THE YOUNG VERMONTERS.
CHAPTER VI.
A NEW ADVENTURE.
All went on quietly with our young Vermonters for a long time. They were engaged in close attention to their studies, in the regular routine of school duties and recreations of the play-ground, until late in August, when the peaceful current was again disturbed by the restlessness of Frank Blair; and it happened in this wise.
In the vicinity of the village lived a farmer whom the boys had named Old Blue Beech, from his fondness for using a rod of that description over the backs of lawless juveniles whom he caught trespassing on his premises. Now, this farmer was very skilful in cultivating choice fruit, and spared no expense or labor in that department; rejoicing in an orchard which he held in higher estimation than any other earthly possession, and which was an object of greedy envy to the village urchins, who indulged an inveterate spite and aversion against him, without really knowing why or stopping to inquire. They seemed to imagine that his keeping guard over his cherished treasures justified them in making frequent incursions, and waging a perpetual warfare of petty annoyances against him.
It so happened this year that he had several early pear and apple-trees, of rare and excellent varieties, in bearing for the first time, and well laden with most tempting fruit, now nearly ripe.
Frank Blair set his wits about inventing some plan by which he and his comrades could possess themselves of this fruit without detection. He formed and dismissed many schemes, at length devising one that he thought could be safely carried out. Accordingly, on a certain cloudy evening an assemblage of the boys—among whom I am sorry to say were Mike Hennessy and Johnny Hart—met by appointment in a grove near the farm, and from which to the orchard a strip of woodland extended, furnishing a convenient hiding-place, to accomplish the project.
It never entered their heads that stealing this fruit was just as much a theft as to steal one of the farmer's horses. Nothing could have tempted one of their number to steal, and any confectioner in the village might have spread his most tempting stores unguarded before them without losing so much as a comfit; so sacredly would they have held his right to his own. But boys have a most perverse and wicked mode of reasoning about fruit. They cannot be made to regard it as the property of the person who has expended much money and many years of patient labor to produce it; and while these boys would have shuddered at the thought of purloining the farmer's gold watch or his silver spoons, which, perhaps, he would sooner have parted with, they did not scruple to rob him of what he had taken infinite pains to cultivate for his own benefit.
On this occasion our young marauders had furnished themselves with bags and baskets, in which to deposit their plunder; and as the night advanced, they proceeded through the woods to the orchard very cautiously, pausing every few steps to listen if any movement was to be heard. As all was quiet, they hoped the family in the farm-house were asleep. After they had gathered most of the pears and a large portion of the apples, they were startled by the low growl of a dog at some distance.
"I wonder if the old chap keeps a watch-dog?" said Frank. They listened in perfect silence for some time, hardly daring to breathe; but hearing nothing further, set about their task with renewed energy, and were all engaged in stowing away the apples, when suddenly a glare of light from a large dark-lantern was thrown full upon the faces of the whole party, at the same moment revealing the burly form of farmer Brown, and his Frenchman, leading a powerful watch-dog by a chain. At the instant the farmer turned the light upon them, he said sternly, "Any boy that attempts to stir from the spot, I will let the dog loose after him, and I warrant he'll be glad to come back in a hurry!"
The boys needed no such warning. They were taken so entirely by surprise that they could not move. The farmer made a low bow, and said with mock courtesy,
"I am very much obliged to you, young gentlemen, for your kind assistance in gathering my fruit, though you selected rather an unseasonable hour for performing the service. Your bags and baskets will repay me, however, for my broken rest. It is a pity such friendly labors should go unrewarded, and I shall take pains to inform your fathers of them to-morrow morning, that they may bestow the recompense you have so well earned."
With that he gathered together the bags and baskets of fruit, saying, "Good-night, you young dogs! The next time you undertake to steal fruit, I advise you to find out first how the orchard is guarded, and whether there's a dog on the premises stronger and swifter of foot than yourselves!" and departed.
A more chap-fallen crew than he left behind him cannot well be imagined! They started for the village by the most direct route, as there was no further need of concealment, and for a long time the silence of their rapid homeward march was unbroken. At length the wrath of Frank Blair found utterance.
"The mean old hunks! who would have thought of his keeping that sneaking Frenchman on guard that way? If it hadn't been for the dog, I would have shown fight, and they shouldn't have carried off the prize without some broken noses; but I knew it was no use to pitch into a fight with that fierce dog against us! He's an old milksop to depend on a dog for help."
The boys made no reply, and Frank saw he had gained no renown by this adventure. He felt heartily ashamed of the whole affair, while an innate sense of justice assured him and his companions that the farmer had a right to defend his own property by any means within his reach.
They all betook themselves to rest with no enviable feelings. Some of them, who feared to disturb their families, were glad to lie on the hay in the barn.
In the morning they trudged off to school in good season, with many gloomy forebodings as to what was in store for them. About the middle of the forenoon, Mr. Blair made his appearance accompanied by the farmer, and informed the teacher of the attempt to rob the orchard, and that he had requested Mr. Brown to come with him to identify the culprits.
Mr. Brown selected them one by one, and, as each was pointed out, he had to rise and take his place in the middle of the school-room.
When they were all arranged there, with Frank at their head, Mr. Blair delivered a sharp reprimand to them, not failing to intimate that nothing but future ruin was in store for the country if Yankee boys allowed themselves to be drawn into disgraceful rows and thieving expeditions by a set of Irish blackguards, and winding up by severe threats against those of this company in particular, and all "foreign scum" in general.
After a short consultation between the teacher and Mr. Blair, it was announced that the punishment of the offenders would be left to Mr. Brown.
The farmer then stated that he had advised with his wife, and, as he had been pretty severe upon such culprits hitherto, without much effect, they had decided to take another course now.
"So, young gentlemen," he added, "she has authorized me to present her compliments to the school, and request all but the boys who were engaged in this transaction to come with the principal early on Saturday morning next, to pass the day with us. I have two boats engaged, with abundant fishing-tackle, for those who prefer the water, and fowling-pieces for the woods, where game is plenty; so you can take your choice of sports on land or water. I promise you a plentiful feast of the fruit which these youngsters kindly gathered."
The teacher politely accepted the invitation on behalf of himself and the scholars, and the farmer, after again reminding them to come early in the day, departed with Mr. Blair.
The feelings of the excluded boys may be imagined, and the teacher gave them such touching advice in relation to the enticements and temptations of boyhood—speaking like one who remembered he had himself been a boy—that they doubted more than ever the fun of "tip-top times," and the wisdom of following leaders like Frank Blair.
CHAPTER VII.
AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER.
The next morning as the scholars collected, they found Frank Blair and several of the excluded boys in the play-ground, grouped together in close discussion. When they approached, Frank called out exultingly,
"I give you fellows joy of your select party to-morrow! Joe Bundy is to be one of the company."
This Joe Bundy, whose mother died in the poor-house some years before, was a vile, depraved boy, somewhat older than the subjects of our narrative, who never came to school, leading an idle, vagabond life, and so heartily despised by the boys on account of his vagrant habits and thievish propensities that they would have nothing to do with him. They heard with great surprise and indignation, therefore, that he was among the invited on this occasion, for his character was well known to the farmer.
In explanation of this singular circumstance, a fact, not made known to them until long after these events, may as well be communicated here. On the night when our heroes set out to rob the orchard, it so chanced that Joe Bundy had entered upon a similar exploit on his own account, and was concealed in the grove where he overheard their conversation, and, suddenly relinquishing his own plan, hastened to inform the farmer, the result of which report has been already related. Mr. Brown was so well pleased that he included the informer among the invited, though he knew he was a bad boy and disliked by all the others.
At noon on that day, Joe saw Michael Hennessy, and called out, "Hallo, Mike! don't you wish you was going to the farm with the rest of us? Such precious fun as we shall have, and sights of good eating, too! An't you sorry you can't go?"
"No, I'm not!" said Michael; "I wouldn't go any way, if you were to be there!"
Joe turned off, muttering something in a sullen undertone, and casting a malignant glance at Michael.
At the close of school in the afternoon, the teacher told the scholars to meet him at the school-house the next morning, that they might all set out together. Bright and early on as fine a morning as could be desired, did the merry company gather, with nothing but the absence of those who were generally foremost in their frolics, and the presence of Joe Bundy, to mar their pleasure.
After a delightful walk, they were greeted at the farm-house with a hearty welcome, and found every possible arrangement made for their enjoyment.
Some betook themselves to the boats provided with means for fishing. Others, armed with fowling-pieces, sought the woods in quest of partridges, squirrels, and other game of the season; while a few strolled off to a sequestered pond, where wild ducks abounded, and where a small duck-boat was provided to aid in securing the spoils.
At the proper time they were summoned to partake of an excellent dinner; and so swift had been the flight of the hours that they could hardly believe the forenoon was gone. At the close of a sumptuous feast and dessert, they were regaled with an abundant supply of the captured fruit, to all of which their fine appetites prepared them to do ample justice.
The whole day was so replete with mirth, frolic, and sunshine that they saw the time for their return drawing near with regret.
When they left, Mrs. Brown distributed to each a portion of the fruit for their mothers and sisters, and Mr. Brown invited them to come again late in the fall, to gather nuts that abounded in the woods.
They could talk of nothing on their way home but the kindness of good Mr. and Mrs. Brown, and the incidents and pleasures of the day; the teacher taking occasion to contrast such innocent and simple delights with the wild excitements and lawless frolics in which boys are too apt to seek for enjoyment.
CHAPTER VIII.
MISFORTUNE AND GRIEF.
When the scholars assembled on Monday morning, the first news they heard was that Mr. Brown's splendid and valuable watch-dog had been poisoned, and died on Saturday night.
Mr. Brown had obtained evidence so convincing against Michael Hennessy as to cause his arrest.
Great was the indignation of his young friends, and unanimous their declarations that they knew Michael did not do it.
"A great deal more like that hateful Joe Bundy," said one.
"Oh! it couldn't be him," said another; "for he was one of the party, and of course it wasn't he. If he hadn't been invited, he might have done it out of spite; but now he had no object."
Various were the conjectures and discussions at school and in the whole neighborhood.
The trial was on Tuesday, and Mr. Blair was the prosecuting attorney. The village apothecary testified that on the Friday previous Michael Hennessy purchased some poison of him, representing that his mother sent him for it to poison rats. A neighbor of Mr. Brown's alleged that he saw Michael passing his residence in the road on Saturday afternoon, and Joe Bundy averred that he saw him prowling around the farm buildings about the time indicated by the last witness.
Mrs. Hennessy testified that she sent Michael for the poison to kill the rats that infested their premises. Mr. Hennessy said he had mended a hand-reel for a person who lived just beyond Mr. Brown's, and sent Michael home with it on Saturday afternoon.
Mr. Blair accepted the evidence of the parents, and urged the probability that a portion of the poison had been reserved by the lad as an instrument of his spite against Mr. Brown, for the application of which the errand upon which he was dispatched furnished an opportunity.
He set forth every circumstance unfavorable to poor Michael in the strongest possible light, blending with his argument such reflections and assertions upon the character and training of the children of foreign parentage as could not fail to influence a prejudiced jury.
Notwithstanding an able defence, the jury, after a short consultation, returned a verdict of "guilty," and Michael was sentenced for twelve months to the reform-school.
Nothing could exceed the grief and indignation of his comrades, or the sympathy of the whole village with poor Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy. Michael stoutly protested his innocence, and there were but very few who doubted it; but his father, whose health was very poor and his family large, was not able to risk an appeal to a higher court, which would probably, after all, confirm the decision, and Mike was not willing to have him. So they prepared, with heavy hearts, for the separation.
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Sullivan to her neighbor Mrs. Mellen—"indeed, it's a sore thing to be put upon two such decent people, through the hatred of that miserable old Blair against an Irishman's boy, and him as innocent as the child in his mother's arms!"
"You knew them before they came here, I have heard," said Mrs. Mellen, who had not lived long in the place.
"They came over on the vessel with us, and were from the next county at home; and this was the way of it:
"The two brothers, Pat and Mike Hennessy, married two sisters, Mary and Bridget Denver. They were decent tradesmen as any in the two counties, and were well enough to do until the hard times came, when old Ireland saw her poor children starving on every side so that it would melt the heart of a stone, or any thing softer than an English landlord's, to hear tell of it. Well, in the midst of the famine, Mike agreed that he'd come to America, and prepare a place against Patrick should come with Mary and Bridget. So when he left them, Pat set to get all he could together by selling his bits of furniture and things, and when times grew worse and worse, he would not delay, but took Mary with her baby of a week old, and Bridget, and came, as I said, on the vessel with us; and, by the same token, the ship's name was the Hibernia. A good name with a rough fortune, like the dear old land; for the weather was boisterous from first to last, and when we had been out four days, the most awful storm arose, that you'd think heaven and earth was comin' together. And in the midst of it what does poor Bridget do but sicken and die with the fright, leaving her little baby; but it followed its mother that same night which was God's blessing on it, poor motherless thing, seein' it was baptized by a priest we had on board, and who attended Bridget at the last.
"When we reached Boston, no tidings was to be heard of Mike; so Pat staid there hopin' to get news of him, and we came on to Vermont, where Sullivan's sister's husband came the year before.
"After a while Pat heard that the vessel Mike sailed on was struck by an iceberg, and went down with all on board; and it was called the Polar Queen, a name no knowledgeable man would have put on a vessel, in respect of them same icebergs, that would naturally enough claim their own.
"So when Pat heard these news, and he not finding such work as he wanted, seein' it was very costly living in the city, they started for the West; but hearing at Albany that the cholera was ragin' there, they turns and they follows us to Vermont, thinking, poor creatures! that it would be some comfort to be near those who knew of all their troubles. The church was then a building, and Mr. Wingate gave him work on it, and has been the best of friends to him ever since, and he has never wanted for employment; but lately his health is poor, and I'm afeered this grief will kill him entirely, and indeed my heart is scalded for them, bein' that we're all as one family, and their sorrow is our sorrow."
CHAPTER IX.
AFFLICTED AND CONSOLED.
When the morning appointed for the departure of Michael arrived, the whole school assembled to accompany him to the depot, and take leave of him. The teacher gave him much good advice, and exhorted him to conform closely to all the rules of the institution, adding, "And I have no doubt you will, Michael; for you have always been a good, attentive, and obedient scholar."
The parting with his parents and the children was inexpressibly painful; but for their sakes he bore up manfully under it, cheering them with brave words, and suppressing his grief until the dear home with all its cherished associations was no longer in sight. Oh! how bitterly and dismally did the heavy grief he had so struggled with, and tried so heroically to smother, then press upon him; he still choked it down until he was ready to suffocate, and then the weary sense of desolation, of cruel injustice, and of a homesickness which made the sight of a year's separation from all he loved, that was now staring him in the face, seem an age of insupportable sorrow, rushed upon him with overwhelming power, and found relief in floods of tears.
The officer who had him in charge tried to soothe and cheer him; assuring him that it was a very pleasant place to which he was going, and that he would be treated with the utmost kindness if he behaved well. But what was the kindness of strangers to the tenderness of dear parents from whom he had never before been separated? What could the place be to him, though ever so comfortable, to which he was consigned, in his innocence, as a disgraced felon?
No! there was no comfort for him! and again the convulsive sobs shook his whole frame, and the pride of his honest Irish heart rebelled against the injustice of his cruel fate; when suddenly he remembered the words his dear mother whispered softly, amidst sighs and tears, at parting, "Remember, darling! remember the loving Jesus! and how he suffered, being innocent, for our sins. When you are tempted to despair, fly to the wound in his sacred heart, ever open to receive and comfort the broken-hearted, and you will surely find comfort and peace." From that moment he became calm. He sought that dear refuge, and hid himself there from the storm that was raging within and without.
He had always been a warm-hearted boy, an affectionate, generous, and dutiful son and brother; but now he reproached himself that he had never prized his dear ones at half their value, or loved them with any thing approaching to the degree of affection which they deserved. Oh! if he could only be with them again, how would he strive to show his love by the most entire devotion, and the most diligent efforts to assist and sustain them.
Then how did the memory of the wild frolics in which he had joined, and for which he had even neglected his religious duties, come back like accusing spirits to whisper to his afflicted heart that it was just he should be punished.
After a few hours' ride, they reached the place of their destination, and the principal, a venerable old man with a most benevolent countenance and manner, received Michael very kindly, even tenderly.
With strong efforts the poor lad was able to maintain his composure until he prepared for his bed at night, when the same dark sense of desolation overwhelmed him, as recollections of his dear home, and the kneeling circle, where his place was to be so long vacant, pressed upon him; but the thought of how fondly he would be remembered in their united prayers this and every other night poured a ray of light upon his stricken soul. Again recalling his mother's words, he knelt by his bedside, commending himself and all his beloved and afflicted ones to his Saviour, and to the prayers of the tender Virgin Mother who never forsakes her children; and then slept the peaceful sleep of a tired, exhausted child on that maternal bosom.
The next morning he was duly instructed in the routine of his present position, and soon found that the most diligent attention to its duties served to relieve the crushing weight which seemed to be pressing the very life-blood from his young heart. After a few days, he won approving smiles from the principal, who was as ready to appreciate the merits of those under his charge as he was to reprove their faults.
The Saturday after Michael's arrival, the devoted bishop of the diocese visited the institution, and heard the confessions of the Catholic members. This was an unspeakable consolation to Michael; and his heart felt lighter than he had thought it ever would again after he had poured the tale of all its sins and all its sorrows into that paternal ear. The bishop had obtained permission for the Catholic boys to attend mass at their own chapel in the place, and at his recommendation they were placed under Michael's care to and from the church.
Some of these were very wild, reckless boys, hardened in vice and iniquity, and disposed to "poke fun" at the "new prig," as they called Michael.
At first, when he was saying his prayers, they would shoot peas at him, flip buttons in his face, and even repeat portions of prayers in mocking derision. But he paid no heed to them. After a few days, two or three others knelt to their prayers at night and morning, and then he obtained permission from the principal to recite the beads with these at night. It was not long before they were joined by every Catholic boy in the dormitory.
There is a wonderful vigor and tenacity in the life our Catholic Mother—our Mighty Mother, ever ancient, ever new—imparts. When, by our own fault, we seem to have quenched the last spark of living fire which she kindled upon the altar of our hearts, a passing breath from heaven wafted gently through a fitting word kindly spoken, or the voice of hymn or prayer over the dying embers on the almost abandoned shrine, will awaken the flame anew, and draw the wanderer back to the forsaken source of life, of light, and of warmth.
It was very consoling to Michael to witness this returning vitality in the hearts of his unfortunate companions; and they soon became so fond of him as to seek his advice and confide all their troubles to him. The influence he thus acquired was a great relief to the principal. It was no longer necessary for him to exercise unceasing vigilance over these, who had been among the most turbulent boys under his care, to prevent violent outbreaks; for they were now the most diligent, attentive, and orderly members of the establishment.
And Michael's efforts brought their own reward to himself. The consciousness of being useful to others brought cheerfulness to his heart, and lent new wings to old time, whose flight had at first been so heavy and slow; so that at the end of the first month he was surprised to find how swiftly it had flown.
CHAPTER X.
THE DYING PENITENT'S DISCLOSURE.
There were many sad hearts in the village of M——, outside of Michael Hennessy's home, on the day of his departure. The event cast a gloom over the whole village; for his bright, sunny face was a joy to many of its residents, and there seemed to be a ray of light stricken out when he departed.
His young companions could no longer enjoy the sports of the play-ground; but might be seen gathered in quiet groups discussing and lamenting the loss of their joyous comrade. None mourned for him more than Frank Blair; for his grief over the absence of a loved school-mate was increased by the part his father had taken in bringing it about. He saw the time approaching for his own departure, to take his place in the naval school, with a sullen apathy that alarmed his mother and aunt, and repeatedly expressed his indifference as to whether he should ever return to M——.
When Michael had been absent about two months, Joe Bundy returned to M—— from one of his frequent distant rambles; and soon after his return was taken very ill. The physician pronounced it a very malignant case of the small-pox, and had him removed to a building quite out of the village. He was so generally disliked that it was difficult to find any one to take care of him; but when Mrs. Hennessy heard of it, she offered to go if Mrs. Sullivan would look after her house; her oldest daughter, Jane, being old enough to get along with a little direction. She accordingly went, and found him much worse than she expected, and suffering intensely. As soon as he saw her, he became so violently agitated that she thought he was delirious, and the impression was confirmed by his pleading in the most moving terms for her forgiveness, and that she would send for the priest, when he had always been a Protestant. She tried to soothe him; but he only begged the more earnestly, and assured her that he was not delirious. So when the physician came, she requested him to send Mr. Hennessy for the priest.
Upon the arrival of the reverend father, the young man, to his great surprise, begged to be admitted into the Catholic Church.
The priest, having satisfied himself as to his dispositions, and imparted the necessary instruction, administered conditional baptism, and then heard his confession. At its close Joe repeated a portion to Mrs. Hennessy; and the fact was then disclosed to her that he had poisoned the dog and perjured himself to gratify his anger at Michael's scornful remark, and his spiteful feelings toward a boy who was so generally beloved.
The physician coming in soon after, the same information was conveyed to him; and he made no delay in communicating it to Mr. Hennessy, that he might act upon it at once.
The news flew like wild-fire through the village; and great were the rejoicings on every hand. The school-boys were frantic with joy; and the teacher announced that the day of Michael's return should be celebrated by a holiday of triumphant exultation and welcome to their returning friend.
Measures were instituted for Michael's immediate release; and the people could hardly await the necessary course of legal formalities.
Meantime poor Joe grew worse; and after improving those last few days of suffering by manifesting such penitence as the time and the circumstances would allow, and receiving from the priest those consolations which the church extends to penitent sinners, he died.
Upon examining his few effects, a roll of counterfeit bills was discovered; and it was conjectured that his last journey was made to procure them, as he had told Mrs. Hennessy that he supposed he took the small-pox on a recent visit to Canada.
When the papers were ready, Mr. Blair claimed the privilege of going after Michael. He reproached himself so bitterly for his own injustice that he could not do enough to manifest his regret.
A larger crowd was never assembled in the village than met at the depot in M—— on the evening of his arrival with his young companion. They were greeted with joyful cheers, repeated again and again; and Mr. Blair led Michael to his father, saying, "Let me congratulate you, Mr. Hennessy, on being able to claim such a son. During the short time he has been away, among strangers and under most unfavorable circumstances, he has established a character that any young man might envy; and it was truly touching to witness the grief of his unfortunate young companions at parting with him. The principal also passed the highest encomiums upon his conduct. Allow me also to express to this assemblage of my fellow-townsmen my sincere regret that I should have had any part in his unjust conviction, and allowed myself to be governed by prejudices, too common in our country, which I now lay aside for ever. There are good and bad people among natives and foreigners; and the man exhibits but little good sense who passes sweeping condemnations upon either."
The school-boys, with their teacher at the head, formed a procession to escort Michael to his father's house; and a happier circle was not to be found in Vermont than the one that knelt around Mr. Hennessy's family altar that night, to return fervent thanksgivings to heaven for having permitted the separated to be again and so speedily reunited!
TEN YEARS IN ROME.[174]
Rome, the city of the soul! Who is there that does not nowadays feel his thoughts turning almost involuntarily to the seven-hilled city? To her many ordinary claims on our minds, there has of late been added one of startling interest—the Œcumenical Council—which has not failed to excite the attention of the world. It is the daily theme of prayer and of hope for the devout child of the church. To the worldling, it is a theme of curiosity and idle speculation. To the enemies of the church, the council is a subject of alarm and of vague apprehensions. In Europe, where men curiously mix politics and religion, their opposition takes the hue of odium politicum; and journals, reviews, and pamphlets are filled with the most outré accounts of what the writers assert has been done or will be done in the council, adverse to liberty, progress, and civilization. In America, where as yet men have not lost the habit of separating politics from religion, such effusions as these would be looked on as simply stupid, unreadable nonsense. Here, however, as also in England, the odium theologicum retains its olden character and makes use of its olden weapons. It is worth while to note the apparently systematic efforts made to repeat old calumnies, and to coin new stories after the old pattern, and to force them on the public attention, on occasion of this universal interest, in the evident expectation that they will now be swallowed as credulously as they might have been fifty years ago. No greater tribute, we think, could be paid to the real advancement of the public mind than to say that this expectation has in very great measure proved vain. There are things and stories which nowadays most men instinctively feel to be too absurd for belief. Hence it is scarcely worth while to take up such stories for serious examination. They are simply to be put in a class together, and to be properly labelled, and to be ranked below the sensational tales in the Ledger. This is especially the case when they appear in organs specially devoted to the cause which such stories are intended to support.
Now and then, however, it may be allowed to dissect such a production, that the evidence of facts may occasionally confirm and strengthen the true instinct which we already possess. More especially is this allowable, when the story is peculiarly bold and prominent, and comes before the public through a channel in which we are not prepared to look for an exhibition of the old and unscrupulous hatred.
Such an instance has been presented in several articles in the Galaxy, a monthly periodical published in this city, and aiming to be a literary and instructive magazine "of value and interest."
Among the writers engaged for the pages of the Galaxy is one who is represented as having been a Roman Catholic ecclesiastic, and who contributes a series of articles under the title, "Ten Years in Rome."
According to these articles, the writer is an Englishman, and was at one time a Catholic priest in Rome. He went to Rome in 1855-56, bearing letters of introduction, was received at once into the Propaganda College, increasing the number of Irish, Scotch, and English students in that college to nine, passed from there to the Vatican, to live "under the same roof with the pope," became assistant-librarian to the Congregation of the Index, and subsequently was the confidential and trusty secretary of the late Cardinal d'Andrea, whose private papers—or at least some of them—he claims still to possess. The Galaxy does not give the name of this writer. But the daily papers informed us, some time ago, that a reverend gentleman of England delivered a lecture at the lecture-room of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, on Rome and its religion and society; and was qualified to do so, because he had been formerly "an official of the Roman court, secretary to the late Cardinal d'Andrea, and assistant librarian in the Index Expurgatorius." The lecturer was evidently the same individual as the writer for the Galaxy. The papers gave his name, which, we are sorry to say, smacks far more of the Green Island than of England.
Now, it so happened that we were in a position to test at once and fully the accuracy of these statements in regard to the past history of the lecturer and writer; and we reached the following results:
1. No young English youth or clergyman of that name ever was received into the College of the Propaganda at Rome. This is shown by the records of the college, and is corroborated by the assurances of the present rector, who, in 1855, had been for several years vice-rector, and has ever since been connected with the college, and also by the recollection of half a dozen Irish and American students, who were then in the college, and would have been his companions.
2. During the last twenty-five years there never was an officer of the Roman court, or an English or Irish ecclesiastic connected with it, in any way, of that name. The list of all such officers is regularly published every year. This name has never figured there. Officers of twenty years' standing in the Vatican have no recollection of him. An Englishman could scarcely have been entirely overlooked. And at least his brother Englishmen, who are officers of the court, would have known and remembered him.
3. During the same period, no person of that name has filled the office of librarian, or assistant-librarian, of the Index Expurgatorius, or of the Congregation of the Index. The officials of that congregation are all Dominicans; and the writer does not pretend that he ever joined that order. We may add the other insignificant fact, that no such library is known to exist at all, much less to be so large as to require the services not only of a librarian, but of one, perhaps of several, assistant-librarians.
4. The late Cardinal d'Andrea never had a secretary of that name. This is the assurance unanimously given us by the friends and intimate acquaintances of the cardinal, and by the members of his household, who had lived with him for twenty years. There can be no doubt on this fact. We may add one little item. Cardinal d'Andrea had no secretary. The secretary of a cardinal is an ecclesiastic. When a layman is chosen to fill the place, he is called, not the secretary, but the chancellor of the cardinal. Cardinal d'Andrea, from 1852, when he was made cardinal, down to his death, employed as chancellor an estimable and well-educated gentleman, whom he had known well, and had been intimately associated with for years before, and who still lives in Rome.
5. Although, considering that forty or fifty thousand strangers visit Rome every year, it may be possible that the writer in The Galaxy did, at some time or other, enter that city, yet we are pretty certain that he never spent any considerable time there—much less, ten years—as an ecclesiastic. We have made inquiries of a number of clergymen, Englishmen and Irishmen, resident in the Eternal City for thirty years, who from their positions must have heard of such a one, and could not have escaped becoming acquainted with him under some circumstances or other. One after another, they assured us that they had never met, and could not remember ever having heard of such, an ecclesiastic.
It is unfortunate that, in such striking and important matters of his own personal history, concerning which he ought to be perfectly well-informed, the memory of our lecturer and writer fails so entirely to agree with the recollection and knowledge of so many others. If this is the case here, what may we look for when he undertakes to remember what happened to others?
Our writer makes his bow to the readers of The Galaxy in the number of December last, in the character of "Secretary of the late Cardinal d'Andrea," concerning whom he gives an article of nine pages, intended to be sensational and artistic. He opens thus:
"The church of San Giovanni in Laterano was filled with an unusually excited throng. The magnificent edifice, the pope's cathedral, as bishop of Rome, was draped for a funeral. The marble pillars," etc., etc.
To be sure, the description of the edifice which follows is rather misty, to one who knows it, and some things, we suspect, are introduced which no architect ever saw there. But then, "in the centre of the church," stands "the chief object of interest," "a gorgeous catafalque," "entirely covered with black velvet, very tastefully festooned with silver." "Escutcheons were placed at intervals, bearing the arms of the deceased. On the bier lay a cardinal's hat, a pastoral staff, and a mitre. Six gigantic candles of yellow wax were burning around it." The pope and the cardinals were to come to the funeral. As the cardinal-minister (Antonelli) "stepped from his carriage" in front of the church, "there was a deep hum" from the crowd. For they suspected him of having compassed the death of the only cardinal they honored, who was to be buried that day. "His face was very pale;" "he played nervously with the jewelled cross hanging from his neck." "He could read his doom in hundreds of scowling faces; the curses, not loud but deep, he well interpreted. As he ascended the steps of the church, a shrill voice cried out, 'Down with the assassin!'" "The French guards clinched their rifles," and "closed in" at a sign to their captain; and so Cardinal Antonelli entered the church. After praising the exquisite requiem mass of Mozart, with selections from Palestrina, and the perfect choir of voices, rendering any instrument superfluous, the writer places the pope at the head of the catafalque. "He was visibly moved." "There was a tremor in his clear, harmonious voice." "He whose requiem was being sung had been a friend and a counsellor." When at length the services were over, and the pope and the cortége of cardinals had departed, "the people rushed into the church to render the only service they could to the departed; and strong men, unused to prayer, uttered their fervent requiescat in pace!"
"This was the funeral of Cardinal d'Andrea, Abbot of Santa Scolastica, statesman, politician, and patriot. It occurred on the 22d day of March 1865."
Now all this may be a very artistic method of introducing a story. The chief objection that we have to it is that the writer makes such a parade about the funeral of Cardinal d'Andrea. We think he rather overcharges the picture. Had it been any body else's funeral, we might possibly let it pass. But in the case of this cardinal, we object; for, to our own knowledge, on this 22d day of March, 1865, Cardinal d'Andrea was not lying dead on that bier in San Giovanni in Laterano, as described, but, on the contrary, was alive, if not perfectly well, in Sorrento, near Naples, whither he had gone over nine months before for his health. Nor did he die about this time; but he lived on, and wrote some letters from time to time, which were published in the papers, and one, if not several, pamphlets, which were very acceptable to editors in Italy and France, in quest of themes for their leading articles. As late as the autumn of 1867, the papers were discussing what step Cardinal d'Andrea would next take. And they chronicled his return to Rome in December, 1867. Yes, we decidedly object. We do not think that this writer, however extraordinary his powers of memory may be, has a right to bury Cardinal d'Andrea alive, to say nothing of bringing the venerable pontiff to grief, of frightening Cardinal Antonelli, of making the French guards clinch their rifles and go through a military manœuvre, and, last of all, of so terribly exciting a Roman crowd about the death of one who had not died at all.
Having commenced the performance by this tour de force before his public, our "secretary of the late Cardinal d'Andrea," like a skilful actor as he is, jumps a somersault backward two years and a half, (carrying us to about September, 1862,) and undertakes to give us some inkling of how Cardinal d'Andrea and Cardinal Antonelli came to be opposed to each other. There was a plan entered into by several cardinals and monsignori to induce the pope to recommend Cardinal Antonelli to resign his office as Cardinal-Minister and Secretary of State. The "secretary" omits to inform us distinctly whether Cardinal d'Andrea was a party to the plan or not. But we are left to infer that he was. It failed. And ever after, Cardinal d'Andrea did not enjoy the confidence of the pope to the degree he had done before; and Cardinal Antonelli and his followers hated him. The recollection of this intrigue, and its failure, is followed by an exposition of the political sentiments of the cardinal. "He became the leader of the liberal policy of Cavour, in Rome."
Now, here again we object. That a number of cardinals or monsignori should think that it would be well if a cardinal secretary of state, for the time being, should resign; and that affairs would be better managed, if another incumbent filled the place, is possible; perhaps, considering the variety of opinions among men, is not improbable. In the case of Cardinal Antonelli, the matter is complicated, perhaps we should say, simplified, by the fact that they would find very few indeed to agree with them. But that a number of cardinals and monsignori did really entertain such an opinion on the subject, and did, in September, 1862, or thereabouts, combine in an effort to oust Cardinal Antonelli, is vouched for, so far as we know, only by the recollections of our writer. The plan itself was not dreamed of in well-informed circles in Rome, and the bold and adroit measures by which Cardinal Antonelli is said to have foiled it failed to attract attention at the time, or to leave any trace afterward, either in the diplomatic records of Rome, or in the memory of any one else besides our writer. It is one other additional instance of the perversity of the world, which will not remember what he recalls so distinctly.
As to Cardinal d'Andrea, he had been, since 1860, Cardinal-Bishop of Sabina, and was also Prefect of the Congregation of the Index. His health had begun to fail some time before the date we are examining, and within a few months afterward he was forced, much to the regret of the pope, to resign the latter office, and to restrict himself to the duties of his diocese and his private affairs, and could take but a light share in the work of a cardinal. To make him at that time a prime mover in the scheme, is as gratuitous as, under the circumstances, it is absurd.
The statement of his political principles is equally in contradiction with facts. Cardinal d'Andrea had all his life been a most strenuous and active supporter of the temporal power of the pope, and was not a man to change his position and his principles at the close of his life. He was as uncompromising, and a far more outspoken opponent of the policy of Cavour, than even Cardinal Antonelli himself, who, as befits his office and his character, never violates the reserved and strictly temperate expressions allowed by diplomatic courtesy. All that our writer "remembers" concerning Cardinal d'Andrea's connection with and influence over the Roman committee, is a pure effort of his memory, which, by the by, on this point has played him false. He remembers, "To his counsel it was due that no revolt occurred on the withdrawal of the French." Why, the French troops were withdrawn from Rome in December, 1866, to be sent back in October, 1867, on the occasion of Garibaldi's attempted invasion of the Papal States. How could Cardinal d'Andrea, who had died, as the secretary "remembers," and whose funeral obsequies had been so pompously celebrated in the cathedral church of San Giovanni di Laterano, on the 22d day of March, 1865, be alive to give counsel and use his influence with the Mazzinians and the party of action a year and nine months afterward? Has the writer's own memory proved traitor to him, and joined the crowd of contradictors?
In point of fact, Cardinal d'Andrea was not in Rome in December, 1866, nor for months before and for months afterward. He was at Naples, or its neighborhood, seeking to restore his shattered and sinking health.
Our secretary takes a second leap backward, and "endeavors to give a slight sketch of the Cardinal d'Andrea, necessarily imperfect as pen and ink sketches always are." The incompleteness we might readily excuse. But we cannot excuse its utter incorrectness in the details, an incorrectness so unnecessarily excessive that we can only explain it on the theory he is entirely guided by that wonderful memory, of the powers of which we have had such evidences. Especially is this seen when, leaving generalities aside, the writer ventures to make a precise and definite statement.
Thus, we are informed that, in his early life, the cardinal "had been bred for the army, and served in the Noble Guard for three years." Whereas the cardinal was not born in Rome or the Roman States at all, and never had any connection whatever with the Noble Guard or any other military corps. He was born in Naples. His father, the Marquis Giovanni d'Andrea, was treasurer of the kingdom of Naples. His elder brother, the present Marquis d'Andrea, is still living near Naples. Jerome d'Andrea, the future cardinal, at an early age showed an inclination for the church, and in due time went through the ordinary course of ecclesiastical studies. At its conclusion, he came to Rome, and entered the Accademia Ecclesiastica, a college for the higher and more thorough education of such ecclesiastics as wish to enter the carriera, as it is called, that is, who aspire to become ecclesiastical officials at Rome. There was nothing military about the cardinal. He simply had the dignified bearing and the polished manners of an Italian nobleman.
"He viewed the Jesuits as the foes of reform; his scheme was to destroy their influence in the public schools." "The mendicant orders met no favor with him." "He did approve of the dissolution of their monasteries." This posthumous revelation of the cardinal's sentiments will undoubtedly astonish the Jesuits and the mendicant orders at Rome, if they ever hear of it, unless indeed they are foolish enough to trust their own memory of the words and acts of the cardinal in life, rather than the wonderful memory of this "secretary." The Jesuits will remember how often and regularly he would visit their father-general, or Father Perrone, or the more illustrious and learned members of their society; how fond he was of having some of them to visit him frequently; how he would invite their counsel and aid, and how he was careful to omit no proper occasion of publicly showing his friendship and esteem for them. The members of the mendicant orders will call to mind their perpetual intercourse with one who was always a kind father to them. As one of the cardinal's household expressed it to us, Era sempre attorniato da lore—He always had these friars around him. We fear that, with such cherished memories in their hearts, they will pay very little regard to the recollections of our "secretary."
But he becomes more precise in the details of the cardinal's daily life.
"The cardinal generally rose at six, and spent three hours in reading ere he said mass and breakfasted. He then received, and at twelve rode out, except when his presence was required by the pope. The afternoon was spent in a siesta until six. At half-past nine he retired."
What a sleepy-head this affectionate and reverential "secretary" would make the cardinal to be. Retire at half-past nine, and rise at six. Here we have eight hours for a good night's sleep; ample allowance, one would think. But no. Each day, after his noon-day drive, the afternoon until six is spent in a siesta; that is, at least four hours more given to sleep—twelve hours, on an average, out of every twenty-four! And this was the ordinary course of things, only interrupted when his presence was required by the pope! Was he in any way related to Rip Van Winkle, or is it the secretary who is dreaming? Certainly Cardinal d'Andrea bore all his life the reputation of being a remarkably wide-awake, clear-headed, and active business man.
We presume that he usually rose about six—a little later in winter, somewhat earlier in summer—such being the custom of Italians of his standing. By half-past eight, mass and breakfast were over; for business hours commence at nine, and the cardinal gave the forenoon to business, whether in the consistories or in the meetings of congregations or at his own residence, where secretaries, theologians, and other officials, and all interested parties, would see him. At half-past one, or at two, as business allowed, he dined. In summer, he took a siesta for half an hour or so. An hour or more was given to reciting his breviary and to private study. At four in winter and five in summer, if the weather allowed, he would drive out, and when outside the city might indulge in half an hour's active walk on foot. Reëntering his carriage, he reached home about sunset. Until nine, he received those who called on him, whether on business or as friends. Then came his supper, after which he loved to spend an hour or two in lively conversation on the topics of the day with his more intimate and esteemed friends. About eleven, he usually retired to rest; but, too frequently for his health, he would, if he had what he deemed important business on hand, stay up until one or two in the morning, studying or writing.
"In his meals he was sparing, attached to the French cuisine, and drank the light native vintage of Monte Fiascone.... He never went among French society. He gave the French no countenance, regarding them as witnesses of his country's serfdom."
What the writer means by this last phrase, or how the English and Germans visiting Rome are not as truly witnesses to things there as the French can be, we do not understand, and shall not stop to inquire. The important statements are before us. The cardinal was attached to the French cuisine and avoided French society. Now, the truth was just the reverse on both these points. The cardinal was an excellent linguist and a well-read scholar. He delighted in the company of educated Frenchmen, ecclesiastics, laymen, and military, and was quite intimate with many of them. But as to his food, he remained a true Neapolitan to the day of his death, and stuck to macaroni, vermicelli, and pollenta, as an Englishman sticks to his roast beef and good mutton.
"The Cardinal d'Andrea was fond of theatricals; indeed, private representations were among the few enjoyments he had. He relished them amazingly."
When we repeated this statement to the member of the cardinal's household to whom we are indebted for our information on the preceding points, he turned on us a look of bewildered astonishment which we shall not soon forget. "Poesie! poesie!" he exclaimed. "All an invention; all an invention."
Even in his early life, when, as a layman, he could have frequented the theatre without any breach of decorum, he had avoided it. As a clergyman, of course he could not go without losing caste. It might have well happened that, in his travels in France, Switzerland, Germany, and various parts of Italy, he had at some time or other chanced to be a guest where courtesy called on him to be present at private theatricals held in the family. Of this our informant could not speak, for he had not always been with him on these journeys. But since he had been made cardinal he had been with him, and could not recall a single instance where the cardinal had attended such a private representation. In his own palace he could not have had them. His own character did not run in that line of amusement; and even if he had desired it, the size and form of the apartments would have rendered them impossible.
But such effusions of our "secretary's" poetic or inventive memory are of themselves too slight and trivial to merit a place in The Galaxy. There must be something of graver import to come. And in fact these things have only been the preliminaries for the grand events which are to be recorded of Cardinal d'Andrea; his escape from Rome by the active aid of this secretary; the espionage over his words and acts when he returned—an espionage which this secretary detected, though he could not foil it; the finding of the cardinal unexpectedly and mysteriously dead in his bed one morning; and finally, the saving of his important private papers, by this secretary, from the clutches of Cardinal Antonelli—papers which he has persistently guarded and still retains, and which hereafter, we may be allowed to conjecture, can serve to refresh and stimulate his wondrous powers of memory, if any stimulation be needed.
The scene opens some time during the course of those two years, to the beginning of which the first jump backward brought our writer. The plan to oust Cardinal Antonelli from office had been formed, as we were told, and failed; and Cardinal d'Andrea had lost somewhat of the pope's favor, and had incurred the bitter enmity of Cardinal Antonelli and of the Jesuits and ultramontanes. We may reasonably allow some months for so much. When time had brought things to this pass, "there was a party in the Piazza di Spagna, given by a Russian princess, at which the élite of Roman society was assembled. Among the guests was Cardinal d'Andrea. Madame C——, the wife of Captain C——, of the French army, was, as usual, coquetting with the Cardinal di C——a, a prince of the most ancient of Roman houses, with one of the finest palaces in Rome." The secretary loiters to describe Captain C——, of the French army, and Madame C——, his young and handsome wife, and to tell his readers of her notorious intrigue with the above-named Cardinal Prince di C——a, of the ancient family and with the fine palace. "Four days after this party, Captain C—— appeared at his wife's apartments. He was cool and deliberate. He upbraided her in unmeasured terms. She bitterly resented.... His rage became terrible. Ere she could utter a prayer or a cry, he seized the miserable woman and shot her; then shot himself! The affair created some little sensation."
We should think it would, especially in peaceful, slow-going, decorous Rome. Even in New-York, or in London, or in Paris, such a tragedy, in which persons of that social standing were concerned, would have created quite a sensation.
The Prince di C——a, "of one of the most ancient of Roman houses, with one of the finest palaces in Rome," can of course be none other than the Prince Colonna. The Roman princes are few in number, and can easily be counted. No other has a surname to suit. The ancient family and the fine palace are earmarks also. He means Colonna. But then, many, many years have passed since there was a cardinal of that family. In fact, take the list of cardinals since 1850, and the only one whose name the designation C——a could fit is Cardinal Cuesta, a Spaniard, who at the date of this party, (somewhere, if we follow the "secretary," in the winter of 1862-63,) was an aged septuagenarian bishop, zealously ruling his diocese in Spain; moreover, he was not then a cardinal. He was made cardinal two years afterward. Furthermore, he resides not in Rome but in Spain, whence he was lately called to Rome for the present council. He obviously cannot be the man. And so the Cardinal Prince di C——a vanishes into thin air, like a poetic phantom, as he is.
Captain C——, of the French army, and his wife, Madame C——, seem disposed to follow him into empty space. No French officer then in Rome, and we have consulted several, can remember any French captain who killed his wife and then committed suicide. The police never got wind of the double tragedy. It escaped even the keen-scented newspaper itemizers. The "little sensation" is a feat of memory.
Decidedly our "secretary" is as unlucky at tragedies as he is at funerals, even though he assures us "the incidents of that reunion have fixed themselves very much on my memory, for it was the last time the Cardinal d'Andrea appeared at such assemblies." In fact, he proceeds to narrate how that very night, by his skilful planning, the cardinal was able to get out of Rome. This gives us, for the first time, we may say, in this article, the slightest soundings of truth. Cardinal d'Andrea did once leave Rome for Naples without the regular permission which was required for one in his position. We will speak further on of the motives and circumstances of that departure. Here we will only state the fact, that he left Rome on the 16th of June, 1864. The writer of this article was in Rome at the time, and, for peculiar reasons, no such tragedy as that "remembered" and the sensation it created could have escaped his knowledge. We may add that in Rome such parties are given in winter and never in summer. The strangers who visit Rome in winter, and leave after Easter, are in June in Switzerland or some other cool place. As for the élite of Roman society, they are "out of town."
But let us leave facts aside, and enter on that dream-land, the incidents of which are so firmly fixed on the memory of our secretary. Hear him:
"The cardinal retired early, and, it being moonlight and very fine, resolved to send back the carriage and walk home. He walked in company with his secretary, a servant, as usual, attending at a little distance. He had passed into the Corso, when a man suddenly started out of the small and dark Via Fontanella di Borghese.... It was a celebrated politician, who dared not have open intercourse with any one for fear of compromising them, and he conveyed the unwelcome intelligence that the cardinal's life was in imminent danger.... Every moment was of importance. A plan was speedily devised. The Honorable Mr. K—— was leaving at two o'clock in his private carriage for Civita Vecchia, to catch the French steamer touching at Civita Vecchia at half-past twelve next day, on her way to Naples." The secretary disguised himself, and stealthily sought an interview at once with this Englishman bearing an American title, and briefly "told his errand." "The generous Englishman proposed that the cardinal should accompany him, disguised as a friend whose name appeared in his passport. The friend, on being consulted, agreed, and the secretary left, promising to be ready at a certain street with the cardinal, where the carriage was to take him up.... His eminence put on the beard and moustache our English friend had given us, and, with the aid of a large Inverness cape and white wide-awake, was splendidly disguised. It wanted two hours and a half of the time. The cardinal never lost his presence of mind, but was gloomy and foreboding. At last we called the valet, devoted to his master, and informed him of the plan. He was to pretend illness on the part of the cardinal. He listened carefully to his instructions, and exclaimed, 'Eminence, your shoes and stockings!' We looked down, and saw that the patent-leather, low, clerical shoes with gold buckles and the red silk stockings were very obvious betrayals of the rank of the disguised. No lay shoes and stockings were at hand, until the valet bethought him of his own. Hastily effecting the change, the cardinal passed out of the place alone, not suffering any one to accompany him." Whereby, we presume, he ran some risk of blundering as to the appointment, and moreover forced the zealous secretary to break his promise of being "ready at a certain street with the cardinal, where the carriage was to take him up." "The whole of the next day passed heavily, but no inquiries were made for his eminence. As his valet only waited on him, the other domestics easily believed that he was indisposed. Two days after, the secretary hastily scanned the Giornale di Roma, where he saw the departure of Mr. K—— announced, and that of his friend. The valet, poor fellow, though somewhat obese and awkward, executed an eccentric pas seul, in token of his satisfaction at the news, and then broke out into a fervent Ave Maria for his master's safety. Four days elapsed, and a summons came to attend the consistory. Then it was announced that the cardinal had left for Naples."
Now, we confess to having enjoyed this passage of our "secretary's" reminiscence more than any other. We think it his best effort. Still, it lacks some touches. He should not have omitted the matter of the exchange of the cardinal's knee-breeches for the valet's pantaloons. For obviously, if the cardinal put on the lay shoes and stockings of the valet, and retained his own knee-breeches, a space of ten inches at least on each leg would necessarily have been left bare and uncovered. Such an arrangement, however conducive to coolness, would have been a very remarkable feature of his costume, especially noticeable in contrast with the large Inverness cape which warmly enveloped the upper part of his person, and that in the month of June. Such an outfit would certainly attract every eye. Surely the cardinal and the valet must have then and there exchanged the knee-breeches of the one against the pantaloons of the other, regardless of how they fitted. Again, the "secretary" ought to have given us some inkling of how the valet felt and demeaned himself next morning when he appeared before his fellow-servants rigged out in the patent-leather, low, clerical shoes with gold buckles, the red silk stockings, and the knee-breeches of his master, instead of his own proper habiliments. Could not our secretary have adorned the Galaxy with some of the brilliant things then said and done?
The Honorable Mr. K——, too, acted very strangely. He might have taken his rest like a sensible man that night, and have left Rome by the accommodation train starting at six A.M. next morning, reaching Civita Vecchia at nine; or he might have waited for the express train, starting at ten A.M., reaching Civita Vecchia at twelve, and making connection with the steamers, whether bound to Naples or to Leghorn or to Marseilles. But no. He must lose his night's rest, and start at two A.M. in a private carriage to travel fifty miles, and reach a French steamer touching at Civita Vecchia at half-past twelve.
But if our secretary, in his recollections, can spurn facts, it would be superfluous to ask him to respect mere probabilities.
The real method of the cardinal's departure from Rome and his journey to Naples was the following very prosaic one:
On the 16th of June, 1864, he drove in his own carriage from his own residence, the Palazzo Gabrielli, to the railway station in Rome, and took a ticket for Velletri, to which city he was accustomed to go, from time to time, to attend to the interests of the estate Girgenti, of which the family had requested him to become the administrator during the minority of the heirs. His valet alone accompanied him. The carriage was ordered to be at the station in the afternoon, as he might come back by the returning train. At Velletri, the cardinal was met by his man of business in that city, who had possibly made the necessary arrangements, and both proceeded in the same train to Isoletta, on the Neapolitan frontier. The cardinal continued on to Naples. The agent came back to Rome, found the carriage at the station, rode in it to the Palazzo Gabrielli, and informed the cardinal's chancellor and the household that the cardinal had gone to Naples for his health, and was not able to say when he would return.
This is the plain, matter-of-fact occurrence which the secretary's memory has changed into something like a chapter from one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels sixty years ago.
We have already said that Cardinal d'Andrea took this step without the permission which, according to the rules of the Sacred College, he should have previously obtained. He had asked for that permission, and it had not been granted. When he publicly violated the rule on this point, the Italian enemies of the temporal power of the pope hoped that they had unexpectedly found a cardinal in such a position that they might, by degrees, make him their tool, and use him against Pius IX. Voices were heard hinting that it might be proper even to make him an anti-pope. The wiser ones among them saw from the beginning how absurd such hopes and plans were; for they knew the past history and the real character of the cardinal; and they rightly judged that whatever might be the motives of his present unexpected and most unusual proceeding, they must be personal. The step could not spring from any policy opposed to that of the court of Rome. They knew too well that he had always been a strenuous defender of the pope; they had often found him their active and energetic opponent. Later events proved to all that this judgment of theirs was correct.
We have spoken of the birth and early education of Girolamo d'Andrea, and his coming to Rome and entrance into the Accademia Ecclesiastica in that city. Soon after finishing his course of studies there with considerable reputation, he was made, in 1841, ponente, or judge, in an inferior ecclesiastical court, commencing thus his carriera at the bottom, but with distinction. He was afterward (1843) made delegate, or governor, of the province of Viterbo; and three years later went as nuncio or ambassador to Lucerne in Switzerland, which office he filled at the time of the Sonderbund war. Toward 1849, he returned to Rome, and was elevated to the very responsible position of Secretary of the Congregation of the Council. When Pius IX., after the public assassination of his prime-minister, Rossi, and the threats of violence to himself, escaped to Gaeta, Monsignor d'Andrea of course followed him. He was the prominent and most active man in reëstablishing the papal government in Umbria and the Marches and the patrimony. After two years of successful labor, he returned to Rome, to receive the thanks and the reward due to a delicate task zealously and satisfactorily accomplished. He was still Secretary of the Congregation of the Council, one of the highest posts he could hold, without being cardinal. On the 15th of March, he was made cardinal-priest, with the title of Sant' Agnese fuori delle Mura. He had thus, in eleven years, reached the highest step of the Roman carriera. All acknowledged, even those whom he had passed, that the cardinal's hat was, in this case, most fittingly bestowed on learning, talents, experience, and as the well-deserved reward of zealous and efficient services. The new cardinal was soon named Prefect of the Congregation of the Index and Abbate Commendatario of Santa Scolastica, which last title he retained to his death. In 1860, he became Cardinal-Bishop of Sabina; and, by the firm and wise administration of his diocese, was looked on as a model bishop. In 1862, his health began to fail. Slow fevers seemed to undermine his constitution, stronger in appearance than in reality. At times a racking cough and a copious expectoration harassed him, and he seemed sinking into consumption. Rallying from this, he would suffer excruciating pains in the intestines; and, at times, he was subject to fainting fits. Still he struggled against all this, and kept on at his work. His friends noticed that he gradually became more silent and despondent. They observed, too, another effect of this long-continued indisposition. He became inclined to take up fixed ideas, and, perhaps, crotchets, and to adhere to them the more tenaciously if opposed. He evidently was not, at all times, the man he had formerly been. Of course, it took time for all this to be suspected and reluctantly admitted.
In the spring of 1864, the cardinal took up the idea that his health would be restored if he went to Naples, his birth-place. He asked permission to do so.
Special circumstances made the request one to be considered very maturely. The government at Rome was in a critical and delicate position, which required it to avoid most carefully any step capable of a doubtful interpretation, or liable to be made a pretext for certain false charges then current against it. The ex-king of Naples was a refugee in Rome. Dethroned sovereigns generally seek and find an asylum there. His friends and adherents in Naples were busy concerting measures to get him back on his throne. The Italian government and the Italian papers charged the court with assenting to and aiding in these plans. Even France seemed to be growing cold, and to be manifesting those dispositions which, a few months after, culminated in the iniquitous convention with Victor Emmanuel for the withdrawal of the French troops from the duty of protecting Rome. All these things made the court of Rome trebly cautious to commit no mistake.
It was felt that for a Roman cardinal to go then to Naples, even under the pretext of ill-health, more especially a cardinal like Cardinal d'Andrea, whose family had been for several generations closely connected with the dethroned royal family, and whose personal antecedents had been those we have recited, would be too dangerous. No explanations, however sincere, no disavowals, however explicit, could silence the charges or avert the troubles that might follow. Hence the permission asked for was refused, the more readily as the idea was looked on as the cardinal's own fancy, and was not based upon the advice of physicians. The pope himself explained the matter to the cardinal, and offered him permission to go to Malta, to Spain, to Pau, in France, to Nice, in Savoy, or anywhere else that the physicians would advise, or he desire. But to Naples, under the circumstances, it would not do for him to go. The cardinal seemed to assent at the moment, and to acquiesce in the decision. But, some time after, he returned to the fixed idea, repeated his request, waited some weeks, and, not receiving any reply, started on the 16th of June, 1864, without permission, and, in the manner we have stated, went to Naples. At first, he spent several months, perhaps a year, at Sorrento, well known to all who visit southern Italy for their health. After some time, he moved to the city of Naples itself, and lived there until his return to Rome.
Concerning the cardinal's stay in Naples, our "secretary" remembers only two points: "He was located in ill-furnished lodgings on the Chiaja, at Naples, sorely distressed for money. More than this, his good name was suffering"—suffering, he means, in the opinion of the Mazzinians, the followers of the policy of Cavour and "the party of action." The Roman Committee seems to have been particularly exercised in reference to him.
Now as to the money matters. In Naples the cardinal kept a suite of apartments in the Hôtel Crocelles, one of the best in that city. Moreover, he also kept up his full establishment in the Palazzo Gabrielli, in Rome. He paid every body and every thing punctually; as, indeed, he might well do, considering the position of his family and his own private resources. If his health failed, his purse did not—which is more than can be said of most men, be they laymen, ecclesiastics, or even cardinals. When he died, his will gave legacies to friends and servants, and to religious and charitable purposes, and returned something to his family.
As to the second point, undoubtedly the cardinal's good name did suffer. The step he had taken was public; and the newspapers, after their style, had not failed to herald it over the world as something striking and important, from which, perhaps, vast results would follow. Catholics everywhere were pained that a cardinal should take so false a step, and place himself in a position apparently so equivocal; perhaps, too, some apprehended ulterior and more painful results. On the other hand, the Italianissimi waited, and cajoled him, and hoped. But when he had been away from Rome more than two years, and they found that they were not succeeding, as they desired, in making him their tool, they commenced to depreciate and ridicule him. This last point we rather think to his credit.
The mode of Cardinal d'Andrea's departure from Rome naturally set all Rome a-talking. His friends tried to explain and to excuse it in the mode we have stated. The excuse was probably felt to have some force. Anyhow, it was evident that the mode of his departure prevented the court of Rome from being compromised by his presence in Naples. Time and patience are held to be golden remedies at Rome. No official notice was taken of Cardinal d'Andrea's absence. True, friends and counsellors and his brother cardinals wrote to him privately, remonstrating with him and urgently advising him to return without delay. Had he listened to them, and returned within any reasonable time, we are satisfied no notice would have been taken of the affair, and the whole matter would have dropped into oblivion.
But when he had been away two years, it was felt that some official steps must be taken. Accordingly, the cardinal dean wrote him officially, rehearsing the law of the church about the residence of bishops, warning him that he had now been too long absent without permission, and inviting him to return. Thrice the monition was given, as required, and given without effect. The diocese of Sabina was consequently withdrawn from his charges and confided to an administrator ad interim, until other provisions should be made in regard to it. Still the cardinal declined or delayed to come. Other official letters warned him of possible further consequences, even to ejectment from his dignity as cardinal. His friends, also, renewed their private remonstrances and entreaties more urgently than ever. And, finally, on the evening of December 14th, 1867, Cardinal d'Andrea returned to Rome.
Three days later, he had an audience of the holy father, from which he returned to his palace in a very cheerful mood, and spoke to his attendants of the kindness of the pope, and declared that every thing had passed off most satisfactorily.
His long stay in Naples had not benefited his health. He still coughed, and still, at times, had severe crises of pain in the abdomen. But he was able in some measure to take up the ordinary work of a cardinal. The charge of the diocese was not restored to him; time was required for that. Rome is slow to act, and slow to undo what has been legally done.
After having fatigued our readers by this long stretch over humdrum realities, it may be well to seek a little relief in some more of the wondrous feats of the wondrous memory of "the secretary of the late Cardinal d'Andrea."
He does not remember that audience at all. Nay, he remembers that there was none. "Daily," after his return, the cardinal "expected a summons to the presence of the pope. Then he resolved to assert his right to an audience, and repaired to the Vatican. He was informed that all his communications to the pope were to pass through the hands of the cardinal secretary. To sue to his worst foe—this was the climax of bitterness. The high spirit of his eminence never recovered this indignity. The holy father was all this time informed that the cardinal had returned; but was recusant, and refused all overtures of reconciliation. After his last repulse, the cardinal made no further efforts; but it was easy to see that he suffered acutely."
All bosh! The "secretary" might have ascertained that the papers of the day announced the return of the cardinal to Rome and his audience; for the cardinal was then a notoriety. But he is strong on his powers of memory; or, perhaps, as he had killed the cardinal and buried him, as we saw, two years and nine months before this—in March, 1865—he now ran his eye over a file previous to that date; and, as the papers were published while the cardinal was at Sorrento, there was no mention then of an audience. But we are loth to believe the "secretary" has even that little regard for what others remember which would make him think it at all necessary to look even at a file of newspapers either for dates or facts.
But he gives us, in lieu, an exquisite production of his own memory.
"The cardinal's enemies," he tells us, "were far too wary to resort to open acts." They remained so quiet that all suspicion was lulled to rest, except in the cardinal and his secretary. "It is remarkable that we sometimes find an idea dart suddenly into the mind without cause or ramification."(!!) ... This was the case with the secretary, probably also with the cardinal. The idea took this shape: "The favorite mode of obtaining secret information in Rome is by eaves-dropping and espionage. This palace has been for two months at the bidding of those who knew the cardinal would return to it. They are anxious to know all he says and does; if possible, all he thinks. They will study the revelations of his countenance in moments of abandon. And if they have designs"—here the idea seemed going into extravagance. We decidedly agree with him; we even think the idea shows signs of ramification.
One pièce of the cardinal's apartments was a breakfast-room, in which there hung a picture of St. Francis meditating. "I was reading in that room; and the twilight had deepened as I sat thinking over my book. As I looked up, by the faint red glow of the wood-fire, I fancied that picture—a St. Francis meditating—had a peculiar expression about the eyes. The rapt saint looks upward, ignoring mundane vanities; this looked downward and steadily at me. I felt inclined to cut it open; but dared not. After all, I imagined the gloom had deceived me."
Again, two days later, "I was sitting at breakfast with the cardinal, when he dropped his cup of chocolate, and, rising, went to the picture, and carefully examined it.... We looked at each other; and I felt the same idea pass through his mind.... I resolved to make him understand that I followed his thoughts. 'Do you think,' said I, 'that St. Francis in his meditations became sometimes a little distrait? that his eyes wandered from heaven, for example, to some worldly object, say, as to the quality of your eminence's breakfast, or became suddenly diverted by our conversation.' He looked steadily at me, then at the picture, which faced him as he sat, but was behind me. Then, after a moment, replied, 'It is a fatality.' I saw no more of him that day. I heard from the valet that he was anxious not to be disturbed."
Here we have espionage of the most wonderful kind caught in flagranti delicto. Is not the "secretary" afraid he has imparted a new and important lesson to the burglars of New York? Just think of the details! During the cardinal's absence, his enemies enter his apartments in the Palazzo Gabrielli freely, notwithstanding the establishment is kept up, and all the servants are there save the valet, who is away with his master. No eye sees them, no ear hears their stealthy footsteps nor any noise they make. No trace of their work is discovered. They go everywhere, they examine every thing, and make their preparations. What they did elsewhere we are not told. But they paid special attention to this breakfast-room, because the picture hung there. If the wall behind it were of thick masonry, they must have cut in it a niche deep enough and big enough to hold a man. That they should do this in an inhabited house without any one finding it out, is proof of their ability. But what if, as is most likely, the painting hung on a partition wall only six or eight inches thick, where could the man stand? What did they do in that case? We cannot imagine. We think the burglars would be nonplussed, and would turn for further instruction to the memory of our "secretary." Beyond this, they provided themselves with means of entrance and passage from room to room, and of exit, quite irrespective of ordinary doors and public stairways.
The cardinal returns to his palace, and these means are put in use. One spy, entering when or how no one knows, and mounting to his place in an equally mysterious manner, stands behind the picture of St. Francis meditating, which hangs on the wall of the breakfast-room. The canvas eyes of the picture have, of course, been cut out; and the spy fixes his own living eyes in their place, so that he can see all that is to be seen, as well as hear all that is to be heard. Ordinarily, we suppose, the eyes are kept turned toward heaven, ignoring mundane vanities, because such was the original position of the painted eyes in the picture. But fatigue and duty combined, from time to time, to call for a change of their position. The eyes looked down on the breakfast-table, (perhaps longingly; for even spies behind pictures may get hungry,) or gleamed with intelligence in response to witticisms of conversation, or unguarded and important revelations. Yet all was so artistically and naturally done that the secretary one day imagined the gloom had deceived him; and two days afterward, the cardinal, after a careful examination and after looking at it a second time attentively, exclaimed, "It is a fatality!"
Now, there is a mystery about this espionage which quite puzzles us, and which we should like to see explained. While the spy held his eyes thus glued to or inserted in the painting, where were his eyebrows? And what did he do with his nose?—his big Roman nose. For who can conceive a keen Roman spy without a large and penetrating Roman nose? How did he manage to keep that nose from coming in contact with the painted canvas—from pressing against it and causing a very prominent bulge, and even pushing the canvas away from the eyes? This is a point that merits elucidation.
Unfortunately the cardinal, it seems, at once left the room in which the "fatality" was, shut himself up, and would see no one. The "secretary" was as wanting in pluck on that occasion as he had been on another two days before. He felt inclined to cut the painting open to see what it was; but dared not. If he had had the presence of mind of a little boy ten years old, he would have ventured to draw the bottom of the painting a few inches out from the wall, and would have looked behind to discover the secret. Had he done so, our mystery would doubtless have been solved, and a very interesting question would have been answered. What a pity the idea did not assume this practical "ramification"!
In regard to the death of the cardinal the memory of the "secretary" is brief, but terribly explicit and pointed.
"Four days" after the fatality-scene, "I was informed that the cardinal desired me to spend the evening in his private apartments.... We had dined at five"—a change of hour; it used to be six. "His eminence had confined himself to his favorite and insipid Chablis, of which he drank one little flask," (Monte Fiascone has slipped from the secretary's memory;) "I to a more generous vintage of Burgundy. The subject of our conversation was exceedingly important. With the idea upon us like an incubus, we conversed in low tones; and ever and anon the cardinal rose and examined the outer door.... The conversation ended by my being intrusted with certain documents to place in safe keeping.... Knowing the importance of the documents, I hesitated to keep them in my possession. Sealing them in a packet, I put on a street dress and hastened to an English gentleman, who cheerfully undertook their keeping.... Cardinal Antonelli asked me for the papers I had received on that fatal night.... I rejoice to say—though strenuous exertions were made to obtain the papers—they were as persistently guarded; and I have them now."
Pretty well remembered for these papers. But how about the cardinal?
The secretary says that, on the morning after confiding the aforesaid sealed packet to the English gentleman, "I rose early and repaired to the palace. The valet had orders to wake his master at seven. It wanted but a few minutes. I retired to my own room. Scarcely a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere the valet rushed in, pale with affright, exclaiming, 'His eminence is dead!' I followed him quickly to the apartment, having alarmed the household. The disposition of the chamber was as ordinary. The cardinal's dress lay on a chair, as the valet had placed it. His breviary was open at vespers. The bed was the only thing disturbed. There were certain indications of a struggle, although very slight. The usually placid countenance of the cardinal was flushed and discolored. The two hands grasped the bed-clothes convulsively. A physician was hastily summoned, who pronounced life to have been extinct some hours. 'From what cause?' I asked. He whispered, 'They will probably say apoplexy.' For himself, the secretary has no doubt it was a murder perpetrated by the enemies of Cardinal d'Andrea."
These are the recollections of the soi-disant secretary. They are well entitled in the whole and in the several details to stand with his precise recollections of the place and date of the funeral that followed in San Giovanni in Laterano, on the 22d day of March, 1865.
The papers announced that Cardinal d'Andrea died in Rome, on the 14th of May, 1868. For the details of his last hours, we are indebted to those members of his household who were with him and closed his eyes. It will be seen how different is the account they give from that of the writer who, if elsewhere he amused us, here fills us with astonishment at the boldness of his assertions, and sorrow for his motives.
On Thursday, May 14th, 1868, the cardinal, who had spent the forenoon in his usual occupations, dined in his usual health, or ill-health, at half-past one. After dinner he continued to transact business with his chancellor for a while, and then arranged to resume it on his return from the usual afternoon drive. He drove out from the Palazzo Gabrielli at about half-past four. His coachman drove, at the usual staid gait of a cardinal's carriage, by the Foro Trajano, on by the Colosseo and San Clemente, to St. John Lateran's, and out of the city gate near that church, along the Via Appia Nuova. When he had passed the first mile-stone from the gate, he was surprised by an order to return. He noticed that the cardinal, who was alone in the carriage, seemed to be suffering. He accordingly turned and retraced his steps at the same gentle gait. On the square of St. John's, he received a second order to go faster; and awhile after, before he reached the Colosseo, the cardinal ordered him to hurry. A fast trot brought them to the Palazzo Gabrielli by about half-past five. The chancellor was there, and assisted the servants to take the cardinal out of the carriage, and to assist him up to his chamber. He was suffering very much from a difficulty of breathing, and seemed otherwise in pain. It was a crisis such as he had had before, but it seemed more severe than usual. The cardinal sent word to the chancellor not to leave. He expected the spasm to pass away in a little while, and when it would be over, they might resume their work as arranged.
The chancellor waited until near seven, when, learning that the attack still continued, he entered the sickroom. He was not only the official, but a devoted and confidential intimate friend of nearly twenty years' standing. He found the cardinal suffering to a degree that filled him with alarm. A physician was sent for, but was absent from his residence. An assistant came and prescribed some remedies. By eight, the physician arrived, and took charge of the case, and did not leave the patient. About nine, he was asked if it were proper to administer the sacrament of extreme unction. He replied that, so far, he did not see sufficient danger to warrant it. Meanwhile the cardinal lay on his bed tossing restlessly in pain, and panting for breath, but joining in, as best he could, with the prayers for the sick, which had been begun, at his request, by his chaplain and the attendants between seven and eight o'clock. At ten, he asked to be placed in a large chair in his room. They bolstered him up in it. In half an hour he began to sink. The chaplain hastily administered the rites of the church, and by eleven, Cardinal d'Andrea was no more.
Thus, as is not unfrequently the case, death came somewhat suddenly and unexpectedly, even after years of ill-health.
An autopsy took place, as is customary, we believe, in Rome in the case of cardinals. It appeared that the immediate cause of his death was congestion of the lungs. The right lung was found to be nearly destroyed by tubercles. On one side of the brain a clot or indurated portion, seemingly of long standing, was discovered. In this lesion some of the cardinal's friends thought they found a physical cause of those disordered peculiarities of mind of which we spoke as having been manifested in his later years.
We may add that, after the official autopsy, the body lay in state in the Palazzo Gabrielli until Monday, May 18th. On the evening of that day, it was conveyed in procession to the neighboring parish church of St. John of the Florentines, near the Castel Sant' Angelo. In that church, on Tuesday, 19th May, 1868, the funeral obsequies of Cardinal d'Andrea were celebrated, the pope and the cardinals assisting, as required by the etiquette of the court when a cardinal dies in Rome.
By the cardinal's own directions, his mortal remains were interred at the church of Sant' Agnese fuori delle Mura, of which, as we said, he had been titular cardinal before becoming Bishop of Sabina.
We have thus followed this soi-disant secretary of the late Cardinal d'Andrea all through his article. We have overlooked, for brevity's sake, many minor points. But we have seen fully enough to establish the character of the article. We have seen that he blunders as to the date of the cardinal's funeral by three years and two months. He has blundered as to the church where it was performed by at least a mile and a half. San Giovanni in Laterano and St. John of the Florentines are unlike in shape and in rank, and are nearly at opposite points of the city.
As to the private habits, the acts, and the opinions of the cardinal, he makes a series of blunders such as we might well look for in one who gives himself out as having been the confidential secretary of the late Cardinal d'Andrea, and yet whom no one remembers to have ever had any connection with the cardinal.
As to the charges of enmity, of espionage, and even of murder, and the tragedy of the French captain, and various other remarks and comments en passant throughout the article, by no means to the honor of the ecclesiastical dignitaries at Rome, and of the tone and character of society there—are these things only spice to give a certain piquancy to the article? or is the whole article written merely as a vehicle to convey these charges to the attention of the readers?
We incline to the latter opinion. We are led to it by the clearer and more undisguised tenor of later articles by the same pen in the Galaxy. We may, hereafter, if we find time, pay our respects to one or more of those articles.
For the present, we will only say that if the proprietors of the Galaxy have intended to bargain with a writer of fiction, they are getting the worth of their money in matter and quantity, if not in quality and style. If, however, they expected to secure a series of articles instructive because truthful, the case is decidedly the reverse.