he remarked : " That is wonderful for a woman like yourself. It required a tre- mendous will to do that. I never would have believed that you were capable of it ; " and he began to scrutinize me closely, while I as- sumed an expression which was quite " childlike and bland." Said he : '''■ Did you have an object V^ Thought I, to myself: " I am not going to tell you if I had." Returning his gaze with an inquiring look, I replied : " What object, Father ? " He did not like to tell me what he thought. He passed it off, and told me to pro- ceed. As soon as my story was ended, he remarked : " After lead- ing such a life, you will never be content to settle down here." " Oh," said I, " if I only had a little church, I think I could stay here and be happy ; " and I began to tell him my troubles. One was, that I was going to New York, and was going to try to raise money to pay for what I had already contracted for, but that it would be difficult without His Grace's consent. Said he : " Why do you not go to him and ask it ? " *» Because," said I, " he would not pay any attention to me. You will not promise to take charge of the little church, and I do not believe 522 HE TELLS A STORY. that he would care to have me continue it, for fear that I would inter, fere wi you. If you would only go and say a word for me your- self, it would all be right ; but you woiild not like to do that, would you ?" " Certainly, I will," he answered. " I will go and see the archbishop, and 1 am sure that, after I have seen him, you will have no trouble." I thanked him with all my heart. I then wanted to go, and intimated that it was of no use for me to wait any longer for the weather to clear off. "There is plenty of time," said he ; "I will see that you get home before dark," He was in no hurry to have me go, and seemed to think that it was his turn to talk ; and he began to tell me a story, to which at first I did not listen, for I was so overjoyed with my good luck, that I could think of nothing else. ' He noticed my inattention, and appeared displeased ; for he bluntly remarked that I was not as good a listener as himself. At that just reproach I sat still, and I listened to hin more atten- lively than I ever listened to any man before. The iant that I paid attention, I saw that his story was intended for my instruction. I could see it in his face ; for he looked at me as though he wished his every word would pierce the very marrow of my bones, that I might profit by another widow's sad experience, and never fall out with my parish priest. The moment that I seized the run of his theme, it filled me so with laughter that my whole body ached ; for I did not dare to smile, but sat before him, looking vaguely, as though I little comprehended what he found in that story that could interest him, or that could interest me. By my gross inattention, I lost nuich of the first part, but I am sure of the last, and can remember here and there an outline of the first, just enough to give the reader an idea of the whole plot. It was the thrilling story of a widow, who, once upon a time, determined to build a church, and her first stei> towards the execution of her plans, was to quarrel with the parish priest, who declared that the remains of this widow's deceased hu^- band — he not having died in a canonical way — had no right to repose beneath the altar of a Roman Catholic church, in which spot his widow was resolved to place them. The priest first requested her not to leave them there ; but she re- fused to comply with the request. He then forbade it, and she told him that she would do as she pleased. He gave her then to uuder- mi:, '■ -'iia ■i THE MORAL OF THE STORY. 5*1 stand that he could not prevent her building a church, or placing her husband's body wherever she chose ; but that he could prevent Mass ever being said there. She laughed at his pretensions, and went to work, disdaining the, advice and warning of a simple [)aiish priest. In a short while she succeeded in erecting a beautiful little church. When it was completed, she called on the priest, and re- quested him to say Mass, which he refused to do. She begged him and implored him, but he was inexorable. She went to the Arch- bishop, who refused to interfere with his priest. She went to other priests, who would have willingly complied, but they could not grant her request without the consent of the parish priest. She applied to him for that permission, which he pertinaciously declined to give ; and so it continued, and it was ten years before she succeeded in ob- taining her request. " What do you think of that ? " I made no reply, pretending not to have seen the point ; but I felt very much like telling him that, if I had been there, I could have taught that widow better. Father Tandy did not appear satisfied when he saw that I did not apply the important i)art to myself, and that perhaps his story had not had the desired effect. He fell to commenting upon it, and said that, if this woman had been smart, she would have kept on good terms with her parish priest, and then everything would have gone on well. Said I : " Perhaps she did not like him." He answered : " That had nothing to do with it ; she should have studied her interest, so as to have saved herself all that trouble." "Trouble!" said I, "who cares for the trouble ? If I did not like a priest, I would not be domineered over by him ; but if I liked him, I would do everything I could to please him." Said he: "You mean to deed your chapel, after it ij finished, to the Church, do you not ? " " Of course I do," said I. He continued : " And so did she. But it made no difference : she could do nothing without the consent of her parish priest ; " and he kept repeating it over until he was tired. He then left me, to order the horses. I thought to myself, as soon as he left the room, how much I had heard people rant about wily priests ; but I did not consider the craftiest of them a match for the most stupid widow. As soon as he returned, I wanted to remark : " But, Father, you 524 IT FAILS TO CONVERT ME. know that I am out of your parish ; therefore this widow's case and my own are not parallel." But I did not say it, thinking that it would be wiser to let him speak a good word for me to His Grace, before I should let him see that the widow to whom he had just given an instruction, did not forget that she was building her church across the State Hne. Father Tandy drove me home, and we were followed by his servant John, who rode my horse, and the two big dogs, the smaller of which Father Tandy offered to give me. He praised the dog's vigilance, of which I was easily convinced, as I still felt the prints of his teeth in my heel. That night, after I retired, I began reflecting over my good luck, while my child, who lay beside me, was condoling with me for having been caught out in the rain, thrown by the horse, and bitten by the dog. I was so absorbed in thought, that 1 would answer her Yes, and No, without listening to what she said. But as my bad luck would have it, I happened to say Yes, when I should have said No ; at which she instantly sprang up, exclaiming : " Do get up, mamma, strike a light and show me." " Show you what, child ? " said I. "Why, where the horse kicked you." " The horse did not kick me," I replied. " Then, mamma, what made you say he did, when I asked you ? " I began laughing, and she wanted to know what there was to make me laugh. Said I : " Don't ask nic any more questions, child, for I can only think of Father Tand)''s story." " Oh, mamma," she cried, "you must tell it to me." Said I : " Not now, for you will find it stupid ; but it will amuse you when you are older." " No, no, mamma, you must tell it to me now, I know it will make me laugh." I began to tell the story ; but before I had finished it, the child was sound asleep ; and never since has she asked me to tell her Father Tandy's story. CHAPTER CVII. ENCOURAGEMENT AND DESPONDENCY: THE BIBLE BIDS MK TO FEAR." NOT On the 3d of September I returned to New York and put up at the Westminster Hotel. Father Merrick, who was now my director, I VISIT THE ARCHBISHOP. 525 was amused and not a little surprised at my account of Father Tandy's promise to see the Archbishop, to say a good word for me. The Father burst out laughing and exclaimed : " Poor Father Tandy, how could he withstand two such widows ! " When I related what a change came over the good pastor, the moment he stood on the spot where the foundation of the church was laid, Father Merrick was struck with what I said, and exclaimed : " Perhaps God inspired Father Tandy to say those words." I went to the Archbishop, taking with me the letter which His Grace had written from Rome in answer to M. de Corcelles' letter concerning my proposed church. After passing the usual compliments, His Grace stopped short, and waited for me to speak. That embarrassed me^ for I expected that he would speak first, and I had prepared myself to be on the defensive. For a moment there was a dead pause. I apolo- gized for my awkwardness, saying : " I am not accustomed to speak to Archbishops, and I should only blunder if I tried to address you by your proper titles. Permit me to call you Father, and then I can ^lut my whole mind on what I came to see you about." His Grace smiled, nodded an assent, and said he should be pleased to hear me call him Father. "I suppose," said I, "you know what I came for?" "Yes," he replied, " but your business does not concern me j for you have built your church out of my diocese." " That is the difficulty that I want you to get me out of ; for I am determined you shall be my Bishop, and 1 will have nothing to do with the Bishop of Hartford. I could never raise money to build my church if it were known that it is out of your diocese." I then showed him my list of subscribers, and told him that every- body I knew lived in New York State. Said he : " I cannot change the boundaries of the dioceses." " I can," I replied ; " for I can prove that the New York diocese is a little too small, and that the one in Connecticut is a little too large, and we will take that piece from Connecticut and add it to New York. If your Grace will be kind enough to draw up a paper to that effect and have it signed by yourself and the Bishop of Connecticut, I will send it to Rome, where I have friends who will see that it is immediately sanctioned." His Grace shook his head at this proposilion, and said : " No, no ; we will do nothing of the kind : such a transaction would require a 5215 HIS GRACE IS GRACIOUS. Special meeting of the Bishops, and there is no necessity for all that trouble." " Will you accept the jurisdiction of my church," said I, " if the Bishop of Hartford will cede it to you ? " " Yes," he said ; " Father Tandy was here yesterday : he told me that the church is being built on a beautiful site, and he says that he is willing to take charge of it. I will see the Bishop of Hartford in a few days, and, if he is willing J will accept it, and will write to you. I apprehend no difficulty." 1 thanked His Grace, but I could see that his mind had been already made up before I came, and that Father Tandy had paved the way for me. I excused myself for not having called on him before. " It was very wise of you," said he, " to keep away ; for I should have had to put a stop to the whole thing : it is a courtesy that one Bishop always extends to another, never to build a church on the very border of his diocese, in order not to interfere with the adjoining parishes. "That is what I feared," said I, "and therefore I kept away from you, and I have been living in constant dread of receiving a line from you asking me to explain." " I i\ever heard anything about your work," said His Grace, "until a week ago, when 1 heard at Manhattan- ville, from Mother Hardey, that you were building a church. I could not believe it, as I had not heard a word about it ; and I assured her that she must have been misinformed. She insisted, however, that there was one building ; but it was only when Father Tandy told me that he had seen it, that I could believe it." " What must I do ? " said I. "You must go ahead," replied the Archbishop. "But I have no more money," said I ;" may I beg in your diocese?" He replied: " Go ahead." We then exchanged a few words in regard to M. de Coroelles' electio. o the National Assembly, and he himself referred to the letter that he lad written to M. de Corcelles from Rome. "Here it is," said I, pulling the letter out of my pocket ; " I was afraid that you might forget that you had promised to assist me, and therefore I kept the letter." " I don't think," said the Archbishop, " that I promised to assist you. I told you, on the contrary, that there was no need of a church." " I know you did," I replied, " but here you add that it is unnecessary to say that, when the needs become more pressing, you will take great pleasure in doing all that you can to assist me." His Grace appeared thoughtful for a second, and then gave me a SUCCESS. 527 teok that made me aware that he understood fully my diplomacy, and was not a little amused by it. We both smiled as I rose to leave. He accompanied me to the door, gave me his blessing, bade me good- by, and told me again to "go ahead'." I ran down the steps as happy as a child; for those wor'^s, "go ahead," coming from His Grace's lips, rung in my ears like the signal 'of success. I went from his house to St. Xavier's chapel. There I remained over an hour, offering up my thanks to God, and blessing Father Tandy from the bottom of my heart ; for I felt that he was a noble soul and a true friend. I was then fully resigned to submit to his direction, and was ashamed of myself for the part I had tried to make him play ; for I felt that, after all, it would be better to be ruled by such a man as liim, than to be with many others who might let me have my own way. I asked God to forgive me for my want of sin- cerity towards such a good man, and I firmly resolved thfat Father Tandy should take charge of my little church. The last of September T received a letter from Mrs. Voice, saying that the carpenter had just finished his contract, and expected that I would come and give him my note payable in three months. I ex- pected to remain during the winter in the country, supposing, of course, that Mrs. Voice would stay with me. But as soon as I returned, I discovered that, during my absence, Father Tandy had disgusted Mrs. Voice with the prospect of a winter's residence in my mountain home. The fact was, he wanted her to sing in his church ; and I fe'c that taking Mrs. Voice from me would fully counterbalance all that he had done in my favor with the Archbishop. The morning after I returned to New York I received the following line from His Grace the Archbishop of New York : " Archbishop McCloskey presents his compliments to Mrs. Eckel, and begs to say that he has just received a letter from the Bishop of Hartford granting all the permissions and privileges asked for. ,. "New York, September zZth, 1871." I then went among Catholic gentlemen and tried to beg. But no one would give me anything, and many suspected me, seeing so many Protestant names on my list. I referred them to the Archbishop ; but they would not take the trouble to go to see him. Not knowing what to do, 1 called on His Grace myself, who received me very kindly. I told him how others doubted me, and asked him if he would give • W 528 BEGGING. me a line by which I could show that I was not an impostor. He replied : " I will sign your subscription list and give you a hundred dollars ; " — which he did on the spot. During this interview I felt sure that I divined the opinion which His Grace had of me : he believed me to be sincere and in earnest ; but he also believed that I had more energy and zeal than discretion, common sense, or real piet) . My opinion of His Grace was that he was a very holy man, and one that was extremely cautious and far-seeing ; but Faith arid Hope held the reins over Caution to such an extent, that, although his prudence often prevented him from starting a work, yet his Faith and Hope would never permit him to stop one. Having the Archbishop's signature on my list 1 thought that all my trouble was over. I first called on Mr. Richard B. Connolly, who, the instant he saw His Grace's name, gave me a hundred dollars. The next day I called on Mr. " Golden Calf." Mr. "Calf" treated me like a, dog, and scolded me for even coming to him. I hstened to him, but refused to go unless he looked at my list, thinking that His Grace's name would influence him to give me something. The mo- ment he ran his eyes over it, he exclaimed : " I declare, here is the Archbishop's name ! He is always giving where he has no business to. I have been caught by several impostors through seeing his name on their Hsts. His Grace is too good ; he is too easily imposed upon;" and he handed me back the list, a, though the Archbishop's name alone was enough to damn it. I was dreadfully disappointed, for I knew that I was speaking to one of the wealthiest Catholics in New York ; and if he treated me sc, what could I expect from the rest? Instead of feeling indignant and outraged by Mr. "Calfs" manner and speech, I felt that I might iust as well get used to such treatment first as last, if I intended to persevere. I begged him so hard, that, to get rid of me, he gave me ten dol- lars. I then called upon several other influential and wealthy Catholics. They received me more gently than Mr. " Calf" did, but gave me nothing. This went on for a whole week ; when one evening I returned to the hotel more dfscouraged than I had ever been before. I had exhausted my list of Catholic names, of whom I had hardly been able to collect a cent. I fell to weeping, and I said to our Lord, " I do not wish to give up, but what can I do ? " and I sat down on the floor, buried my face in my hands and wept like a child. NEW STRENGTH. 529 I implored God to speak to me, and to tell me if He had aban- doned me or not ; and I implored Him, if He had not abandoned me, to inspire me what to do, and to let me know if I should continue as I was, blindly trusting in Him. ^ ?i.!j! .: , . . : I- > ;• I . ■ , i*;, I got up from the floor to get my Bible, and a fresh gush of tears streamed from my eyes at the thought of being there all alone with out friends, and surrounded by unknown enemies, who were doing all they could to injure me in the mind of the only friend I had ; and that friend too was a priest and a Jesuit ; and how long could I depend upon him ? I opened the Bible and dashed away the tears that blinded me. My eyes fell on these words (Is. xli.) : — " 10. Fear thou not ; for I am with thee : be not dismayed ; for I am thy God : I will strengthen thee ; yea, I will help thee ; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness. "11. Behold, all they that were incensed against thee shall be ashamed and confounded : they shall be as nothing ; and they that strive with thee shall perish. =:•'/»! "12. Thou shalt seek them, and shalt not find them, even them that contended with thee : they that war against thee shall be as nothing, and as a thing of naught. " 13. For I the Lord thy (iod will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not, I will help thee." i >* 'i I read and I re-read those four verses, until my sorrow was turned into gladness ; and much as I wept an instant before from desolation and despair, I now wept as freely from joy. I wondered how I could have ever doubted, even how I could have mourned ; for after I opened at those words, I felt as though there was no trial that I would not be willing to brave, to show God that I would ever put my trust in Him. -^ J>i.^;;:if.=--'S»!'^ t'j^iavv-c'/vj/ ■..- -- --■:■_■-■ '■ .' The following day I went out, but met with no success ; yet I rt- turned home hopeful and happy, and as soon as I entered my room, 1 fell on my knees and renewed my vow to God that I would ever trust and hope in Him, even though He brought me to the direst woe ; for [ knew that His hand could raise me up and deliver me whenever He would. About this time Mrs. Voice's aunt gave me a long list of names, rhev were all Catholics. I called on nearly every one of them, but did not siiccoed in raising over twenty dollars from them all. I 2 J 530 ONE TRUE FRIEND. resolved, after that, not to apply to Catholics any more. So I called on Mr. Willmarth, Vice-President of the Home Insurance Co. He gave fifty dollars and a letter to Mr. Dorr Russell, of the Loaners Bank. Mr. Russell gave me letters to several gentlemen, from whom I succeeded in getting five hundred dollars. I called on General Dix. He was one of the few among all my old acquaintances who treated me in the same manner in adversity as in prosperity ; and it cheered me up to feel that there was even one man on the face of the earth whose friendship adverse fortune could not change. ■ ■ -. - ;t i'.'i ..I •■' .I'.i :• ! ' CHAPTER CVIH. MY DRIVING LESSON. '• " Finding it impossible to get any more subscriptions, on account of the Chicago fire, I resolved to go home and pass the winter on my farm. Mrs. Voice had left me, and soon went to live in Amenia. ;- ■ > I was driving out one day, — it was the first of November, — and my horses ran away. 1 had hold of the reins, and succeeded in managing them until they chose to stop. But I called on God to help me at every breath. I looked upon my escape as miraculous, and attrib- uted it all to the hand of God. That night I awoke shortly after midnight, and I immediataly recol- lected that it was the 2d of November, a memorable day for me. It was the fourth anniversary of the day that I had been able, by the grace of God, to forgive my mother, as the Angelus bell of St. Mand6 ushered in All Souls Day. There would be Mass celebrated early the next morning in Amenia. But Amenia was seven miles away. Ever since my conversion I had always offered up my communion on that day for the repose of the soul of my mother, and I felt that to neglect it would be almost a crime. Yet I was afraid to go, on account of the horses having run away ; but a moment afterwards I was afnaid to stay away for such a reason. I feared that God would punish me for my want of faith. I rose c^nc| tcjUl tl^e boy to harness the horses, and we wqulcl go to A RACE AGAINST TIME. 53» ■V>; ;/;■; Mass ; but, before we started, we offered up a prayer that God would protect us. Everything went on well until we came within two miles of the church, and then the horses started to run. The wheels almost ceased to turn, and would hardly touch the ground. The moment the horses ran I seized the reins in one hand, and held the boy in with the other ; he was determined to jump out, for he was frightened. I was not ; I felt that God was with me. They ran about two miles, until they reached the village, where they were stopped by some men. After I had received Holy Communion, and was returning to my seat, I nearly fainted ; but I never felt so happy and hopeful in my life. I felt that God would give me a rich reward for that morning's act of Faith. Father Tandy told his man John to get into the wagon and drive me home. But we had not gone far when the horses started to nm again. John got afraid, and I took the reins, and the horses stopped the instant that I began to pray. The boy was standing up behind us, holding on to the seat ; but the moment the horses stopped he began to laugh. Said I : " What is there here to laugh about ? " Said he : "I laugh to see how John turned pale ; but if they start to run again, I swear that I'll jump out, and I'll bet that both of you, if you tried, could not hold me in again." Said I : " We will let you go ; for we shall have as much as we can attend to, on this side of the seat." We got home safely, and our miraculous escape was the talk of the town ; for all those who saw the horses run, expected we should all be killed ; and they were still more amazed that we should always escape without the slightest injury to horses, wagon, harness, or ourselves. I have said that a// were amazed. But no ! for there was neighbor White, who was the great horseman of the place. He laughed, and made fun of me for ** allowing those ponies to run away," and would often exclaim : " But what does a woman know about manag- ing a team ? You should take me along with you to teach you how to drive." Said I : " My friend, you shall have a chance, any time you choose to go." Shortly afterwards I told the boy to harness the horses and drive to Wassaic, to get a oad of stove-pipe which I had bought for my church. He looked at me when I gave the order, as though I were sending him to his grave. The boy begged me to go along for fear the ^'.orses i 532 I PUT MY TRUST IN MAN. might run away. It was getting '.ate ; there was no time to lose ; to please him, 1 got in. We had hardly got started before he declared that if the horses should begin to run, he would surely jump out, and that it would be of no u^e for me to try to hold him in. Just at that moment we passed a corn-field where I saw neighbor White at work. I called out to him, and asked him if he would not exchange, and drive the team, and let the boy husk the corn. " Cer- tainly," he replied, "and I will show you how to drive" '". » »y/ In an instant the boy was down out of the wagon into the field, and he threw after us a parting look, as though he never expected to see either of us alive again. Mr. White examined the harness and the wagon to see if everything was safe, and, as a double precaution, he buckled on an extra pair of reins. After he had pronounced every- thing safe and sound, he jumped buoyantly on the seat, snapped his whip, and said : " You must show them that you are not afraid of them — that's the way to drive." . : ' . I at once recollected that I had forgotten to pray ; " but," thought I, " there is no danger with neighbor White and an extra pair of reins ! " The thought had hardly crossed my mind, when Mr. White spoke up in a bantering way, and said : " Before we go any further, you must promise to buy me a ^'cket for the next train for York if these ponies happen to get away." Said I : " We can keep on ; I will pay for your ticket, be not afraid ; but please don't flourish your whip so until we get down the hills on the plain." He laughed at me for being afraid when he was by my side. Said he : " If you had the boy along, then you might be afraid ; " and he jerked the reins most daringly, and snapped his whip again. Thought I to myself: " I wish they would run away, and frighten him half to death." :■'-': . We arrived at the depot perfectly safe ; but, long before we got there, Mr. White acknowledged that they were the fastest trotters in the place. " But you see it takes a man to manage a team. Why don't you get one to take care oi you and your place ?" He loaded the wagon with pipe, and we started for home. All the while he kept running down my horsemanship and praising up his own. We had gotten within a mile and a half of my home, when the horses started to run as they had done three different times with me. Neighbor White turned deathly pale, as he braced his feet against ihe board and pulled on the reins. The horses did not stop for that, bu', dashed along at lightning speed. I did not pray, nor even s;* MY CONFIDENCE DASHED. 533 laise my heart to Cwod, for I put my trust in neighbor White. But soon we came in sight of the turn — and that was all 1 saw ; for, in the same instant, I was thrown fifteen feet, with neighbor White by my side ; but " the ponies " still kept up their pace, leaving the stovepipe, the wagon, neighbor White, and myself behind. I was knocked senseless, and when I came to consciousness, I was in a one-horse wagon, leaning on neighbor White, who was driv- ing with one hand, and sustaining me with the other. Said I : "Where are we, Mr. White?" "Why," said he, "don't you know how the wagon upset, and the horses got away, and you and I were thrown close to the Dominie's fence? — and it was a wonder that we were not killed. Miles Bump got the water to wash the blood from your face. This is Hen. Bird's wagon. Oh, my leg, how it aches ! " As soon as I could recollect myself, I exclaimed : " It serves me right, because I did not pray. If I had only prayed, the horses never would have gotten away." • .• /: - . -,-!",;(*.' i As soon as we were in the house, I noticed that neighbor White would put his hand to his head, then to his elbow, and then to his knee, the same as I had seen the negro ministrels do, when they finish playing the tambourine. I could not refrain from laughing, and I asked him how it happened that he was there, and why he had not taken the down express train. Said he : "I have ridden on the York Central lightning express ; but the fastest ride I ever took was the one I had to night. All creation could not have held those brutes ; for, in trying to hold them, I pushed both the heels off my boots ; " and he held up before me a pair of heelless boots, the sight of which convinced me that it was better for me to put my trust in God, and hold the reins myself, than it was to take neighbor White along to teach me how to drive. From that day forth neighbor White never spoke about the ponies, but he has sometimes gently inquired how the horses were. i ! ^ f.r.,>;i> I '■?,*■'. CHAPTER CIX. A FALSE LIGHT. — A TRUE DREAM. After the accident of the horses running away, the boy and the gill wanted to leave me to go home. The boy was even afraid to ^m-- ' ^■vi,^„,.ndM»«*^: 534 A FRIEND IN NEED. lead the horses to drink, and he left at once ; but the girl consented to remain another month. I began then to think that it was about time for me to leave too. So the ist of December found me again in New York at the Westminster Hotel. On the feast of the Immaculate Conception, December 8th, I was enrolled among "the children of Mary." While at the altar 1 prayed God that my child and I might both become perfect in His sight, and that 1 might be able to pay my notes which fell due on the 27th. That same evening I wi's at a Fair in St. Xavier's College ; Mr. Dorr Russell was there, and he asked me why I looked so thoughtful and dejected. Said I : '* I don't know how I am going to pay off my notes on the 27th ; for I have not been able to get a subscription for the past three days." *' Don't be sad on that account," said he, " for I know a gentleman who will lend you the money, and who will take your note for security. Mr. John Butler, the gentleman I intro- duced to you here last evening, will help you with a loan." A few days afterwards Mr. Butler lent me the money, asking no other security than my note, payable in six months. I attributed this good fortune to the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, and I passed the greater part of the following day at her altar in the basement of St. Xavier's Church, offering my most heartfelt thanks to God for His goodness and mercy. When I left her altar that day, it was like taking away the steel from the loadstone, so drawn was my whole soul to that spot ; and I retired that night wishing it were already day, that I might return. I passed the next day as I had the preceding one, and so I continued for a whole week. ;';*i •;■■?•;< ,.,;•*■ When I went to confession, I accused myself of having been indo- lent, and told the Father precisely how I had passed the week, trying to excuse myself by describing the feelings that came over me when- ever I rose to leave the altar, and how it required the greatest effort of my will to stop praying. To my surprise, the Father did not scold me. I took advantage of his leniency, and passed another week in the same way. And so I continued, and passed about four weeks, when the Father said to me : " Now you must go to work, for you must work as well ai pray." The next day I did go out and try to get subscriptions ; but I re- turned about live o'clocklo the chapel, and wept there until eight p.m. A SULPHUROUS LIGHT. 535 The next morning I saw the Father in the confessional, and wept bitterly, as I related to him the humiliations I had been through the preceding day. He told me to try and bear up under them, by nietli tating on the Passion of our Lord. For a whole week I tried to (hi just as he had recommended ; but I was soon disheartened, and bo- came a prey to the most violent temptations. 1 began to long once inure to return to France. My director tried to incite me to work, but his efforts failed. Once he said to me : "I do not know what God intends to do witii you ; but I am sure that He wants us all to work as well as pray." , i .•,; ■ •, . ',„•;, ■,'.)•*■ t,. One evening I returned to the hotel sad and discouraged, with my mind fully determined to give up the life of retirement and devotion that 1 was leading. I took up my Bible and opened it, hoping it would sanction my determination, and my eyes fell on these words in Eccle- siastes x. 19 : "A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry ; but money answereth a// things" As I read those words, I received with them a light ; but it was a sulphurous light, compared to the lights I had always received when I had opened the Bible to know the will of God, with the intention of doing it whether li; suited my will or not. I instantly rose to my feet, and stretching out my arms before me, as though I would seize the Devil by the horns, and push him from me, I exclaimed : " That was you, old Devil, who opened at that place ! " li'n-:.; -■■,■■ S;, ;'..-i. * My conscience told me it was a false light. I made a firm resolve to do right and to persevere ; and no sooner had I made that act of my will, which must have been pleasing to God, than I received an- other light, but this time a true one. My thoughts instantly reverted to Father Bazin, and his having told me that it was dangerous and wrong for me to seek to know the will of God by resorting to such extraordinary means. 1 saw that my revelations might come from the Devil as well as from God ; for I was just as certain that the revelation I had just opened at came to me from the Devil, as I was that the other ones had come from God. I sank on my knees, and thanked God, with fear and trembling, for having thus far escaped; for I was sure that all my former revelations had come from Him. But as I was now convinced that the Devil could mix himself up with them, I asked myself: " How am I to know in future which is from God, and which from the Devil? I have had the grace this time, but will it always be so ? " ,' mm ' VKe mifOK'r 53^ A DREAM. I felt drawn to tell Father Merrick about tliese things, and ask him how I should decide ; but I was afraid that he would altogether for- bid my consulting the Bible, as Father Bazin had done. I now passed nearly all my time, during the day, in St. Xavier'a Chapel before the altar of the Blessed Virgin. Thus I passed all the month of February. March came, but it did not bring the slightest change in my disposition or my situation, excepting that I was drawn more and more to prayer. February loth I drove to Manhattan ville, to see my child. I saw Madam Hardey and confided to her many things, among them that I was determined that Father Tandy should never have charge of my church, and that I expected to have a great deal of trouble in pro- curing a priest. I asked her what I should do. She replied : " Say the thirty days' prayer and ask our Lord to get you a priest, and I am sure that you will get your request." I began to say it that very day, and continued saying it every day. On Sunday evening, the 25th of February, 1872, I was at St. Francis Xavicr's Church at Benediction, and, as the priest raised the ostensoriuri, I implored our Lord to send me a true dream, and let me know where I should apply for a priest, and if I would have one for my litde church. I made the request three times, arid made it with all my heart. Toward i morning, I dreamed that I was standing in the lot where my chjrc^ is built, and Father Tandy came up to me and handed me an envelope on which was written " Father Kearney : " and as he pointed to the name written on the envelope, he said : "The Archbishop calls him his old veteran." I then looked up at the church, and I saw a priest whom 1 had never seen before standing inside of it. I asked Father Tandy who the strange priest was. He replied, " That is Father Kearney." While I was looking at him, I awoke. The dream wai vividly impressed on my mind, and I kept thinking it over. 1 had never heard of a priest by the name of Kearney before, and the thought struck me that the next time I saw Father Tandy I would ask him if he knew ,i. priest by that name. Ihat same day I saw in the '■^Herald" a report of a sermon by the Rev. Father Kearney. In it he advocated the efficacy of jMayer. Tuesday I went to the Sister > of Charity in Prince Street, and inquired of them where the priest lived who preached at the Cath'idral on the previous Sunday. They gave me the address : it was in Mulberry ■•■■■■ / '' ' ' FATHER KEARNEY. 537 d ask him [ether for- Xavier's ed all the slightest :as drawn 1. I saw em that I ge of my e in pro- d: «'Say ;st, and 1 /ery day. as at St. aised the 1, and let liave one made it )t where handed :" and " The at the standing is. He t him, I 1 I kept ame of e I saw t name. 1 by the ayer. nquired on the ulberry Street ; and in a moment more, I was ringing at the door. But 1 no sooner rang than I felt like running away ; for, after all, what could I say ? The door was instantly opened, and I was told that Father Kearney was in. I wished then that he were out ; for, by this time, I was so nervous that I trembled like a leaf. I waited about ten min- utes for him to come down, during which time I walked the room, invoking all the while the help of God and the intercession of all the saints. I was about to leave ; but, as I opened the room door which leads into the hall, I found myself face to face with a priest, who was the very image of him whom I had seen in my dream. I looked at him, without speaking, until he asked me if I was the person who desired to see him. "Yes," I replied, "and if you will permit me, I will tell you frankly what brought me here." I then related to him the whole affair with as muc"i composure as though I had known him for years. At four o'clock I went to St. Xavier's Chapel, to offer up my thanks to God for having answered my prayer, and for having given me a true dream. I was fully satis- fied now that the day would come when I would need a priest, and that I would only have to go to Father Kearney and he would help to get one. That evening I called on Father Merrick. I commenced by ask- ing him not to scold me. " Oh," said he, " I am sure now that you have been up to some mischief. But tell me what it is, and I will see what is best to say." "Well," said I, "if it is mischief. Gad is to blame; because I prayed to Him and He answered my prayer." " Of course," said he, " that is the way all sinners begin — by excusing themselves and accusing God." I then related to him my story, beginning with Sunday, the loth, when I saw Madam Hardey, who told me to say the thirty days' prayer. Said he : "I believe your guardian angel sent you that dream. I am glad you called on Father Kearney : you could not have called on a bette.' nan." He asked me if I had never seen or heard of him before. I positive- ly declared I had not, and assured him that he could believe me, as I was going to receive Holy Communion the following morning. " Now," said I, " as you believe that that dream came from God, I will tell you how I k/tow that I am going to marry the Viscount de 23* • ... = ii I I I 538 DIVERSE INTERPRETATIONS. Ijaferri^re." And I related to him the vision that I had had on the night of the day I was baptized ; how I had prayed earnestly before going to bed, and asked our Lord to tell me when I would marry l^aferri^re, and how distinctly I had felt the presence of our Lord without seeing Him ; how He had shown me a piece of paper with different combinations of the numbers 4 and 2 on it, and had said that I would have to receive His grace as many times a^. there were num- bers on that slip of paper before I could be united to Him. The Father was deeply interested in what I told him. He said to me : " You say that you felt the presence of our Lord, and that He said to you that you would have to receive His grace as many times as there were numbers on that piece of paper before you could be united to Him, and you saw Laferridre turning from you, looking sad ; and yet you interpret the vision as though it meant that you would one day be united to Laferri^re ! As for myself, I would put on it an entirely different interpretation," " Oh," said I, " I know very well what interpretation you would put on it. But I will have none of that ; for I know what our Lord meant, and He now intends, as soon as I finish my church, to let me go back to France and marry Laferridre." This was on the 27th of February. Whenever I saw the Father afterwards he would invariably refer to the dream I had had on the night of the day I was baptized. He no longer insisted upon my going out to get subscriptions : he only exhorted me to continue to pray. "•■ ' ■■' >: iH- ■■: '■ ':."'■>. t^,^ •Si; liytMii-J^r.' ;■: , .,;; ;; (■.■(■. .<■ i, • . = :; ;.-..,vX-; v-t,, ^m::.l MISGIVINGS. 539 ere num- CHAPTER ex. TEMPTATION. — SAVED BY THE BIBLE. — MY FIRST GENERAL CON- FESSION. I On the nth of March I had finished the thirty days' prayer. 1 had written to a gentleman, who resided out of town, to come and see me on the evening of that day ; for I was determined that, if there was no change in my position by the time I had finished the thirty days' prayer, I would give up and go back to France. I felt that I had prayed long enough, and if God did not come to my assistance, it must be that I was laboring under a delusion. I was sure the gentleman had arrived and would call on me, for in the afternoon I had sent around one of the hall-boys, with a note, to his hotel. He was a good man, who had always taken an interest in me ; but he was sorry to see me such a " fervent Romanist," as he called it. I knew that the moment I should tell him that I was ready to give up my religious practices and my present mode of life, and that I wanted to return to France and marry Laferri^ie, he would give me the means to go, and would also settle up all my affairs, I was very sad, and kept saying to myself: " If there is a God in heaven he cannot blame me for this step ; for have I not prayed ? have I not trusted in Him ? and have I not made every sacrifice ? ' All these thoughts passed through my mind while I was dressing. I arranged myself with more than usual care. I painted my eyes, and decked myself with the few ornaments I had still retained. I hoped he would let me have the money to finish the church ; for, although I doubted of everything now, yet I disliked to go back to Europe without being able to say that I had act omplished what I came for. To while away the time until the gei.ti;M\.cn came, I took up the Bible, and began reading over hose passages which 1 now accused of having deluded me. I began with the firs*; one I had opened at, in the 29th chai)ter of Jeremiah. I read them all through, as thoughtlessly as I would have read an old letter that 1 knew by heart. After tak'ng 540 GOD IS A JEALOUS LOVER. a long, admiring look at myself in the mirror, I said : " Old Bible, 1 will open you once more, to see what you will have to say ; but I have been your dupe long enough ; " and, suiting the action to the word, I on the instant opened the Bible, and was startled at seeing the following verse : " And furthermore, that ye have sent for m^n to come from far, unto whom a messenger was sent ; and, lo, they came : for whom thou didst wash thyself, paintedst thy eyes, and deckedst thyself with orna- ments." (Ezek. xxiii. 40.) I restrained my tears, because I did not wish to wash off the pen- cilling from my eyes. But the passage had wrought a'change in me, and I believed that God had ever been with me and was with me still. I really believed that He had just spoken to me, and that He de- manded of me to stop painting my eyes, before He would fulfil His promises. But I could not make my mind up to such a sacrifice ; for Laferridre had always admired my dark eyelids, little suspecting that they were painted. And I said to our Lord : " Now you are asking too much, for I will not stop painting my eyes." I took the Bible and began reading those passages which had pre- saged happiness for me. I read and re-read them with an incredu- lous and almost despairing heart. In reading the first passage which had consoled me so much in Paris, I was for the first time struck with the condition which the I^ord imposes in the last verse, "And ye shall seek me and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart." I repeated it several times : " And ye shall seek me and find me, when ye shall search for me with all youi heart." I reproached myself, for the first time, for not having sought God with all my heart, — in fact, with none of it ; for all my sacrifices, had they not been made to obtain I^aferridre, and not for God Him- self? Addressing God, I exclaimed : ** I have always heard it said that Thou art a jealous God : is it true ? " And distinctly I heard a voice within me answer, "Yes." For the first time the thought oc- curred to me that God might be jealous of Laferridre. The idea pleased ne ; for, of all sentiments, jealousy was the one that I thought 1 knew the most about, and 1 felt that if God was jealous of Laferridre, He must love me, — and the thought delighted me that God could love me well enough to be jealous for me. I fell o . my tnces while those words were still running in my A NOVENA. 541 .11 my mind, " And ye shall seek me and find me, when ye shall search fol me with all your heart," and exclaimed aloud : " I will make a no« vena to St. Josr ph, and will try and seek Thee, Lord, and not La- ferri^re ; for if Thou art a jealous God, Thou couldst not have been pleased with me. This time I will try to seek Thee ; but I implore Thee to give me the grace to do it." I sat down and wrote off the following prayer for my novena : — "II//4 March, 1872. ** Novena Soliciting the Prayers and Protection of St. Joseph : " May I have the grace to give my whole heart to God, and may I love God with all my heart. May I become patient and resigned, and accept all past and future humiliations as coming from His hand, and be persuaded that they are all for my eternal good ; and may God watch over me and inspire all my ways. May He bless my lit- tle church ; may I be able to finish it ; and may that little church be the means of saving millions of souls. May 1 become a true Christian at heart ; may I liave more faith, and may I persevere unto the end." I had not quite finished it, when the hall-boy brought me a card. The gentleman I expected had come, and I told the boy to show him to my room. He had not seen me for some time. I related to him how I had passed my time since we had met, and I handed him the novena to read that was lying before him on the table. Said he : ** How much in earnest you are 1 I declare God ought to reward your faith." Before leaving he asked me if I had anything special to say to him. I told him that I did have, but that I would wait an- other week, for I was going to let the result of that novena decide my future. ' 1 > I would sometimes repeat my novena over twenty, sometimes thirty times a day. I would usually kneel down before the Altar of the Sacred Heart, and there I would implore our Lord to drive I^a- ferriSre from my mind ; for I was determined to fulfil this condition, and seek Him with all my heart. I would pray as though I were kneeling at the Saviour's feet im- ploring Him to love me. I would say : " O Lord Jesus, give me the grace to want to love Thee : give re the desire to have Thy love." For 7 *"' It that the Lord could read my heart, and I would acknowl. edge my own insincerity, that I did not desire it as much as I prOi tended I did ; but I wished, however, that I could have the desire. i 542 WORDS OF MERCY. Friday, March 15th, Father Merrick asked me if it ever entered into my mind to become a religious. " Never," I replied ; ** I would hang myself first." " Well," said he, " I think your mind has a tendency that way. I cannot divest myself of the belief that God intends to call you to be a religious." I thought to myself : ** What a wily set of fellows these Jesuits are ! He really thinks that he will drag me into a convent " (and a cloister, at that moment, appeared to me like a tomb). I was then determined to leave him ; and I told him that I saw through him ; that he need not think he should ever draw me into a convent. '* It is God who will draw you there," he remarked, " not I. / could not remain in the chapel and pray for hours consecutively, as you do : it would wear me out ; but your soul seems to delight in it." That day I was fully resolved to change my confessor. The idea of becoming a religious, which Father Merrick had just put into my head, kept running through my mind. The moment I entered my room, I took my Bible, and fell on my knees, saying, O beloved Jesus, I implore Thee to have mercy on me ; do take pity on me, and reveal to me my future, and let me know if I am one day to marry Laferridre or not. But Thou knowest that I could never be a nun. I arose, opened the Bible, and my eyes fell on these words : (Is. liv.) " 4. Fear not ; for thou shalt not be ashamed : neither be thou confounded ; for thou shalt not be put to shame : for thou shalt for- get the shame of thy youth, and shalt not remember the reproach of thy widowhood any more. "^ " 5. For thy Maker is thine husband ; The Lord of hosts is His name ; and thy Redeemer the Holy One of Israel ; The God of the whole earth shall He be called. " 6. For the Lo»d hath called thee as a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit, and a wife of youth, when thou wast refused, saith thy God. - . • . ; -; " 7. For a small moment have I forsaken thee ; but with great mercies will I gather thee. " 8. In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment ; but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer. " Q. For this is as the waters of Noah unto me : for as I have sworn THEIR APPLICATION. 543 is His of the nt; but le Lord that tie waters of Noah should no more go over the earth ; so have I sworn that I would not be wroth with thee, nor rebuke thee. *' ID. For the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed ; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee." I was astounded at the wonderful application that the three first verses had to myself ; but I did not receive a light, and that sensi- ble grace which usually accompanied my former revelations ; and I said to myself : " This must be the Devil, who is in league with that priest that is trying to draw me into a convent ; " and I said to our Lord : " This can never come true ; I cannot be Thy spouse, for Thou knowest that I could never become a nun." The next morning, Saturday, the i6th of March, the instant I awoke I heard an interior voice say, ** Go and make a general con- fession." I was sure that God had spoken to me, and I instantly replied: " I will." At ten o'clock I went to see the Father, and I took the Bible with me. The moment he laid eyes on it, he exclaimed : ** What, a Protestant Bible ! " Said I : " Not a word ; you and all the priests in creation could not separate me from that Bible ; so don't you say one word." Said he : "I permit you to keep it for the present ; but whenever I tell you to give it up, you will give it up." " Don't you be so sure of that," said 1, " and take good care that you do not forbid it very soon, lest I prove to you that you are a false prophet." I then showed him what I had opened at the night before ; and, when he read it, he could hardly believe it possible. He doubted me, and it was with great difficulty I could persuade him to believe that I had never seen these words before. " Well," said he, " if you prayed with all your heart, and it pleased God to make His will known unto you that way, you will surely be a rehgious." I ridiculed his words in my heart, but was glad to see that he no longer doubted me. One word brought on another, until I showed him all the other pas- sages, beginning at the first, and relating to him minutely all the cir- cumstances under which I had opened at them. Said he : ' All this gives me light, and I can now understand why you left I^aferridre, and why you still persist in building that church. But why have you always kept these things to yourself?" I told him what Father Bazin had said to me, and that I was afraid to tell him lest he would put a sto^. to it. I finished by saying that I I i ! » 11 544 CONFESSION OF A LIFETIME. intended to make a general confession. Said he : " What has put that into your head ? How you do change ! " Said I : *' I believe God told me to make it this morning when I awoke." He told me to go down stairs and wait for him at his confessional, and, in the mean while, that I must pray God to give me grace to make a good con- fession. I obeyed him. He kept me waiting for him over an hour, i then began to make my confession from the time I was six years old up to the present moment. When I finished, the priest gave nie absolution, and said he felt that God was with me, and that He had aided me to make a good confession. The next day was Sunday, the T7th, my birthday. That morning, after I received Holy Communion, my heart began to burn more sen- sibly than I had ever felt it burn before. > In the afternoon I went to Manhattanville, where I saw Madam Hardey and told her how our Lord had answered my thirty days' prayer by the vision of Father Kearney. Madam Hardey said to me : " Why are you so surprised that God should have answered your prayer ? He always answers our prayers when we pray for that which will add to His glory. You should not make such a wonder of it." Her words impressed me so much that I kept thinking of them all the way going home, for I felt that Madam Hardey ought to know. That I loved Madam Hardey, no one can doubt, and I was de- termined now to pray more earnestly than ever. ' I . .•■; .*: .;.,/":'U>, ^i;j •( t.s,i t-.' r ll THE LAME GIRL'S PRAYER. S4i CHAPTER CXI. THE EFFICACY OF PRAYER. — DETACHMENT OF THE HEART. On the following day 1 called on Father Merrick. I ft the course of conversation he remarked : " You have so much leisure time, I want you to promise me that you will devote a part of it to studying Latin." " Oh," said 1, "I have studied Latin ; " and I began to re- peat to him my prayers m Latin. "Why," said he, "you know all that is necessary. But this is astonishing that you should have ever studied Latin: all this goes to show ;" he hesitated. But 1' knew what was running through his mind. When I passed out I slammed the door after me^ and said : " It is the last time that I will ever cross this threshold. Good-by, Mr. Jesuit ; I have had enough of you." . f . , 1 ,. ■ I went into the chapel. There was no one there but a lame girl. I asked her to pray for me. I knelt down at the altar of the Sacred Heart, and I offered up my whole heart to God, and implored Him to take it, and to give me grace to love Him. At that instant La- ferri^re rose in my mind, but I inwardly exclaimed : " Not Laferri^re, Lord, but Thee. I want to love Thee." I felt then that I was all alone with God, that 1 had no one to go to for consolation and pity but Him ; for that Jesuit on whom I had relied for months for consola- tion and sympathy, had the cruelty to try and immure me in a convent. After I had prayed earnestly for a few minutes, I became softened, and began to implore our Lord to come and help me. I forgot all about my anger and resentment, in my longing desire to know and to possess the love of God. It was a feelinou see that you still love the world more than me." A feirful struggle took place within me between nature and grace. JJut grace at last triumphed, and I exclaimed : " I will, Lord, I will." But 1 had no sooner consented than I instantly regretted it, and 1 began to excuse myself on account of my ignorance, and I said ; "Thou knowest. Lord, that I have never studied, except to show off ; how can I write a book?" The same interior voice replied: " You do not require to be a scholar to speak the truth ; and that is all that God asks of you." I instantly arose, determined to make the sacrifice. I hastened to the college to tell my director the new revelation God had just made to me. He hesitated for a moment, and then replied : '* I never could tell you to do that. Do not ask me to sanction your unfolding the story of your life to the whole world." Said I : •* You tell me that to spare myself I should disobey God?" " I will call Father Bapst," said he, "for I shall not take upon myself such responsibility." He called Father Bapst, who, the moment I told him the revelation I had had that morning, without the slightest hesitation replied : " Yes, write a book ; that is what you should do ; write a book." I then told him what Father Merrick had just said. " Never mind what the world will say or do to you," he answered ; " God will take care of all that. It seems clear to me that it is your duty to write a book ; I tell you to write it." With those words he left me. When I repeated to Father Merrick what his superior had said, he could hardly believe me. " Well," said he, " do as he says ; but remember that he takes all the responsibility. I shudder at the thought of having you expose your past history to the world. I can- not believe that God demands such a sacrifice of you. I will not presume to decide against my superior ; but you and he both must remember that he, and not I, told you to write it." '* Many people have asked me," he then added, " if you have evei been really married. Many doubt it, and some state positively that you never were. Can you give me some positive proof, besides your word, that you were married ? " That same day 1 brought him my marriage certificate. I also showed him the certificate which had been forwarded to m< from New York to France at the time I was getting my papers I 556 EASTER JOYS. together to comply with the exigencies of the French law, when I expected to marry the Count de V . This certificate is signed by witnesses who were present at my marriage, and it bears the signature and seal of the French consul, in New York, because these witnesses were obliged to testify, before the French consul, that they were present at my marriage ; otherwise the certificate would not have been recognized as authentic by the French laws. When I handed these certificates to the Father, he appeared very much pleased ; for he saw that there could be no deception or fraud about them ; and he wished that I could prove to everybody as easily that all the other things my enemies accused me of were false. The next morning was Easter, and as I arose ♦^'lat Eastei morn- ing, I felt that ** the heart too has its Easter, when the stone is rolled away," for no other words could express the joy and peace of my soul. I was perfectly happy ; for, in possessing God, I felt tliat . I possessed everything. I would not have exchanged the peace and joy, which reigned in my soul that Easter morning, for the entire universe. The universe is, after all, but a bubble compared with the priceless value of a soul filled with God. I had often heard and read descriptions of happy death-bed scenes, when the soul longed to burst its earthly chains, and I have ridiculed, in my heart, the trans- ports of indescribable joy, which the author would fain depict. But now those very descriptions seemed to me but faint conceptions of the ecstatic joy that a soul feels when it reposes in God. No tongue can express it, no pen can describe it : it is only givei\ to souls who possess it to know what it is. AUNT IIULDAH AND HER HEIRS. 557 CHAPTER CXIV. SHADOWS OF THE PAST. — DISAPPOINTMENT. On the ist of April, 1872, I returned to the country. I found Betsy Dot still plying at her loom, while Aunt Huldah was still the pet of her heirs. Aunt Mercy had died, and lies beside my Uncle Horace down in the Valley. One day I was passing by my Aunt Huldah' s, and thought I would call, for I had heard that she was ill. I found everything breathlessly still around the house, and as soon as I entered the corridor, I was struck with remorse for having neglected her during her last illness. I was sure that she was dead, for the first thing my eyes fell upon was a piece of white muslin stretched over the looking-glass. I went into her room ; no one was there. The windows were wide open, and the bed-clothes were hang- ing over a chair, while the bed was spread out to air. I was certain then that it was all over. I went to the kitchen, and knocked very gently. To my surprise, a voice cried out " come in," as vigorously as I had ever heard it years before.. I quickly opened the door. There sat Aunt Huldah by the kitchen window smoking her pipe, and looking about as well as I had ever seen her in my life. "What !" I exclaimed, as I entered the room, "are you not dead yet ? I was sure that you were dead when I found everything look- ing as it usually does when a corpse has just stepped out." " No, in- deed," Aunt Huldah replied, " I am not dead yet by a good deal. [ am still living and doing well." "I see you are," said I, "for you are teaching your heirs patience and resignation, but it seems to me that you are giving them a pretty long lesson. They must think that Death has forgotten you." To which remark one of her heirs who was present laughingly nodded m assent. The piece of muslin had been stretched over the glass simply to keep the flies from injuring the mahogany frame. i know several intelligent, enterprising young men for whom the n 558 THE CHAPEL AND ALTAR-PIECE. prospect of receiving a few hundred dollars from Aunt Huldah, when she should die, has been the curse of their whole lives. They are now middle-agfd, poor, and dissipated, having wasted the best years of their lives waiting for that old woman's death. As soon as I returned to the country I began to write this book, and to superintend the completion of my little church. When it was nearly finished I went to New York to see His Grace the Archbishop, whom I had not visited for nearly a year. His Grace told me that Father Tandy had been to sec him, and whether he (the Archbishop) had misunderstood him or not last fall, or whether Father Tandy had changed his mind, he could not tell ; but the fact was, that he had called lately to say that he did not wish to take charge of the new chapel. Said I : " He has an excellent reason for not wishing to take charge of the new chai)el ; for he knows that he cannot take charge of it, because I won't let him." And I frankly told His Grace how Father Tandy had behaved towards me, in carrying off my choir. I did it without any malice, but I told him the simple truth. "Well," said the Archbishop, "as he does not ■wish to take charge of it, and you do not wish to have him, there is an end to the matter." " Now," said I, " what shall I do ? " Said he : " You know that you are out of my diocese."' " Yes," said I, " but you wrote to Mon- sieur de Corcelles, that when the needs became more pressing you ■would take pleasure in doing everything in your power to assist me." 1 begged him to appoint a day when he would come up and say Mass in the church himself. He agreed to come on the 17th of July, but gave me to understand that he could not dedicate it or bless it until it had become ecclesiastical property. I then told him of my desire of becoming a religious, and of dedicating myself to the estab- lishment of some religious work after I had finished my book. Madam Hardey had made for me several sets of vestments, and piesented me with several sets of altar linen. At Tiffany's I got a a present of a beautiful chalice. But the most beautiful ornament that decorates the little church, is the exquisite gift of Mr. D. M. Carter, the artist an original work, made expressly for my church. It is a large oil painting, representing St. Genevidve at prayer in the open fields, in the garb of a shepherdess, and our Lord appears in the firmament with both hands extended, in the act of blessing hei and the Pantheon, whose dome is dimly traced in the distance. It ^TIIE ARCHBISHOP DECLINES. S55 is a beautiful painting, and will long commemorate the artist's genius and the generous impulse that prompted him to pjesent it to me. I had imported all the interior decorations, such as the coloring of the walls, the windows, the statuary, and the way of the cross. I called at Archbishop McCloskey's to get the chalice which I had left there to be consecrated. The girl who came to the door hand ;d me the following note : "Archbishop Mcs^ oskey presents his compliments to Mrs. Eckel, and begs to say that he will be obliged to leave home on affairs of his diocese on the 13th of July, to be absent until the middle of August. Meantime, Mrs. Eckel can make such arrangenn'ints with the pastor of Amenia, to whom Bishop McFarland has granted per- mission to attend the new chapel, for having it opened for the cele- bration of Mass, as may be most agreeable and convenient to both ])arties. The Archbishop hopes to have the i)l'jasure of visiting the place later in the season, not, however, for any public or private functions in the church. " New York, June 23, 1872." i I went immediately fo my room at the hotel, threw myself on the bed, and wept, on account of the disappointment. For I hau got everything beautifully arranged, and I longed to have His Grace see how much I had already accomplished. I believed he would be gratified. My heart had long been set upon his saying the first Mass that would be celebrated on those hills. After weeping for at least two hours, I went to see Father Merrick to show him His Grace's letter. Said the Father : ** It is evident thai the Archbishop does not care to go up there and say the first Mass, particularly as you and Father Tandy do not agree. You know tii.,t it is the duty of a bishop to always support his priest ; and the idea of your putting up a church, and running in opposition to I'ather Tandy does not suit him ; I am sure of it." Father Merrick told me that he himself could not come, as he was going away to give a mission. " But," said he, " I know of one man who will not abandon you. Did not Father Bapst tell you to go on and finish your church?' Said I : " Yes ; but what if he did ? His Grace told me to go ahead, too, and gave me a hundred dollars. Besides, I do not believe that ■ I 56o FATHER BAPST CONSENTS. Father Bapst will come when he sees that His Grace has de« clined." "Oh," he answered, "you don't know the man: he is the last man to abandi)n a person in trouble." Tlic Father sent for Father Hapst. As soon as P'atht-i J)apst read His Grace's letter, and I told him that it was impossible for me to treat with Father Tandy, he said : " I am y sorry, on your account, that His Grace cannot go ; for I kno\^ you nave counted uj^on it, and it would always be a great satisfaction for you that he had said the first Mass in your little church. 1 am very busy ; but, sooner than the whole thing shall fall through after all your efforts, I will go myself. But you must go and see His Grace, and ask his permission." Father Merrick then introduced me to the Rector, Rev. Father Hudon, who sympathized with me on account of my disappointment, and offered to render me any assistance that lay in his power. I went to see the Archbishop, who was pleased that Father Bapst was going to say Mass for me. I did not refer to my disappointment ; and the interview I had with His Grace gave me great satisfaction, for I could plainly see that I had his best wishes and that he desired me to succeed. CHAPTER CXV. THE BIBLE CHAFGES DISAPPOINTMENT JNTO HOPE. The Archbishop had named Wednesday, the 17th of July, as the day that he tiiought he would be able to come and open my church. It was in the harvest time ; a great many laborers would be prevented from attending services, if it was on a week-day. Father Bapst pre- fijrred to have the church opened on Sunday. So he appointed Sun- day, the 2iGt of July. The next evening, after I returned home, I went up to the church, feeling disheartened and discouraged. Everything I saw reminded me how much I had set my heart on His Grace being there. I was 80 low-spirited at my disappointment, that it seemed as thougl^ I car- ried an iron weight within me instead of a heart. I began imploring our Lord to say something to me that would THE DAY BEFORE THE GREAT DAY. S6i cheer and gladden me. I took my Bible, which lay in the sacristy, and knelt in front of the altar, and as I opened it 1 said : " Take pity on me, Lord." The first verse I saw was the following : *' In the seventh month, in the one-and-twentieth day of the month, came the word of the Lord." (Haggai ii. i.) I was transported with joy, not so much from having opened at those words, as from the effect of the light that accompanied them ; foi it was as though God had spoken to me and bade me be of good cheer, that it was His will that the first Mass should be said on the 2 1 St and not on the 17th. Saturday at noon found me at Wassaic station, with carriages await- ing the arrival of the train. The first person I saw alight v'as Berg6, ths distinguished organist of St. Xavier's Church. T!ie:i came Father Bap3% who was followed by Father McDonnell and Brother Letique. Then I saw Bergd assist twc ladies to get off the train ; they were the two Miss Wer;.3ckes, who were to assist in the singing. After we had been a few minutes on the road, one of the ladies inquired if there was a village lying beyond those hills. " Oh, no," I replied ; '' the higher you go up, the wilder it is." They all begaii to look at each other with a sort of concern, while I kept assuring them that they would all be pleased when they reached the top of the hills. As soon as Father Bapst entered the church, the whole expression of his face brightened. Turning towards me, he gave me an approving smile, and shortly afterwards, said : " It is a splendid little church. My heart was lifted up the moment I entered it. God must have inspired you ; and God must have helped you, for you never could have done all this alone. But I do not see the utility of it : I counted the houses along the way, and I am certain that we did not pass twenty, and you tell me that very few of them are Catholic families. Where is your congregation coming from ?" Said I : " Wait until to-morrow morning, and you will see more people com- ing than can get into the church." He shook his head doubtingly. On leaving the church to return to the house, he said to me, after he had thrown a glance over the hills : " This might please a Benedic- tine or a Carthusian, but it never would a Jesuit. My child, I ara afraid that you will be disappointed, and to-morrow morning you will see very few people here." I assured him that if I had a priest the congregation would sup- port him. We then sat down to arrange the programme for the nexi 24* 562 MORNING SACRIFICE. day. Father Bapst took out a pencil and piece of paper as though he were going to make a minute. " Now tell me, my child," said he, " how much these good people have aided you ; they will expect me to refer to their oflferings to-morrow when I address them." " My dear Father," I replied, " that story is very soon told ; for no one around here has ever given me a cert. The inhabitants of Connecticut declared that they could not help me because they were too poor ; and those in New York State declared that they would not assist me, because I was across the line." The Father put aside his paper and pencil, with an air as though he was more than ever convinced that this was no place for a Jesuit. CHAPTER CXVI. ST. GENEVlfeVE'S CHAPEL. The 2ist of July, 1872, dawned brightly on my mountain home; and that woodland scene which lies in front of my cottage door ap- peared to me, that Sunday morning, like a vast altar dressed by the hands of the Creator. Nor was sweet incense wanting for the morn- ing sacrifice ; for the shrubs and wild flowers exhaled the dewy fra- grance of their hearts to greet the first beams of sunlight, which seemed to my joyous spirit like the smile of God. I stood looking towards the spot where I haa stood years ago, when my guilty heart was moved by a hymn sung by a child, and where my soul for an instcint hud been enabled to soar above the mists of doubt, and had raised itself to God ; and, behold ! there was the church that once rose in my miud. It was but a vague fancy then, but now it stood before me a beautiful reahty ; and as I gazed upon its spire, and its cross that glittered in the sun, it appeared to me like a sacred diadem that God Himself had placed on the brow of that hill. When I gazed upon the landscape, it seemed as though every rock, every tree, and every hill-top spoke to me of /he past ; but when I would turn to look at the church, its cross seemed to speak to my soul, and say to it that by Faith it was the betrothed, and by Hope and Charity the spouse of Him to whom all nature pays homage and adoration. GLORIA IN EXCELSIS. 563 The long-wished-for hour came, and I began to mount the hill to the church, with a joy that the human heart seldom knows. P'or I knew that I was going to receive our Lord, yes, to receive Him among my beloved hills, which He was about to sanctify by His pres- ence. I thought, as I neared the church, how little did I dream when a child, that one day our Saviour would make me, the wicked me, the instrument of bringing Him among those hills ; and I asKecr my soul : was it not for this that He had enkindled in my heart a • love for these woodlands ? That love must have been a spark from heaven that descended into my breast ; and it had never been ex- tinguished by the waters of iniquity, through which I had waded for so many years, but had lived and had drawn me back again to the spot where my bosom first received it. My soul seemed to answer, Yes ; that it was for this that that love for nature had been enkindled in my heart, that a Divine Providence had ever watched over me, even from my humble cradle, and that It was now leading me by the hand to a virgin altar, where I would receive the seal of the alliance that my soul had contracted with God, which secured to it a title *o a glorious Immortality. Before the hour for the second Mass came, people could be seen coming from all directions towards tlie little church. By nine o'clock every seat was filled, and soon die interior of the church resounded with the "Gloria in Excklsis," My whole soul melted into tears, as soon as the strains began ; for when I had received our Lord that morning I had asked Hiin to give me light and the strength to fol- low it ; and, as the strains of music rose, they seemed to raise the veil that hung before my future, and it was given to me then to see what was before me, and to appreciate, to its full value, what I had just accomplished. While I was building my ciiurch, I was buoyed up with the illusion that as soon as it was finished all my trials would be ended ; but the light God gave me then was that my life of sacrifice and suflfering had only just begun. My nature shrank from the living martyrdom, and I wept. I thanked God that He had never made His will so clearly known to me before ; for I felt that that illusion had been necessary for my weakness ; but now that my task was done, and I no longer needed it, the illusion vanished, the truth took its place, and I saw that the church was but a grain of mustard-seed that our Lord liad bid me plant in the earth ; and that I would yet water it with the tears of affiic W ill 564 TFE FINGER OF GOD. tion and disappointment, and would have to shield it against storms of envy and hate, which the devil would raise to blight its blossoms, break its branches, and if possible uproot it. I was then fully satisfied that my imagination, my ambition, and my caprice had had nothing tc do with the work, and that I had built that church by the inspiration and the help of God. At the Canon ci the Mass my will was thoroughly resigned to the sacrifice, and I tried to collect all the powers of my soul ; for I felt that Cod would not refuse me anything I asked of Him at that hour. The bell for the elevation rung, and for a moment I was lost to the world ; for all my faculties were concentrated on this my triple re- quest : — That I might love God with all my heart, that I might ever be faithful to the graces I received, and that my book might be the means of saving millions of souls. Father Bapst addressed the congregation. He told them, with great force, the importance of improving the present moment to pre- pare for an eternity which had no end, that unless they sowed now they could not expect to rea]) hereafter, — and, without any coloring or disguise, he plainly told them that the Catholic Church alone pos- sessed the whole truth, and, in a very clear and concise manner, proved it to them ; which brought smiles of satisfaction to the faces of the Catholics, but made the Protestants wince, for they had never heard anything like it before. He closed by referring lo the little cuurch itself, spoke of its beau- t}', and complimented my efforts. "Jiut," said he, "that lady never could have done this unless (jod had been with her. The finger of God is here, and every one of you should look upon this little church as a glory of this country place." This was a memorable day for those who witnessed the first ser- vices that were offered up in St. Genevieve's Chapel. The ^' Amenia Times" a Protestant paper, published the following notice of the open- ing:— "ST. GENEVlfeVE's CHAPEL. " The beautiful Catholic chapel erected by Mrs. St. John Eckel, m the south part of Sharon (near Amdnia Union) was opened for the .icrvices of the Church on Sunday, the 21st inst. The edifice is placed upon a lofty and commanding eminence, and the prospect to the south and west is of great extent and most striking beauty. 'I'he HH THE SERMOxVS. 565 iT :h temple itself is a model of good taste and artistic excellence, while the decorations of the interior are unexceptionable, even to the most fastidious criticism. The windows are of the choicest designs and most exquisite workmanship, while the altar-piece, representing the Saviour and St. Genevidve, is a painting so charming that the gazer upon its sweet outlines cannot refrain tr\,tii the thought — •' ' A thing of beauty is a joy forever.' " The music was given by the celebrated organist and choir from the Sixteenth Street Church, of New York City, and the sublime and thrilling harmonies of the Mass were of course rendered in fullest per- fection. "The sermon was delivered by the Rev. Father Bapst, of the Order of Jesuits, and was a clear and eloquent exposition of the car- dinal doctrines of the Catholic Church. " At five o'clock p.m. the chapel was opened for the beautiful vespers, and again the sweet music peculiar to those evening devo- tions was given with most charming eifect. The service concluded with an excellent sermon by Rev. Father McDonnell, and all who at- tended both services could not but h;ive been pleased with what they saw and heard of the ritual, and the worship." The next day Father Bapst remarked : ** I cannot see the use of a chapel here. But I believed that God inspired you to put it here. All that you have got to do now is to go ahead and write your book ; and by your book you will be judged." , I had already given out that Father Merrick would preach in the new chapel on Wednesday evening. When he arrived, 1 told him, in the presence of Father Bapst, that I did not wish him to preach a doctrinal sermon. I wanted him to speak on the love of God ; for I wished him to please the Protestants, and not send them all away angry, as Father Bapst had done. '• No," said Father Bapst, interrupting me, " he will do nothing of the kind ; the time has come when we must teach the people, when we must proclaim the truth boldly, whether they like it or not. It is only from ignorance that infidelity is making such rapid strides ; and it is our duty to strike at that ignorance whenever we get a chance. Father Merrick preached a long sermon on pure Catholic doctrine. It was to me a most extraordinary sermon. He explained the Catho lie doctrine, that outside the Church there is no salvation. His ex !il 566 A child's Criticism. planation was so satisfactory and consoling that both Catholics and Protestants were equally well pleased. He said that the Church which Christ established consisted of a body and a soul. Professing Catho- lics belong to the body of the Church and can, of course, be saved. Those who, through no fault of their own, are outside of the Church, may by the grace of God belong to the soul of the Church, and may be, in very truth, members of the mysiic body of Christ, and may be saved. God alone, '* the Searcher of hearts," can tell whether they are in good faith or not, and to His judgment we musi leave them, A man might call himself a member of the Church, and be- long to the body of the Church, yet he might not have Hope and Charity, and, if he died without those virtues, he would be damned ; for without Faith, Hope, and Charity, we cannot be united to Christ, and without that uni6n with Christ, no one can be saved. Therefore those who die having Faith, Hope, and Charity, do die members of the Church : lo matter how much they may deny belonging to it, they do belorg to it. 1 said that everybody was pleased with that sermon. At least I thought so at the time ; but months passed, when one day I was un- deceived, and I found that theie was one youthful member of the Catholic Church who was highly displeased, and never wished to hear another such sermon preached in St. Genevieve's Chapel. I was praising that sermon one day, when my little daughter remarked : — ** I don't agree with you, mamma, and I hope he will never be in- spired to preach another sermon like that. I think he encouraged the people a little too much to remain just as they were in their own churches, and not to come over to ours. I did not like that sermon ; but I like the kind of sermons that Father Bapst and Father Bcau- devin preach, where it comes out Bang I " CHAPTER CXVII. BROTHER LETIQUE'S STORY. — SUPERNATURAL GUIDANCE. One evening I was listening to Brother Letique telling me how pleased he was with his visit, and how it gratified him to know me better. He confessed that he had been displeased at seeing me so much at the college, taking up so much of the Father's time, but that A lay-brother's views. 567 now he understood mc better, and was glad to see that I was decerv^ hig of the confidence that the Father had in me. " But," said the ]Jrother, "you know how it is; we always have to look out for women; 'here are so many visionaries among them. When I was in France one of the F'athers took an interest in a lady whom he believed (Jod had inspired to found a work. The thing went on for some months, until one day she sent in some bills for our Fathers to pay, which the door-keeper took to the Rector. The moment the Rector saw the bills he pronounced the whole work an illusion of the Devil, and that was the last of the work ; for the Father was forbidden to see the woman any more. But she had deluded . im so far that he soon after left the Society, so as to be able to help the woman in her project ; and that is the last that we ever heard of either of them." Thought I to myself: " I will take good care not to send you any bills, unless I wish you to pronounce the whole thing an illusion." I felt that God had inspired Brother Letique to tell me that story so as to put me on my guard, and I was determiaeci henceforth to hide my comparative poverty as much as possible from the Jesuits. One morning in the early part of August I awoke so mentally prostrated, that I had hardly energy enough to raise my head from my pillow ; I was so worn out with spiritual desolation. But no sooner had I raised my heart to God and implored Him to inspire me what to do than I heard an interior voice say, " Go to Manhattanville : go to Madam Hardey." I instantly awoke my child and said to her: " I am going to Manhattanville. God has just told me to go there." We laughed and chatted away for a moment as merrily as could be, until I recollected that some of the religious of the Sacred Heart were bitterly opposed to me, as they had good reason to be ; for I had made myself supremely disagreeable to them. When these thoughts flashed through my mind, I exclaimed : " It is impossible for me to go to Manhattanville ; I know that I am detested there." I began to open my heart to my child, and tell her the obstacles that would surely prevent me from being received, besides that, it was against the rules to take a boarder. My child replied : " But you just said, mamma, that God told you to go there j and He dcJes not care whether the nuns like you 01 not." Her answer filled me with consolation. I instantly aiOP" „„ , •' ->. and was going to address a letter to Madam Hardey, when ^ recollected th 1;: ! I"' % I i 568 CONSULTING THE BIBLE. Father Merrick had promised to come and say Mass in my cliapcl on the Feast of the Assumption, and I thought il would be better tor hi'ii to write for me. That evening I took my little Bible, and kneeling before the statue of the Blessed Virgin, I begged her to speak to me, wishing that she would give me some assurance that I should go to Manhattanville. I opened the Bible at the following verse : (Jer. li.) " 63. And it shall be, when thou hast made an end of reading this book, that thou shalt bind a stone to it, and cast it into the midst of the Euphrates." As soon as Father Merrick arrived, we went up to the church, and there he handed me a Catholic Bible, which, he said, the Rector had given him permission to present to me. The next morning, when I arose, the thought occurred to me, as I recollected the words I had opened at in Jeremiah a few evenings previous : " When thou hast made an end of reading this book, thou shalt bind a- stoni: to it and cast it in the midst of the Euphrates," that it might be God's will that I should no longer consult the Pro- testant liible, but use the little Catholic one which my director had brought me. This thought no sooner flashed over my mind than I felt that God had inspired it, and 1 hastened to tell the Father. 1 found him saying his breviary. I had never seen him look more severe or discomposed. But when I told him how I had opened the Bible, and the words I had read but a few evenings ago, and that I was sure the time was coming when it was God's pleasure that I should no longer make use of that little Bible to know His will, he approvingly replied : " This is the strongest proof yet that God does watch over you and direct you. I came up here with the full determination to make you stop seeking to know God's will in that Protestant Bible ; and if you had refused, I should have told you to go to some one else in future for direction. This proves to me thai it is God's will that I should continue to direct you." That same morning I told Father Merrick that I believed God had spoken to me, and had told me to go to Manhattanville, and I asked him if he would not write, asking my admission. He hesitated, and '^eyjan to enumerate tlie reasons that would prevent the nuns' takinj^ x"^en I saw his hesitation I handed him a letter I had received me. Vvi.. f a ffentlemai? f^'i'-'"<^'> wherem he accused the priests of bemg su- BEGCiING FOR A HOME. 569 preinely solhsh. The Father turned scarlet and declared that the contents of the letter were a libel on the clergy, and the church. But I took sides with the writer, and said that I was not so sure that he had not written to me the truth. The letter had its effect, however, and the Father wrote a few lines to Father Bapst, telling him what I de- sired, and what a Protestant friend haJ just written to me. Father Bapst replied that it was impossible for the ** I^adies of the Sacred Heart" to receive me in the convent because it was against their rules — but that Madam Hardey had said I could have a room in the convent cottage which was situated on the grounds, and board with the family there. When the Father left he promised he would go to Manhattanvillc and have a conversation with Madam Hardey in regard to myself. Shortly afterward I received from him the following letter : " St. Francis Xavier's College, "August list, 1872. " My Dear Child, " I found Kev'd Mother Hardey greatly indisposed to receive you. The particulars of our conversation I will relate to you, or better I hope that she will herself say to you all that she told me ; ask her to do so. I begged her to speak to you just as hard and as plainly as she could ; that was the way to benefit you. I asked your admission as a personal favor to myself: as such it has been granted ; but of course I assured the ladies, through Rev'd Mother Hardey, that they would not regret it. " It is now time to drop all the past ; you are no longer to be a grand lady, not even a lady of the world. You are going to Man- hattan\ille to be a recluse, to begin altogether anothei education : your reform, and the foundation of new habits, "Circumstances oblige you as yet to appear in the world as a lady; but in the convent the example of edification you have now to give is that of humility. You are sure to succeed by humility. I told them that yon would go there on any conditions. It is understood that as soon as you give any dissatisfaction, on being requested to choose other lodgings you will make no complaint. This is the hardest thing I have done for you yet ; and now will be the time to test you, to know whether God is working in you, whether you are persevering, or whether you change like the wind. !' ; lllf}} i\ it' 570 HUMILIATION. *' 1 gieatly sympathize with you in the lonely condition you are novf in, and will be wlien you receive this. Every morning at the Holy Sacrifice I will offer up fervently the Divine victim that God may give you grace to perfect the sacrifice, that dead to all you have evet been heretofore, you may begin to live that life of subjection to order, which makes of Religion a true martyrdom, but which is so pleasing to God, the author of all order in His Creation, and whose glory i$ the end for which all order is established. I am asking too much of you perhaps at once — and you will succeed but imperfectly. " Does this letter read harsh ? If so, remember true friendship is that which seeks our true good. But I trust, and that which I count upon is; that there is One who will comfort you and strengthen you. •* God bless you. "D. A. Merrick, S. J." I was in a great state of desolation when I received the letter, and as may be well supposed I found very little in it to console me. It was the greatest act of humility and obedience I ever made in my life, when I consented in my heart to go to Manhattanville under those circumstances. But I felt sure that it was God's will that I should go ; otherwise I would have refused. I dared not draw back : for I felt that God Himself demanded the sacrifice ; but I shed many a tear at the foot of St. Genevieve's altar before I was fully resigned to make it. The day that my church was opened many of the Protestants thought Father Bapst was the Archbishop, as I had given out that His Grace was coming, and they had not heard it contradicted. A few days after the ceremony a Protestant said to me that he never heard such music before, and he guessed that no one else ever did in that part of the country ; but he thought the Archbishop laid it down to them pretty strong. Said I : "That was not the Archbishop, it was Father Bapst, Supe- rior of the Jesuits." "What is a Jesuit?" he asked. I looked to see if he was really in earnest, and his frank and ingenuous look plainly told me that he expected me to answer him. Said I : " Don't you know what a Jesuit is ? " "No," he replied; " I never heard of them before." "Well," I answered, "it would be hard for me to tell you in a few words what they are ; but you must read my book, and that will tell you all about them. Meanwhile, I will merely say to you that DICTIONARY ENGLISH. 571 the Jesuits are Roman Catholics, and not Jews, as the resemblance of the name might lead you to suspect." If my neighbor and others like him will take the trouble to read the next chapter, they will learn something of this mysterious Society ; but it will be, however, for many of them, at the expense of parting forever with one of their most cherished bugaboos. CHAPTER CXVIII. WHAT IS A JESUIT ? Our dictionaries would answer the question by telling us that the primary meaning of this word is : One of the Society of Jesus so called, founded by Ignatius Loyola in 1534, a society remarkable for their cunning in propagating their principles ; and that the second- ary mear'ng is: a crafty person, an intriguer. "Jesuitism — the arts, principles, and practices of the Jesuits. 2. Cunning, deceit, hy- pocrisy, prevarication, deceptive practices to effect a purpose." — Webster. So common has become the latter acceptation of the word, that even good and kind-hearted men in private conversation and pub- lic discourse and writing, when they would express the highest re- probation and contempt of some action or policy, will cap the climax of their rhetoric, and find fittest culmination of their invectives, in de- nouncing it as Jesuitical. And not unfrequently these good men are charmingly ignorant of the fact — which perhaps they would be sincerely grieved to know — that they are deeply wounding the hearts of their friends of the Catholic Church, of which the Jesuits have ever been, and are, honored and revered champions. It is far from me to deny anything that may be true of the imper- fections, or shortsightedness, or faults, or follies, or sins, if you choose, of individual Jesuits, or for that matter the imperfections and incom- pleteness that must attach to their Society, as to everything human, even at its best. I do not forget that even the Church of Christ, which is in the highest sense the Society of Jesus, is yet in its merely human side, in its individual members, subject to many miseries, and we^knessics, and shortcomings, and scandals, beginning with its very I 573 WHAT THE MASTER COUNSELLED. head, the Pope, and coming down through the episcopacy, the priest- hood, and the religious orders to the simple laity. If this is true of the Church, St. Ignatius and his children of the Society of Jesus should not deny that it may he and is true of their society; and they ought cheerfully to admit that the " the disciple is not above His Master." Yet after an intimate acquaintance with many of them for years, and from the testimony of pure and noble souls, both here and in France, I now protest, from a love of truth and justice, that the as- sertion implied in the dictionary definition of a Jesuit is a monstrous calumny ; and while it may be the duty of the lexicographer to state that such is a common acceptation of the term, yet the fact of such acceptation is a lamentable [iroof of the shameful ignorance and cruel spite of the people and age that continue to accept it. I protest, with a full knowledge of what I say, that this definition is precisely of a character with, and jiresents just about as much truth as, the definition of the word Christian, which might appear in some dictionary of the " heathen Chinee," or of some future free-thinking people : " Christian — a member of the society founded by Christ ; a sneak, a hypocrite, a thief; one who holds and practises the prin- ciple, that it is well to cheat people out of their money and pleasures and comforts in this world by false promises of some imaginary felicity in the next." Now, then, what is a Jesuit? In the firs, place, the Jesuit professes to be a Christian and a Catholic, and with he exception of the lay- brothers who attend to the domestic occupations of the house, they are priests, or students for the priesthood. So that the .true Jesuit is all that is conveyed by the sacred names of Christian and Catholic and priest. We find in the Gospel that besides teaching His doctrine, which all men must believe, and enforcing the commandments of the moral Jaw and of religious worship, which all men must obey, and giving sacraments as channels of grace, our Lord gave counsels of highest wisdom and religious perfection, which. He expressly tells us, all men cannot appreciate, and are not called to practise. Yet we must feel that what is but a counsel for the individual should be like a sacred injunction! for the Church. And as a matter of fact, from the apos tolic age till now, the Church has ever encouraged and exhorted he* most favored children to practise these evangelical counsels of chas tity, poverty and obedience. , " THE COMPANY OK JESUS. 573 The religions orders, whether of men or women, are but snbor- dinate societies within the Church, composed of those who, under her guidance and with her sanction, unite to profess and piactise these evangeHcal counsels. These societies or orders have generally been founded by men or women of grand and heroic Christian char- acter, who, by wondrous sanctity of life, and by miracles which Ciod wrought at their hands, were evidently raised ui) by God Himself to revive the faith and piety of His people ; and such a man was St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of (he Jesuits. So enthusiastic was his love for his Saviour, that he would call his society by no other i'.ame than that of his Master, and borrowing from his military expe- rience and habits of thought, he called it "The Company of Je; 's." It is well worthy of remark, that while other religious orders are called after their founders, the much-reviled name Jesuit is but a de- rivative of the sacred name of Jesus. In vowing themselves to the practice of the evangelical counsels, the religious orders — so far from dispensing themselves from the laws of God — profess, beside observing the whole law, to do much that the law of God and the Church would leave them free not to do. By the vow of chastity they renounce the right to marry, and consecrate soul and body to God ; by the vow of poverty they renounce, for the good of religion and charity, all right to property and to compensation for their labors ; and by the vow of obedience, for the same high ends, they renounce their own will, promising to obey whenever the law of God does not forbid ; and so, like true soldiers of Christ, they are ready to go, at a moment's notice, to the ends of the earth to preach the Gospel, and to bear witness to it with their blood, or to some pest-stricken city to bear equally heroic testimony to divine charity. Such, thi"n, is a perfect Jesuit. He may well be called invincible, for he conquers the world by first conquering himself. The world has no power over a perfect Jesuit. He knows not that fear which makes men cowards in the presence of duty, for he finds God everywhere, in the greatest privations, in sufferings and in being despised. Death has no terror for him, as it only brings him nearer to the adorable object of his confidence and love. The Church gave birth to the Society of Jesus at the moment that Lutheranism began its revolt against her, and the society has always ;!!! li m 574 WHAT THE JESUITS TEACH. been regarded since its organization as the body-guard of the Church. '• ■■ The Jesuits are no friends of ignorance. Nay, rather, they feel that ignorance is one of the chief causes of the faciHty with which men are induced to revolt against the Clmrch of Christ ; and so they make it a distinctive characteristic of their order to teach, and not merely religious truth, but also literature and science. Of coiuse the devil does not love the Jesuits ; and little perhai)S do some of his poor dupes of worldlings suspect how much of their fine and big talk about Jesuitism is inspired by the Satanic Mephistopheles who is chuckhng at their elbows. From my childhood I have heard the Jesuits railed at and abused, and their teachings branded as devilish. V^'^hat are those teachings that are so much reviled ? What do the Jesuits teach ? They teach that but one thing is necessary, which is to save our souls, in working to know, to love, and to serve God. It is because men study them- selves so little that they are lost in pride and led astray by sensual passion. They insist upon the obligation of pardoning injuries, of maintaining the peace, of sacrificing our own interest and self love to the general good, of being perfectly resigned to the will of God in all things and at all times, and endeavoring to walk as closely as we can in the footsteps of Him who is the " way, the truth, and the life." They teach that happin^^ss in this world consists in conforming our minds to the truth, our wills to that which is right, our natural activity to the rules of order ; and it is this subjection of the whole man to truth, right, and order, which is the central point towards which all their teachings converge. The Jesuits tell you that if you teach man to believe nothing you cannot expect him to respect anything, because belief is the source of respect. If you teach man to despise the law of God, you cannot expect him to submit to that of the state. They teach that the best way to secure order in the streets is to maintain it first in the con- science of the people. They teach that God should be our only hope, our glorv, and our security ; that we must not rely upon ourselves ; for we cannot without God's aid resist our passions, and vanquish the enemies of our soul. They teach that voluntary humiliation leads to glory, for it is God Himself who galled it illustrious ; and that that which His word has glorified no one can degrade. The woild, to smother its anxieties, says that God is good, and He THFIR LOVE FOR THEIR SOCIETY. 575 cannot i)unish forever ; but the Jesuit replies with as r uch reason that God is just, and that He will not pardon without ei d. This is what they teach, and it is for such teachings that they have always been abhorred and persecuted. But what can despotism do with a society of men of such mould ? Why, it can only do what it has always done : either murder them or banish them from its dominions. Let despotism manifest itself in one man, as in Prince Bismaick of Germany, or in many, as in the French Commune, its conduct is always the same. The Jesuits are murdered in one land, and they are forced to fly from another, yet they ever seek to conquer their enemies by moderation, and adverse fortune by constancy. Whether they are felled by theiexecutioner's axe, or torn from their labors by a sentence of exile, they die or leave their field of labors without cursing that law of suffering to which we are condemned. Like the martyrs of old, their parting breath is offered up asking for- giveness for their persecutors, whom they invite to meet them on_the threshold of eternity. If any one suspects that the Jesuits will feel flattered at what I have written in regard to them, he is very nuich mistaken j and whoever thinks so knows very little about the spirit of the order ; for the truth is that the Jesuits have such an inordinate love and admiration for their founder and their Society, that if they were listening to the Holy Ghost preaching on either of them, and He should lavish all the praises that it is possible for words to express on St. Ignatius and his order, I verily believe that there is not a Jesuit living but what would feel that the Holy Ghost had fallen short of the truth. That is the great defect of the Jesuits ; but it si)rings from their linn belief that their institution is of divine origin, and that it is all-perfect ; and they are so strongly imbued with that belief, that not one of them could be made to believe that there exists anything as good outside of it. Not having that film over my eyes, which seems to grow so natu- rally over the eyes of every Jesuit, 1 think 1 can see a little clearer than they do in that respect ; for, nothwithstanding my great venera- tion and love for the Jesuits, I think I have seen quite as much to venerate and respect in members of other religious orders and of th« secular clergy as I have seen in the Society of Jesus. I 576 A VOICE FROM FRANCE. • ^4 CHAPTER CXIX. •'■m-»' AN ECHO OF THE PAST. — SOLITUDE, SUFFERING, AI'D RESJ JNA. TION. A sister's HATE. I CLOSED my house early in September. When I got to the station I found a package for me which had just been brought by the ex- press. It contained a beautiful set of vestments that Mons. de Coicelles had sent from France ; and with it came the following letter : " National Assembly, Versailles, " July yi, 1872. "My Very Dear Madam and Friend, " Tell me, I beg of you, why this painful silence of two years ? "You promised to let us hear from you ; yet we have been obliged to send into Germany to the good Princess Sulkowska to learn any- thing in regard to you ; even then we could onl)-^ obtain the most vague information. My cousin, Mme. de Montalembert, alone assures me, with a sort of certainty, that you are building your chapel, and that you live so retired that you do not wish to write to any one. " The last time I received a letter from you we were on the eve of the siege of Paris, during vhich we did not leave the Rue de Crenelle My young son, nineteen years of age, who enlisted in the Mobiles, took part in several combats, was wounded by a bombshell, and gained the Military Medal. I divided my time between him and the other wounded in the hospitals. There was one of these at the Sacred Heart, Rue de Varennes. It was a sad pleasure for me to visit it and the ten others committed to my inspection. " After the siege we were all dejected, but reunited without private misfortunes. At the same time, one of the largest Departments of France — that of the North — named me dej^uty, entirely without my knowledge. I had hardly learned that I had received these two hun- dred and six thousand votes, compelling me to take a prominent part in the greatest and saddest duty that ever could be imposed on a represent- ative assembly, when I was obliged to go to Bordeaux, and then to Versailles during the siege of tne Commune. It would be too long to tell youall my grave occupations. The principal ones have for their -/ "^ IN MY NEW HOME. 577 /\ ©oject new laws to insure to our poor France a Christian instruction. They continue to occupy my attention. "Two months ago 1 availed n)yselfof an interruption in our labors, during the Easter festivities, to pay my homage to our Holy Father, the Pope — my last homage, perhaps ; for it was my seventh journey to Rome. He overwhelmed me with his sweetness and goodness ; and I returned penetrated, more than I know how to express, with the incomparable, apostolic beauty of his soul. Not a thought of self — not a word of bitterness ; the most holy courage united to the most perfect meekness ! His opinions om all our trials were full of wisdom and moderation. All this I ha(' casion to love and to ad- mire in the several audiences that were gi.uited to me. How I should like to enlarge upon this subjfcct ! You would be touched by it, and then, perhaps, you would be induced to answer this letter. " Meanwhile 1 must inform you that I have happily succeeded in my appeal to the excellent Baroness de I'Esp^rut, the wife of one of my colleagues, to obtain from the society to which slie belongs, a complete set of vestments for your American chapel. The Mar- chioness de Noailles has brought it to America for you. I join to it a little book of Visits to the B. Sacrament, to recall to your mind the Feast of Easter at Notre Dame a short time before the catastrophes, the end of which I fear we have not reached. " Mme. de Corcelles joins me in the expression of her most affectionate sentiments. Pray for us, and accept my profound esteem, "F. DF. Corcelles." * M. de Corcelles' letter was to me like an echo of my past pros- perity. It increased the bitterness of my i^nesent state, and also my repugnance to go and live under the protection of a community which was so loth to receive me. When I arrived at the convent, I was received by the Assistant-Superior, who told me that the police- man, who watched their grounds, resided in the convent cottage, and it was with his family that Madam Hardey had made arrangements for me to board, and I was to pay ten dollars a week : to all of whicli I most readily assented. But the moment I laid my eyes on the policeman's * Mons. de Corcelles has since been sent to Rome as Ainhassador of the French Republic to the Pope. 25 I II 578 MY MISTRESS OF NOVICES. wife my heart failed me. She was a short, stout, thick-set woman, with callow complexion, of a determined and most independent mien. The first thing she said to me was, that she did not wish to take me, and she had only done so to oblige Madam Hardey ; but for no one else would she have done it. If her own mother had come and asked her to board her, she would have refused. While she was speaking, I thought to myself, "I will make believe that I am making my novitiate and that this woman is the mistress of novices, and that my future work depends on my living peaceably with her ; " for I was sure that it would be the easiest thing in the world to get into a quarrel with her. I began to treat her as though she were a queen ; which seenied to please her very much ; for she smiled when she bade me good-day, although she frowned terribly at me when I came. The next day 1 took i)ossession of the room. The policeman's wife told me that she did not believe that I would be able to live there ; but I knew that I would stay, as there was no other alternative. I knew, too, that if I should complain the Jesuits would immediately pronounce to be an illusion my conviction that God had called me to found a work. Madam Hardey was to sail for Europe on the nth of September. I saw her the day before she sailed, and promised her that I would do everything I could to give satisfaction, and that she would hear a good report of me when she returned, and that she would never regret having permitted me to come and live at the convent cottage. My relations with the religious of the Sacred Heart while I resided at their cottage are easily told : my position there was like that of the negro cadet at West Point, — nobody spoke to me excepting those on duty,— and my official intercourse was chiefly with the religious who opened the door. In other words, they left me severely alone. 1 i)assed my time entirely alone excepting on afternoons of Sundays and Thursdays, when my child was permitted to come from the con- vent academy to visit me in the cottage. The rest of the time I would pass either praying, walking, or writing, and usually when I was walking I would keep praying, for it was the only way I could Keep up my si)irits. The moment I would lose my fervor for prayer I would grow melancholy. To j^e surrounded by hundreds of souls and have no one to speak to, is the most appalling and niost dreary of solitudes — one would feel less desolate alone in a desert. Besides, I knew that I was not THE BLACK VIRGIN OF POLAND. 579 wanted there, and that feeling was constantly gnawing on my imagi- nation. My confessor, too, became more and more severe. I was not making the spiritual progress that he expected of me. He was disappointed and discouraged, and would frequently tell me that he feared that all was an illusion. It was seldom that he gave me an encouraging word, and if I ventured to reproach him for never offer- ing me a word of consolation he would scold me for lamenting over myself. The convent is situated on high ground, and is healthy, but the cot- tage stands near a stagnant pool and is damp. All its occupants had the chills, and towards the latter part of October I, too, fell ill, and had a severe attack of fever and ague. My room was cold, and there was no possibility of making a fire in it unless I got a stove. By this time I had very little money left. I had long since parted with my diamonds, my laces, and most of my finery, to raise money to go on with the church. I had sold the bulk of my furniture, and all my valuable souvenirs excepting the beautiful crucifix that (Gen- eral Rollin gave me, a Madonna, an original painting by Sassoferrato, which the Princess Iza sent me for my oratory a few days before I sailed, and a Byzantine painting representing our Lady of Czen- stochow (or Loretlo), of Poland, otherwise known as the Black Virgin, a present from the Prince Czartoryski. Whenever I needed money I would be tempted to sell this picture j but those to whom I would apply would try to take advantage of my necessities, and would offer me for it much less than it was worth, and by the time they would agree to give me its value, I had gotten out of my difficulties and would not sell it at any price. I was try- ing one day to raise five hundred dollars, and was met with rebuffs, wherever I went. One Protestant gentleman, a hater of Catholics, ridiculed my faith that God would one day come to my help and would pay all my debts. Said he: "Where do you expect to find the key to the Lord's treasury? I would like to get hold of it my- self." I replied: "You will find it in prayer, if you will perseve- ringly look for it there." " Madam," he replied, " you have an- swered well J " and with those words we parted. That day, I exhaust- ed every resource trying to raise the money, and concluded that I must part with the picture of the miraculous Virgin, Our Lady of Czenstochowr. The next morning I called a servant, told her to get ready and I i 58o THE BLESSED VIRGIN HELPS ME. take it to Mr. '. The tears started in my eyes, I hated so tc part with it. While I gazed upon it, I fell upon my knees and implored the Blessed Virgin not to force me to part with that precious image of herself. Said I to her : " 1 know you can perform miracles — perform one now, and let me keep this picture. If you will help me out of this trouble, I will never offer it for sale again ; I [iromise you that I will never part with it, if you will only get me the five hundred dol- lars." When the servant came to take it, 1 said : '.' Wait until this afternoon, wait until the sun goes down ; then come to me, and I will tell you if you shall take it there or not." She left me and I still continued to pray, ever invoking the Black Virgin to inspire me where to go to ask for the money. 1 cannot tell how long I remained there, for my senses became lost, as it were, in prayer, until I was startled, as though awakened, by the door-bell ringing, and its ring sent an electric thrill through my heart, and I rushed to the door to open it myself. It was the Protestant gentleman, the Catholic-hater, and these were his words : " Just as I was leaving the house to go down town you came into my head. I don't care a cent for your church, but I do admire your faith, and I think that it ought to be rewarded, even on earth." " Why," said I, " it is jewarded on this earth ; you don't suppose that God is going to keep us eternally waiting, do you ? " " Well," he replied, "let me speak. I have come to give you the live hundred dollars that you need on the day after to-morrow to pay to the carpenter, (iet your hat, come down with me to the bank, and you shall have it." Instead of thanking him, I at once exclaimed, " The Black Virgin did it I— the Black Virgin did it I " — and in a second I was out of his sight, in the parlor, covering her picture with the most grateful kisses, forgetting all about the gentleman I had left in the hall. As soon as I recollected myself I returned to him and told him all about the picture, and that 1 believed that the Black Virgin had interceded for me, and God had inspired him to give me the money. He laughed at me, and declared that I was crazy. I accompanied the gentleman down town, and he made me a present of five one hundred dollar bills. To this day I pronounce it a miracle. * I never durst intimate a word about my present indigence to my director, because ] never forgot Brother I,etique's story. I could not iiMmiiimiiimiwiiBrrT HUNGER AND COLD. 581 take the little sum of money I had left, to buy a stove and soine wood. In the meanwhile I suffered intensely from the cold. The police- man's wife fed me miserably, and once more I knew what the pangs of hunger were ; for I durst not spend an extra cent for anything to eat. Friday, October 25th, I had scarcely money enough to pay another week's board. It was raining and blustering without, yet I preferred going out in the rain to staying home and being obliged to go to bed to keep warm. I went to St. Xavier's Church and knelt down before the altar of the Sacred Heart in the basement. I was chilled through every pore. I was hungry too, and my feet were soaking wei and cold. I had no overshoes, and there were holes in my shoes. As I knelt by the altar I was tempted with the thought that chere could be no God or He would not reduce me to this extremity when I was trying to do better than at any time since I left France. I looked back and regretted tlie beautiful and comfortable home in Paris that I had left believing it was the will of God. I began to regret it and Lafer- ri^re, and wished that 1 had never left them ; for I felt in that moment that I should perish from physical want ; and I began to implore the Sacred Heart of Jesus to give me light and to tell me what to do. I had no sooner asked our Lord for light than I instantly perceived that all my thoughts were a temptation against Faith. I arose to my feet and said to the devil, " Go away ; I will have nothing to do with you ; " and then, fixing my eyes on the Sacred Heart of Jesus, I ex- claimed, " I am willing to suffer more than this for Thee ; I implore Thee do not abandon me. I would not take back that home, or I^aferriere. I would not have that home again. Sooner poverty with Thee than such gilded misery without Thee." I remained there over an hour nourishing such sentiments in my heart, and before I left the altar I was fully determined to persevere, even though He killed me. The 29th of October was cold and damp. I began to ask myself what I should do, and where I should go. I had not a friend in the world whom I could call upon and feel that I was welcome. The thought struck me that I would go and see my sister. So Is^ressed myself in some remnants of finery that I still possessed, and started off. I thought it would be sweet to open my heart to her, for I fell sure that she would sympathize with me. My sister refused to see me. I was thoroughly unprepared for 582 MARIA MONK S OTHER DAUGHTER. such treatment. I told the servant to tell her that the lady desired very much to see her. She then sent down word for me to wait until she was ready. My tune was precious, as I wanted to return by the next train. I sent up word imploring her not to keep me waiting and to see me at once. This time she consented to see me and told the sen'ant to conduct me to her room. 1 had the " Awful Disclosures" in my hand and remarked that it was a recent edition, for I thought it was. She took it, looked at the date, called me a liar, and ordered me out of the house. I begged her let nie remain until it was time to take the next train. As she opened the door to thrust me out, and as I retreated to the other end of the room, she vented upon me the foulest, abuse, which took me back to the awful domestic scenes we had both witnessed in our infancy. She told me how she hated me, and that she had hated m-e from the hour that I was born. Said I to her : " How can you say your prayers at night and ask God to forgive you as you forgive others ? " She interrupted me before I could finish and said : " Away with your cant, you hypocrite and liar. Where did you get your fine clothes from ?" Said I : " They are all I have left, for I am poor." That seemed to console her, as she replied : " I am glad of it, and hope you will die in the poor-house. If you should die to-morrow I would not go to your funeral, I hate you so." After pouring out uj^on me all the abuse that her tongue was capable of uttering, every other sentence of wliich was : " You can never know how much I hate you," she paused as I said to her : " I (To not hate you ; on the contrary, I frequently pray for you, and sliall pray for you now more than ever, for I think it is a fearful thing to c^rry such hatred against me in the bottom of your heart." To which she replied : " I wish you were dead ; I shall never be happy until you are dead." " I am dead to the world," I remarked, " for I intend to become a nun, and I hope that my child will have the vocation too." Said she : " I hope so, too, for then the breed will die out." So even this daughter of Maria Monk believes in the chastity of nuns ! Buthei svor^lscut me, and I felt like bursting into tears. It hurt me to have her speak so of my child. I looked at her to see how she, a mother, could make such a remark to a mother, and her face wore the expression of a fiend. It made my blood run cold, as it brought back my mother so vividly, that it seemed as though uwnrr- I OLD SCENES REVIVED. 583 she had risen before me, as I used to see her when enraged. " I have forgiven my mother," I observed, *' all t)ie cruel blows she ever gave nje." She replied : '* She never beat you half as much as you de- sc'ved to be beaten." I then recalled for the first time how my sister used to stand by and look on with complacency whenever my mother would beat me. I do not remember that she even once pleaded for me ; but on the contrary she was frequently the cause of the hard blows that my moth- er gave me. I said to her : " I believe you tell the truth ; that you have always hated me. I now recollect how you used to hale me in my father's house when I was called 'Tick.' Do you remember those days ? " She made no reply, but for a moment became thoughtful, while I continued : " I have not forgotten them ; I remember all." She inter- ' jjted me a lin by ordering me out of the house and forbidding me ever to call on her again. 1 offered to shake hands with her when I left, but she refused. The last words I said to her were : *' 1 shall not cease to pray for you." She shook her head and bade me begone. I forgive my sister as I hope (Jod may forgive me, and I shall never cease to pray for her conversion. It is the only request that I made at the altar the day I was baptized which has not yet been granted. God may refuse to grant me that request to punish me for my past sins. But so long as my sister lives I shall never cease to hope. CHAPTER CXX. ill ;r ^d CHRISTMAS AT THE CONVENT COITAGE. — ST. GENEVIIiVE's FEAST. ; FAITH REWARDED. That evening, on returning from my sister's to Manhattanville, my pocket was picked in tlie cars, and I lost nearly every cent I had The next day I resolved to go and tell my director how I was situa- ted, and thought, if the Jesuits chose to abandon me because 1 was poor, they might go. When I told Father Merrick, I laid all the whole blame for that dis- trust on Brother Letique, saying that had it not been for that story I # 584 MEkKY CHRISTMAS. should have opened viy heart to him long ago. He was provoked with the brother, and declared that he did not know what he was talking about. Father Merrick succeeded in collecting some money for me, and gave me letters to some Catholic gentlemen, requesting them to assist me. IJefore the end of the week I had about four hundred dollars. He told me that he could do much more for me if I would only give liim permission to tell the Rector, but that he could not in conscience do any more for me without his authority. But I repeated to him Brother I>etique's story, and told him that I was afraid that his Rector would do as the one had done in France, and I refused to let him make known to him my necessities. Being constantly harassed by luy v-reditors, out of the four himdred dollars that I obtained through my director's influence over two hundred went to pay debts. Christmas morning my child came running down to the cottage swinging one of her stockings in her hand that the Ladies had filled ' with candy. I was sad, for I began contrasting the present festival with that of five years ago at St. Mand6. I began talking about it to her ; but the child preferred the present Christmas to all the rest ; for none of the French nuns had ever given iier a stocking full of candy. She had a large piece of pink satin. I pro- posed making her doll a dress. She frankly expressed to me her doubts that I was capable of making a doll's dress. But I prevailed upon her to let me try. So I made it up in real French r>tyle, with a gored skirt, trimmed with bows, and an overskirt of blonde. When it was finished, she looked at it, and exammed it with speechless, joyful sur- prise. Then looking me full in the face she exclaimed : "Mamma, you have not got one bit of common sense, but you have a ^reat deal of extraordinary sense. You could not keep a room in order, or make a loaf of bread, but you can build a church, and make a doll's dress. ^ You can't do what everybody can do, but you can do what nobody else can do, and you are just the mamma for me ' " At that she sprang into my arms and covered my face with kisses. Whenever I recalled the speech, I would begin to laugh ; and she at last said to me : " Mamma, I really think that we are both hapi)ier here thaq in France ; for I never knew you to laugh like this on, Christmas there." Before the day was ended I concluded that she was right, and that the happiest Christmas I had ever known was passed alone with my child in the convent cottage. I.HMH '—-^"■•^ ST. GENEVIEVE S DAY. 585 The nert morning I began a novena to St. Genevieve, whose feast falls on the third of January. As Father Merrick had promised to celebrate Mass for me on St. Genevieve's day I determined to assist at it. It was to be in St. Xavier's Church. The-mornir,g of the 3d of January was bhistering, and the rain fell in torrents. 1 rose at four o'clock so as to get ready to take the first down tra"n, that left Har- lem at 6. A.M. I put on one of my best dresses, which was a black velvet suit made at Worth's, Paris. I wanted to show St. Genevieve all the interior and exterior devotion that I could, for I was sanguine that she would not fail to obtain for me some great grace. The wind blew violently, the ground was flooded with water and very slippery. I must have fallen at least seven times before 1 reached Fourth Avenue. I was dnpi)ing wet. The conductor helped me get into the car, and I almost sank on the floor from exhaustion. A party of roughs began to make fun of me ; they thought I was drunk, for I ^ heard one of them say : *' There must have been a wake around here last night." The remark no sooner fell upon my ears than I raised my heart to God and said : " May this be to me a lesson of charity, and may 1 be less rash in future in judging others." Father Merrick was so annoyed at my coming out in such a storm, exposing my health and foolishly ruining my clothes, that it seemed as though he could think of nothing else. I assured him that I should not have dared to remain at home, nor should I have dared to wear my ordinary clothes. I should have been afraid tliat God would punish me for my want of Faith. For when I was in the world, if I had an engagement to go to a party of pleasure, wind or weather never prevented me from keeping it ; and I felt that I ought to try and do as much for God as I used to do for the world. At last he said : " If it is God's work He will take caie of it and will provide for you ; and it is no use to be anxious, for no one but God can ever make anything out '©f you. I have given you up long ago. One thing that inclines me to believe that it is God's vork is that He often makes use of the refuse of mankind to work with, so that His glory may be the more manifest." While he was speaking a lay-brother came in and handed him a large letter. I noticed how the whole expression of his face changed as he perused it. He asked me : " From whom do you suppose this let- ter is, and what do you think it contains ? " I could not imagine. He handed me the letter. It was from a lady, and contained one thou 25* 586 A GODSEND. sand and fifty dollars and was addressed to hlin, but the wioney was for nie. The Father pronounced it a miracle. Said I: "St. rrenevidv* in- spired it." " Well," said he, " I do believe St. Genevieve does take care of you. ]Uit this latly cannot afford to give away such a sum, and I will not permit you to accept it unless you give her your note and bind yourself to pay it back." The lady refused to give it to me as a loan. Bat the Father would not yield, and in accepting the money, he made me give her my note. The graces I received on St. Gen<^vi6ve'ii day were an increase of faith, a clearer insight into the truths of faith, and perfect peace of mind, which 1 have ever since retained. CHAPTER CXXI. HUMILITY. All these extraordinary favors, that it pleased God to shower upon me, had not made me a whit more humble. In the latter part of Febru- ary I made a novena to St. Perpetua and St. Felicitas, who were martyrs in the third century. Their feast falls on the 7th of March. I never prayed more ernestly than I did on the evening of the 5th of March. I implored our Lord to guide and direct me in the way I should go, and to make His will known unto me. That night I had a vision. I was lying down several feet beneath my director's feet, who was suspended in the air over me with his hand raised in a triumphal gesture, as though he were glorying over my abasement, and his own superiority. My bosom was filled with the most rapturous delight and joy. When I awoke the vision was distinct on my mind, but all those joyful and rapturous sensations had left me ; I only retained the memory of them. The 6th of March, Deing the vigil of the P'east of St. Perpetua, and St. Felicitas, I was making a most earnest invocation to those two saints, imploring them to obtain for me the grace that I most stood in need of, when the same vision that I had seen in my sleep arose before me and instant- ly my whole soul was filled with the most rapturous delight, the same as I had experienced in my sleep. "0 beloved Jesus," I exclaimed, FALSE VIEW OF HUMILITY. 587 "what new grace is this that thrills my whole being with delight?" I heard an interior voice reply : *♦ It is Humility." I shouted with rapture, ** O beloved Saviour, if this is humility, let me ever be hum- ble." My heart was now overflowing with peace and joy, and I felt that Clod had nothing more to give me, that my heart could not con- tain more. But these thoughts had hardly time to impress themselves upon my mind when an interior voice replied that there was still a great- * er grace that God had yet to bestow upon me, and that was Charity. The next morning as soon as I awok j I recollected what my director had said to me, that humility was a virtue that I knew nothing about. When he said it to me, however, I felt that I knew more about it than he did ; but now I was convinced that he was right ; and I asked myself what I had always mistaken humility to be, and I smiled as the truth flashed over my mind. I had always believed that humility and strong nerves were one and the same thing ; that the depth of a man's hu- mility all depended on the state of his nervous system ; that that man could stand the greatest humiliations, who was possessed of the strongest nerves. For in readi).g the life of St. Ignatius, when I came to that part where the Saint used to try the patience and resignation of the members of the Society by every species of humiliation, which they would bear with the most angelic hiunor, I would say to my- self, " What tremendously strong nerves that monk must have had ! " I had borne all the humiliations that I had gone through since the i8th of March by the force of my will ; for I was sure that God had called me, and I was determined to jjersevere and was willing to suffer any- thing sooner than to yield. Whenever I would feel incHned to rebel I would instantly check myself by saying : " This will never do ; you must not give up, but keep up your nerve." For I could not believe that there ever existed such a thing as a love for humiliation. But the moment that God in His mercy showered upon me that ines-t timable gift, I took pleasure in imagining myself trodden upon and despised. From that day my life at the convent cottage was like a heaven on earth ; for everything that had been to me a cause of humiliation and % cross, now became to me a source of delight. 588 AN IRON HAND. ;uV' CHAPTER CXXII. I LEARN THAT I AM NOT TO SEEK TO KNOW GOD's WILL IN EXTRAOR- DINARY WAYS. — MY VOCATION. -^HOTEL DIEU. My health had been failing, owing, as I thought, to the miserable diet that I had lived upon for months. At the request of Father Merrick, as it was against the rules to take any person to board at the convent. Mother Jones began to send my meals to me at the cot- tage. The next time I saw Father Merrick he said to me, ** Now that it will not cost you anything to live, I do not see that you need me any more — for 1 have led you as far as 1 can. I cannot do anything more for you spiritually until I become a holier man myself. To morrow, you will go to Father Perron to make your confession ; Father Perron is a saint, and I believe that it is God's will that he should take my place." The next day I made my confession to Father Perron. I found Father Perron like an iron hand that raised my soul to God. He at once put an end to my presumption, and forbade me ever to seek to know God's will in such extraordinary ways as I had made use of." He told me that 1 should pray humbly and earnestly to know God's will, but that 1 should not dare to suggest to Him the MANNER in WHICH He SHOULD MAKE IT KNOWN TO ME, but alwayS hold myself before God in humble submission, and that He would not fail to make His will known to me. If I approached God with presumption He might allow the devil ito deceive me, but, ai)proaching Him with humility, never. God had not permitted me to go astray heretofore on account of iny good-will, and because I did not know any better, but now that I was more enlightened, He would demand a stricter account of my conduct. On the 24th of May I received a letter written by order of the Superior. In it she expressed her regret that it would be impossible for me to remain at the convent cottage after the 15th of June. She authorized one of the nuns to tell me, that I had given perfect satisfaction, and that it was no fault of mine that obliged her to tell me to leave. / ' I WAS :k, and you visited me. 589 As I had very little money left — having taken the larger portion of the thousand dollars towards paying my debts — my director advised me to go and live like a hermit on my farm, without even the consolation of attending Mass, as I could not afford to hire a conveyance to take me to church. On Pentecost Sunday, while yet at the convent cottage, I believe tliat God showed clearly to me in prayer a much-needed work to be done, and gave me an intense desire, and impulse to do it. I believe that my vocation is to take care of the sick. The work would extend to a class that none of the institutions in this country reach ; for its object will be to attend the sick of any denomination at their dwellings, the same as is done by the Sisters of Hope in France. An institution tiiat would supply so great a want should strike a sympathetic chord in every heart. There is here a much-needed spir- itual and corporal charity to be done for the rich and well-to-do, which all their wealth cannot at present command : and the profits that would result from the nursing of the wealthy would be si)ent in works of charity and religion for the benefit of the poor. Women raised above the weakness and vanity of their sex by the supernatu- ral discipline of religion, with all the natural tenderness and devoted- ness of their sex enhanced to a heroic degree by the love of Him for whose sake they would perform their office, would no doubt com- mand the fervent gratitude of those to whose service they would ded- icate their livs. Many a wealthy person restored to bodily and sometimes spiritual health by their ministrations would show his gratitude, not after the pattern of our war romances, by marrying his nurse — for she would be already wedded for time and eternity to a heavenly Bridegroom — ^but by venerating her virtues, by endeavor- ing to imitate her example in the alleviation of the spiritual and physical ills that afflict humanity, and by teaching men the better lessons of life, its objects, its duties, and its possibilities, which he would have learned from a woman transformed into something more than human by her pure and mystic consecration to the Divine Type of our redeemed humanity. It is now my fervent desire to fit myself, by (iod's grace, for this, that I believe destined to be the providential work of my life. And I am confident that (iod will raise up and fit others to join me in it. Many an earnest soul whom I have never known, but who will fol- ■\ w li si p l i N flm wiil f iJitil 596 HOPES AND INTENTIONS. low me in these pages through my wanderings, weep over my miser- ies, and rejoice over God's mercies to me, will long, no doubt, tc dedicate herself to this work ; and the mystic tie that binds us to the Heart of the Divine Friend of humanity, will sooner or later in His own good time draw us together. If the nuns of the Hotel Dieu Black Nunnery, in Montreal, will practise the Christian revenge of giving hospitality for a time to a daughter of one who wronged and outraged them so grievously, it is my hope some day to enter that convent and hospital; not to join that order, but to get a practical knowledge of taking care of the sick. It may be years before I shall be prepared to enter there ; but as soon as I am prepared I will rap at their door and beg them to receive me. I had not been long under P'ather Perron's direction, when he was appointed Rector of the Novitiate in Canada. Before he left, the Rev'd Father recoani.ended me to go to Father Merrick when I should need advice and direction. After a while Father Merrick advised me to go to another priest, not a Jesuit, in whose judgment he seemed to have great confidence. My experience has fully justified his opinion. For whenever I have had occasion to go to this clergyman for advice, I have always found myself spiritually benefited by his counsels, in which I have found great firmness tempered with great moderation. CHAPTER CXXIII. CHARITY. Here I am once more in my little home among those hills that I loved in my childhood. I am living here alone with God, whose presence everywhere I 'eel. Every stone, every shrub, and every hill-side breathes to me His holy name, and speaks to me of His goodness. I never pass the li':tle pond, on whose surface I see reflected St. Genevieve's Chapel, but what its tiny waves whisper to me that God is a good Father : »nd as I stroll by the road-side and listen to the singing birds and m A VISION OF LILIES. 591 the chirping insects, I feel that all nature joins my heart in oflfering up a hymn of praise to the Creator. St. Genevieve's Chapel is still without a pastor, and her deserted altars, as I kneel before them, seem to' implore me to persevere, that they too one day may be blest. For nearly three months my constant prayer has been, " Give me, O Lord, the graces I most require, and above all Charity ; and may I ever be faithful to the frace of Humility." And on the 3d of Octo- ber, 1873, God in His mercy seemed to grant my request. In my sleep I saw myself arranging an altar, on which stood a statue of the Plessed Virgin. 1 thought that 1 had erected this statue in honor of the most chaste mother, " Mater Castissima." Everything around me breathed calm and peace. The altar, on which the statue stood, was placed on a broad thick platform. I was cleaning, and dusting, and trying to adorn this altar ; but I had no flowers ; and I was turning sadly away to leave tlie chapel, when the chapel door opened of itself, and a hand most radi- ant and beautiful passed to me four bunches of lilies. They were transparent and of every size, exquisitely arranged, and emitted a soft light and a most delicious odor. I took the flowers, and the moment I touched them my whole being was filled with joy. The door closed noiselessly and I hastened back to the altar, but instead of placing the lilies on the top of the altar I put them on the plat- form on which the altar stood. The two larger bunches I placed next to the altar, and the lilies gracefully reclined on the colunms that supported it. The two smaller ones I placed on the two outer corners of the platform. As I stood there gazing on these flowers, my whole being seemed to inhale the delicious odor that they ex- haled. I awoke and instantly I raised my heart to God and ex- claimed : " What a sweet dream ! Always give me such dreams ! " In the morning I opened a little book called "The Voice of the. Saints," at the following passage : *' O my God ! make me know Thee, and make me know myself." I had no sooner read those words, than the altar, the statue, the platform, the radiant hand, the flowers and their exquisite odor, came back to me and I exclaimed : " O beloved Jesus, teach me to know Thee and to know myself. Tell me what new grace is this ? " An inward voice answered ; — " // is order ^ I asked the Lord what the four bunches of flowers meant. An I I H IM S9'2 THEIR PERFUME IS CHARITY. interior voice replied : " The first bunch was Purity, the second Diligence, the third Simplicity, and the fourth Modesty." "But," I continued, " why did 1 not place them on the altar instead of the platform ? " The answer was : " Because those virtues should repose on Humility. The altar is your heart, and the statue that adorned it is Chastity, but your heart to keep chastity must rest on humility, which was the broad, thick platform." • '* But," I replied, when these thoughts passed through my mind as though God Himself was speaking to me, ** 1 thought that purity and chastity were the same thing." The answer was : " You need purity of intention. Purity and diligence, which were the two larger bunches, you placed nearest to your heart, and simplicity and modesty you placed on the two outer corners of the platform ; for they should be the most apparent vir- tues of every chaste and humble soul." Yet 1 was not satisfied, and I said complainingly to our Lord : " But still Thou refusest me that which my heart most longs for. Why dost Thou still refuse me Charity ? I ask not for those other graces, all I ask for is Charity." Distinctly then the voice replied : ^^ The perfume of these virtues is Charity ; when you become perfectly humble, chaste, pure, diligent, simple, and modest, then you will have charity. But to ask me for charity, without wishing to cultivate those virtues, is like asking for a victory without desiring to combat in order to win it." CHAPTER CXXIV. THE HEALING OF THE NATIONS. — VAGRANCY AND CRIME. — WHERE IS THE REkEDY ? Who need despair of having joy and peace on earth, seeing what God has deigned to do for me, one of His most undeserving crea- tures ? He asks but one thing in exchange for those lights and precious gifts. He asks our hearts; and the moment we give Him these. He cannot refuse us anything. But how can we obtain the grace to offer Him our hearts ? It is by prayer, persevering and fer- vent prayer. Through prayer God has not only given me the light WANTED : APOSTLES. 593 to know what is my duty, but by prayer He has also given me the grace to try to do it. I was one day praying before God's Tabernacle, when our Lord seemed to make known to me tlie mission of my life. It was not merely to refute the calumnies published under my mother's name, to show the beauty of the religious life and the divine symmetry and grandeur of Catholic doctrine to those who might read this history. Nor would my life seem complete by the consecration of myself and of others to the spiritual and physical good of humanity by our personal service to the sick. Fa.' better even than all this, T hope, that by here pointing out a great evil and its remedy, I may induce many tct appreciate the magnitude of the evil, and to endeavor to supply the remedy ; while I can see for myself no greater work of charity or religion in behalf of both the rich and poor, than to devote to the same object all the earnings of my book and my life. Inflamed as my mind is now with the love and the possession of the Truth ; filled as is now my heart with the love and communion of my Saviour, whom I have found in His Church ; how can I do else than languish and burn with the desire to see tliis Truth made known, and these graces imparted to all of ni)' countrymen ? How many of this great people to whom is committed so much of the world's destinies, are ])erishing without Christ in the world, or languishing of inanition in the midst of pretended plenty, because of the false or imperfect, the mutilated or fragmentary presentation of Him in the various so-called Churches ? This book of mine will, I am sure, bring many to see Him there where He said Himself that he would be " till the end of the world ; " but it is not to any book, not even to the Bible itself, that He committed the teaching of " all things whatsoever He had com- manded." It was not to the Book but to the men that He gave the great commission, and to them only that He gave the ])romise to be with them till the end. It is apostles^ then, that we need, men filled with the spirit of Christ, and imbued with the best and purest tradi- tions of His Church — men trained in the retirement of hei sanctua- ries of piety and learning, and by long and assiduous study and prayer brought into closest commimion with the Christ, and with the noblest and best of His followers, in evt-ry land and in every age. The man who would do most to supply these, would be tnily a " prince of apostles," and worthiest to sit in the. chair of Peter. And those who )||~ 594 WHAT ARE THESE AMONG SO MANY? svould best co-operate in this work, would be the best friends of Christ, the best children of His Church, the greatest benefactors of the world. It is such men that we need, not merely to bring the world to a knowledge of Catholic truth, but also to purify the Church herself, to infuse a new spirit of charity and zeal and self-sacrifice into her pastors of high and low degree, and to remove the ignorance and vice, in which too many of her children are rotting. Sucli reformation in pastors and people would remove one of the greatest obstacles to the speedy conversion of the world. There are thousands of children growing up in our large cities grossly ignorant of the truths of religion^ and worse than indifferent to the practice of virtue. From these "Arabs of the streets" are daily recruited the ranks of the criminal classes ; and until they are converted it will be vain to hope for the suppression of crime or va- grancy. The only way to destroy or even diminish vagrancy is to prevent it. If we could only instruct the rising generation in the truths of religion, and induce them to obey its precepts and follow its counsels, we would have solved all the great social and political problems of the age. The mere education of the intellect, instead of being a preventive of crime, is, in many cases, an incentive to it. Religious development alone can ever make man better and raise the standard of public morality. The priests of the Catholic Church, in the sacrament of orders and the mission they receive from the Church, have divinely sealed certificates as the teachers of reli- gion. But unfortunately the number of these teachers is so dispro- portionate to the vast number of sick and hungry souls who clamor" for spiritual food and medicine, that they can do but little towa Is the healing of the world ; and we must confess, too, that many of i. .em are but poorly fitted for their work. But how is this great want to be supplied ? God graciously vouchsafed me a partial answer to that question by inspiring me to appeal to every reader of this book and every friend of true progress to help to iound and endow col leges in which aspirants for the priesthood can be educated and trained, and in sufficient numbers, for their lofty mission. That they may be fitted for what is no small portion of their sacred duty, the instructing the young in religion and morality, it was given me to see the necessity of having a free school attached to every college and seminary, in which these ecclesiastical students may receive practical instruction in the simple yet difficult task of teaching the catechism, SHEEP WITHOUT A SHEPHERD, 595 al and presenting the sublime truths of religion in an attractive fonn to youthful minds. In these seminaries a taste for literature should be cultivated, so that when the student becomes a priest he can always find compan'ons and friends in his books. Ex))erience has proved that the priest, especially in a lonesome country parish, who is not fond of study and reading, runs the risk of becoming worldly, and losing the spirit of his calling. The want of more priests in the country districts is even more palpably felt than in cities. When I think of the condition of the rural poi)ulation abroad, where each little church has its pastor, my heart sickens all the more at the condition of those in my country, and I have frequently prayed God to come to their relief. Often have I heard it said that much of the misery in our popu- lous cities could be averted if the "poorer classes would go into the country and cultivate the soil. But they prefer to live in swarms in the city, and to submit to all the privations that the direst poverty imposes, rather than live in the country where they could find plenty of work, and provide for themselves and families. For they are naturally and justly reluctant to go where there is no priest nor church, where their children would be exposed to the danger of losing their faith. Even when they go into the country where there is a priest, he usually has charge of several churches, in a circuit sometimes of per- haps forty miles, where many poor souls die without the sacraments, and their children are brought up in ignorance of the religion that their parents profess, I have frequently questioned Catholic chil- dren in the country concerning their catechism, and their ignorance even of the nature of the Mass itself was something incredible. Perhaps once in three or four weeks the priest comes among them, and celebrates Mass. Sometimes he explains to them the gospel of the day ; but oftener he says nothing ; for he is obliged to hasten away to another station, which may be ten miles distant. Go to the bishop and ask him to remedy all this. He will tell you, that he has no priest to give you, that a priest would not have enough to do in one small village, and that the people are not able to support one. If we had a greater number of zealou^ priests I believe that God would give us the means to support them. Let us try and raise a fund for the maintenance of priests, who are sent to parishes where tiie people are not able to support one. But let us have colleges, i'^ 596 FATHERS OF CHRIST S r where priests will be specially fitted for heroic -^crificesfor the benefit of souls. If there were more zealous i)riests scattered over our country, who would demote themselves to teaching religion and mo- rality to the poor, nine-tenths of the misery and crime would be averted. They would draw thousands from the cities, who are living there with idle hands, and are a burden alike to the Church and the State, into the country districts, where they could become honorable and independent tillers of the soil. Had we priests in sufficient nun^J^ers, properly trained for their work, and filled with love of their Master and the souls for whom He died, they would not content themselves with the weekly lessons of the Sunday-school, and of the Sunday sermon, but they would gather the children, and the adults also, several times during the week, or even every day, to exercises of'^piety and to religious and moral ih- struction. For the influence of the Sunday instruction and the Surf- doy worship are too readily forgotten during the week. These fre- quent instructions could be appropriately united with parochial evening prayer, or, better still, with morning prayer and Mass ; for religious instruction and worship would purify and prepare the mind for the reception of knowledge, and strengthen and cheer the heart to bear the burden and heat of the day. Many will say that it is the duty of the parents to attend to the religious instruction of their children. Nothing more true. But many parents either have not the knowledge or have not the inclina- tion to impart this instruction properly. Who, then, but the priest, will teach these teachers, when they are ignorant, and stimulate them, when remiss, and who else will in either case supply the deficiency, by intelligent and faithful instruction ? Besides there attaches to the teaching of the true priest a charm, an authority, and a benediction, that belong to none other, and that m^ke young and old alike look up into his sacerdotal face, and call him " Father." It is the charm of Him around whom the children clustered of old, and who said : " Suffer little children to come to me, and forbid them not ; for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." Besides, by instructing the children of the present generation we ob- viate to a great extent the difficulty for the future. When we educate a child we educate the future parent. When we instruct a boy we enlighten the man, and when we instruct a girl we enlighten the family. Our country is fiill of prisons, reformatories, houses of refuge STUMBLING-BLOCKS. 597 Inebriate asylums, in Hict, witli every accommodation to receive the vicious anil the degraded. But these institutions do not serve to eradicate the evil. It is not only our duty but our best policy to cleanse the source from which these vices spring, and to pluck up the rank roots of the evil, instead of wasting our energies against effects without attacking the cause. CHAPTER CXXV. WHAT PROTESTANTS MUST BE PREPARED FOR. b- te I HAVE now been living more than six years among Catholics, with very rare facilities to study both priests and nuns, and in my heart of hearts, I ain sure that my mother's book is a lie. I do not require my sister's word for it, nor my mother's confession. But again, I speak from my own experience, when I say that the pride and indolence of some priests are the stumbling-block of Protestants, and may not inappropriately be called the leprosy of the Church. If God had not bestowed upon me extraordinary graces, and if I had not been well enlightened in regard to the doctrines of the Catho- lic Church, I should have lost my faith since my return to this country. This would of course have been due chiefly to my own pride and weakness. But Cod in His mercy would not permit me to lose the greatest treasure that He has bestowed upon man — faith in Him and in His Church. He would not permit it, for He wished to make me an instrument of His glory. To that alone do I attribute thie extra- ordinary graces that He has given me ; and if I have faith to-day 7 owe to it His mercy and not to my own strength of will. Whenever )'^ou see a Catholic stay away from church, because he dislikes tlie priest, you may mark him down as an ignorant or worthless ftiUow, and one who is not to be trusted ; for it is his duty to go to church and adore his Lord and receive Him, no matter whether he likes or not the priest, who offers up the sacrifice. God will not make him answer for the priest's defects, and will certainly punish him for his own. I hope God in His mercy will forgive me if I presume to say a word of His servants and ministers. Did not our Lord teach us 198 I HAVE GIVKN YOU AN EXAMPLE. humility by word and by example ? Should not a priest above all others try to imitate his Master? How can he expect those whom he is called to watch over, enlighten, and serve to be humble, unless he is humble himself? It is clear that the priest should stoop to poor weak souls to take them by the hand and draw them out of the mire of sin, and that he should be the last to sink them by his severity and the asperity of his language. 1 say this with all reverence for the sacred office, but with no fear of the displeasure of those whom it may wound. I write not to please them, but to draw souls to God ; and I feel it to be a charity to jjoint out to such souls a stumbling-block in their way towards the light, and to show them that they should not turn back at meeting it, but step over it and go on. I once said to one of this kind of priests, who was knocking down before him everything that he thought savored of Satan and sin: " You do not make any proselytes." "I do not wish to," he replied ; "all I care for is to look after those I have." I condemn such a sentiment in a priest, and prefer to agree with St. Paul, who tried to be all things to all men to draw all to God. St. Teresa praj/ed, " O my God, have pity on those who have no pity on themselves, and who in the excess of their blindness do not wish to go to Thee. Come Thou Thyself to them." Are we asking more than we have a right to ask, when we implore those uho profess to be the servants of that Divine Master, to come to sinners, and not wait for sinners to come to them ? The whole truth can be told in a few words ; if the priests would but be humble they would be perfect ; and that one defect in the priest bars out more sinners from the kingdom of heaven than anything else. What do sinners want to know about doctrines, and what faith have they in them, when they see those who teach them yield so little fruit ? Many who will read this book will feel drawn towards the Catholic Church ; and they will attend the first Catholic church that they can find. But they may chance to go to one that is crowded to excess, and find themselves nearly suffocated during the service. Or they may go to another, where the priest will speak to his congregation in the imperious tones of a master, rather than the loving manner of a father; and I can see them turn away disgusted. But i will say to them that in Catholic countries the churches are PREJUDICE AND COWARDICE. 59S bove all vhom he inless he ike them le should inguage. o fear of ;o please to IJOUlt he light, ng it, but f priests, thought tes." "I r those I gree with God. have no s do not implore to come its would the i^riest hing else. lith have so little I Catholic |they can excess, 1r they lation in ler of a :hes are not so crowded, being larger and more numerous, for the reason that the wealthy classes help to support them. But here it is the poor who support the churches and who build them too. Let those who would attend church if they could be be better ac- commodated, help to build larger and more churches ; and let those who turn from the doctrines of the Church because they have chanced to fall in with an imperfect priest, take heed how they quarrel with Christ, because of the imperfections of His instruments. To remain aloof from the Catholic Church merely to gratify their prejudice or their love of ease, were a criminal slight to Him who will one day have to judge them, and who has said, " He who despises you, despises mc." Let them first pray that God would make them humble and earnest themselves, arid then that in His mercy He would give us humble and zealous priests ; and let them contribute of their abuiv- dance to [)rovide and maintain tliem. Again there are many who will be convinced that the Catholic Church alone possesses the true faith, but who will not have the cour-. age to brave the opinion of neighbors less enlightened than them- selves, and will be ashamed to have their neighbors see them going to church with the Irish. Let me say to such persons that God demands of them a sacrifice of their pride and human respect, to give them a crown of eternal glory. What folly, and what cowardice to refuse to make the sacrifice ! But how great, alas, is the number of the fools and cowards ! How many do I know whom such considerations alone restrain from embracing the Catholic Faith. I have heard them say, " I cannot stand the priests ; " "I cannot stand the Irish." Let me ask them, if on the day of judgment they can better stand the frowns of an angry God ? Many of those, who cannot endure to sit beside the poor, to hear the word of God in this world, might be glad to exchange places with them in the next. Often have I heard the opponents of Catholicity accuse the priests of cupidity and avarice. But what use, I would ask their critics, do the priests- make of the money they receive, and which they urge the people to give ? Certainly they cannot accuse them of applying ic to personal luxuries and squandering it upon themselves. No one will deny that as a rule they live simply, with frugality and economy, and that the contrary is the exception. In fact, the cheapness and the economy of the Catholic system, for the teaching of religion anj 6oo HEROISM OF THE rKIESTHOOD. the doing of works of charity, is notorious, and freely admitted in oni own country by many who *re not Ca .holies. And in Catholic France, where the government gives salaries to the ministers of relig- ion, a larger salary is paid to the Protestant minister, than to the Catholic priest. Tile priesthood, conscious of its divine mission, readily and, as a matter of course, rises to the heroic even in men otherwise very imperfect when a clear duty urges. They will then at a moment's notice subject themselves not only to inconvenience and discomfort, but to the greatest peril for their brethren. And so we tind the priest suffering great hardship to bring the consolation of Christ to every departing soul, and risking his life in the midst of pestilence ; when others who. have no such commission to obey, and no such consolation to give, begin prudently to argue, that their first duty is to their fc.milies, especially as on the other hand, they ran do so little i>ood to the sufferers. Again it is this same readiness of the priest when called upon to sacrifice himself, as well as so many other reasons, that enables the keen-witted pagan of the Eastern lands, and the simple savage of our own, to distinguish between the Catholic apostle, and the well-dressed, well-[)aid resjiectable gentlei-oan and man of family, who calls himself a missionary. The one penetrates alone but feaHessly into the very heart of every pagan land, making a perpetual sacrifice of the dearest natural ties that bind him to country, to home, and to family, becomes the loving and revered spiritual father of numerous converts, and very frequently meets the martyrdom of torture and death after his Master's examj^le, for which he has been sighing. The other cannot travel without the retinue of wife and children, prudently keeps within easy distance of the pro- tection of his country's flag, and manages very rarely to come near enough to the martyrdom, that nobody has ever accused him of sigh- ing for, " Oh," cry their accusers, " we know all that ; but the priests are ever seeking to enrich the Church." This is hardly a true state- ment of the case. They are not seeking to enrich the Church, but rather to increase her efficiency, as the teacher of true religion, and the minister of heavenly charity, and thus enable her to bring price- less ar 3 eternal blessings to the souls of men, while civilizing the world and alleviating all the ills of humanity. Every true servant of God, and every true friend of humanity MATERIAL AIDS. 661 m oui atholic if rclig- to the , ly and, herwisc n at a ice and A.nd so solation nidst of Dey, and heir first an do so 5s of the iny other mds, and Catholic 111 an and enetrates , making him to revered neets the "or which tinue of the pro- ime near of sigh- riests are tue state- jrch, but kon, and Ing price- sizing the \unianity should be zealous to see those doctrines propagated throughout the world, that Christ bequeathed to His Church and sealed with Hii blood ; and the priests are but teaching and urging the fulfilment of a most sacred duty when they ask us to use all efforts for that effect. The money, therefore, which the priests ask you to give them, il but the means which the Church needs to enable her to propagate those doctrines and to build and support places for God's worship and the administration of His sacraments, and for the doing of much- needed works of Christian charity. Those who have read my book with attention must know what those doctrines are. Let me ask them : In what way money can be beter employed than by giving it to the Church, where it is used to aid the propagation of the Faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, and in bringing poor, destitute souls to receive the light of truth and the blessings of His grace in reformation and holiness of life ? Whenever we grudge our money to enrich the Church we are grudging to have such instructions given to poor sin ful souls, as were given to me by Bishop Semeria and the cur6 of St. Mand6. But the Church does not increase in strength and might by means of wealth alone. It is only by its conquest of poor sinful souls, whom it saves from perdition, that it becomes great. It asks wealth, that it may have the means of reaching men's souls ; that by offering their hearts to God they may increase that kingdom of Christ here below, for which alone He became man, and for which He laid down His Hfe. It is by annexing hearts and souls to Christ that the Church becomes rich, mighty, and strong. By giving to His Church, to enable her to do this work, we not only receive a rich reward throughout all eternity, but we secure God's protection over us here. No one ever yet became poorer by giving to God ; and we give to God when we help to su])port His Church. CONCLUSION. I HAVE said many severe things, but true, about my mother. Too well I know that the world will throw the reproach in my face : "But she was your mother, and God commacds us to honor oui father and mother," 26 I >\ 4 6o2 WHO IS MY MOTHER? I To this I must answer : " But the same God has saiJ, ' Pa' enta^ provoke not your children to wrath.' It is not that I hate the memory of my father or my mother ; but I hate injustice and cal- umny. Every one would point the finger of scorn at a .hild who who would refuse to liquidate the temporal debts of a parent ; and is it not just as sacred a duty for one to render justice to thci.c whom its parents have morally wronged? Are material rights always lo triumph, to the exclusion of moral ones ? Am I to refuse justic •• to others, merely because it was my mother who wronged them ? No, no, a thousand tinos no ; that would be misinterpreting God's most righteous commands. It is the duty of the child to honor its parents, but not to condone their sinful acts, especially when by those acts tliey have tried to trample on and deface that which God has taught us to hold most sacred. It is also true that the moment a mother neglects, ill-treats, and corrupts her child, she to a great extent forfeits her title to that endearing name. There are mothers, who, after ill-treating and neglecting their children, abandon them ! A Sister of Charity picks them out of the street, feeds, nurses, and educates them. Which is the mother? the unnatural being, who abandons them ; or the Sister who rescues iV^p^ ? Go to the Foundling Asylum, and watch that woman, as she drops her child at the door ; is she the mother ? or is the Sister, who receives it? I never see a community of Sisters taking care of little waifs, but what my heart goes out towards them, and I feel that there is still on earth a far higher and more blessed motherhood, than that of mere physical generation. I appeal to the hearts of all Christian mothers and ask them, who is my mother ? I can already hear their reply : " that the Catholic Church is my mother ; " for it was she who took me by the hand and raised me out of the abyss of spiritual misery, into which the faults of my parents had helped to plunge me. It was through her that God iirst gave light to my soul, which she has nourished by her teachings, until at last she has wedded me to my God. If the mother who bore me has claims on me, the mother who saved me has still greater ; and it is to satisfy these that God in His justice and mercy inspired me to write this book. The critics of the book will find severest things to say of the personal history of the author, and from her own showing. But they will not make me out as bad as I know myself to have been. I r ■Wf WHAT I HAVE LEARNED. 603 »! would have told more of my miseries, if it could have served any good purpose ; and I would not tell less, because I would encourage those who have suffered, and groped, and wandered, and sinned like me, to seek i)ardon and peace, where I have found them. 1 have lived over again in these pages the follies of ray life, and dwelt upon frivolities, upon which with God's grace I have turned my back forever, to lead others through them, as I have been led myself, to the knowledge of the truth and the love of the only life that is worth living. May it please God to make such portions of my history effective warnings to those of my readers who have not yet found by their own experience the bitterness of sin and the emptiness of the world ; so that of no one of them may it ever be said with truth : " It is thy own history," — " de tefabula narrattir." Let none presume to imitate my follies, for God is just ; but let those who have erred, still hope, for He is merciful. 1 have erred much, but I have learned to pray. I have prayed, and God could not resist me ; for as the nun Madam Xavier once said to me, " Prayer is stronger than God, since He cannot resist it ; " by prayer we as it were conquer God, and we force Him to grant us that of which we are most undeserving. One simple prayer rising from a heart filled with faith, hope, and charity, can effect more good in a day than the efforts of an indus- trious and intellectual mind can accomplish by human prudence alone in years. If we pray, it is God who acts in us ; and without prayer it is merely the creature who toils. But prayer is not merely a repe- tition of words pronounced by the lips alone ; prayer is that outburst of interior devotion which comes from a heart and soul raised to God, and purified by His presence and communion. Prayer need not interfere with any other duty. Work of every kind, when it is in the line of duty, if referred to God, is the most acceptable kind of worshipful prayer. It is an offering not merely of the soul, but of the entire person to God. We ought to ask God to teach us how to pray ; for He will never refuse that gift to whoever asks it with a view to His glory. How I wish that this book would speak to the hearts of those women who consider themselves strong-minded, and whom the world ironically designates by that epithet. Could they only see themselves as they are in the sight of God, they would find them- selves to be the weakest of their weak sex. For the truly strong- 604 MY FATHER I minded woman is she who strives to conquer herself, and by cliarity and humility to assist Christ in establishing His kingdom on earth, that she may dwell with Him here and throughout eternity; and rot •ihe who seeks to take the position which God has assigned on earth lo men. Such a woman is weak indeed ; for she ^^as not even the courage to endure with patience the sacrifices which God imposes on her sex. These women become indignani when spoken to in the name of the Gospel, of the law of suffering. They imagine that in the name of progress they will be able to escape that law themselves, and are foolish enough to believe that, if they could only become as men, they would be able to suppress it altogether. In vain they are told, that, if there were any other way to happiness than the way of the cross, Christ would have taught it to us. But this is a hard say- ing and unintelligible to those whose strong-mindedness is borrowed only from their pride ; and it is clear and sweet only to those who have learned the ineffable strength that is given from above to true humility. The world can never know to what height a woman can be ele- vated, until it has seen her divest herself of her will, her pride, and her vanity, and her whole mind imbued with the truth that creatures are as nothing, that she herself is as nothing, that the world and the whole universe combined are as nothing, but that the will of God is everything. I pray that I may ever be faithful to the lights and graces that God our Father, in His mercy, has deigned to bestow upon me ; and to Him with childlike confidence I commit my future life, and all that concerns me for time and for eternity. And you, dear reader, who have followed me through my wander- ings, and communed with my thoughts ; you, for whom I have, not without many a pang, laid bare and dissected my heart, fail not to profit by such hght, as even from these pages, may have been re- flected upon your mind by the " Father of Lights," and join me in begging His mercy on me and on yourself. And now,0 God, my Father, do Thou make me and mine entirel)i Thine. And when the hour will come for me to render back this life to Thee, who gavest it, may I, unworthy as I have been, be worthy of being received by Thee into heaven as a child of Mary and a spouse of Jesus. :i'