THE LEPER OF THE CITY OF AOSTA.
BY THE COUNT XAVIER DE MAISTRE.
“Le Lépreux de la cité d’Aosta est une larme, mais une larme qui coule toujours!”—Lamartine.
“Ah! little think the gay, licentious proud
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround:—
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many pine!—how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief!—how many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind!”—Thomson.
The southern part of the city of Aosta is now nearly deserted, and appears to have been never very thickly peopled. Cultivated fields and meadows may be seen, hedged in on one side by the ancient bulwarks which the Romans raised as a wall, and on the other by garden fences. This solitary spot, however, affords wherewithal to interest the traveller. Near the gate of the city are the ruins of an old castle, in which, if popular tradition is to be relied on, Count René de Chalans, infuriated by jealousy, left his wife, the Princess Marie de Braganza, to die of hunger, in the fifteenth century. Hence the name of Bramafan, which signifies the cry of hunger, given to this castle by the people around. This tradition, which may be disputed, gives an interest to the ruins in the eyes of people of sensibility.
A hundred steps further on is a square tower, built of the marble that once covered the antique walls beside it. It is called the Hold of Terror, because it is commonly believed to be haunted. The ancient dames of Aosta can still remember seeing a tall woman robed in white, with a lamp in her hand, issue from the tower on dark nights.
About fifteen years ago, this tower
was repaired by the order of the government, and surrounded by an enclosure, for the purpose of lodging a leper, through fear of contagion if left at large, and at the same time affording him every comfort his sad condition allowed. The Hospital of St. Maurice was ordered to supply his wants. It furnished him with some articles of furniture and the implements for cultivating a garden. Here he lived for a long time, left completely to himself, and never seeing any one, except the priest who came from time to time to administer the consolations of religion, and the man who, every week, brought him his provisions from the hospital.
During the war in the Alps in the year 1797, a soldier, who was in the city of Aosta, happened to pass by the leper’s garden. The gate was ajar, and he had the curiosity to enter. He saw a man in a simple garb, leaning against a tree, as if lost in profound meditation. At the sound of the officer’s steps, the recluse, without turning around or looking up, cried in a sad tone: “Who is there? and what do you wish?”
“Excuse a stranger,” replied the soldier, “whom the attractive appearance of your garden has induced to commit an indiscretion, but who
by no means wishes to disturb you.”
“Do not come any nearer,” replied the inmate of the tower, motioning him back with his hand. “Come no nearer: you are in the presence of an unfortunate being afflicted with leprosy.”
“Whatever may be your misfortune,” replied the traveller, “I shall not go away. I have never shunned the unfortunate. But, if my presence annoys you, I am ready to withdraw.”
“You are welcome,” replied the leper, suddenly turning around. “Remain, if you have the courage after looking at me.”
The officer remained for some time motionless with astonishment at the frightful aspect of the unfortunate man so completely disfigured by leprosy.
“I willingly remain,” said he, “if you will accept the visit of a man led here by chance, but detained by a lively interest.”
“Interest!—I have never excited anything but pity.”
“I should be happy to offer you any consolation.”
“It is a great one to behold a human face and hear the sound of a human voice, for every one flies from me.”
“Allow me, then, to converse with you awhile and to visit your house.”
“Very willingly, if it can afford you any pleasure.” Saying which, the leper put on a large felt hat, the flattened brim of which covered his face. “Go to the south,” added he. “The few flowers I cultivate may please you. There are some rather rare. I have procured the seeds of every kind that grow among the Alps, and try to make them grow double and more beautiful by cultivation.”
“You have flowers which are indeed entirely new to me.”
“Look at this little rose-bush. It is a rose without thorns, which only grows on the higher Alps, but it is already losing its peculiarity, and putting forth thorns in proportion to its cultivation and growth.”
“It should be considered the emblem of ingratitude.”
“If any of these flowers please you, you can take them without any fear: you will incur no danger by gathering them. I sowed the seed. I take pleasure in watering them and looking at them, but I never touch them.”
“Why not?”
“I fear I might infect them, and should no longer dare give them to any one.”
“For whom do you raise them?”
“The people who bring me food from the hospital are not afraid to gather them. And sometimes children from the city stop before my garden-gate. I immediately ascend the tower, for fear of frightening or infecting them. They look up as they go away, and say with a smile: ‘Good-by, Leper,’ and that gives me a little pleasure.”
“You have succeeded in collecting quite a variety of plants; and you have vines yonder, and several kinds of fruit-trees.”
“The trees are still young. I set them out myself, as well as that grape-vine, which I have trained to the top of the old wall, you see: it is thick enough for me to walk on, and is my favorite resort.—Go up on these stones. I am the architect of this staircase. Hold on to the wall.”
“A charming nook! the very place for a hermit to meditate in!”
“It suits me, too. I can see the country around, the laborers in the fields, and all that is going on in the
meadow, and no one can see me.”
“It is a delightfully quiet and secluded place. You are in the city, and yet might fancy yourself in a desert.”
“Forests and cliffs are not the only resorts of the solitary. The unfortunate are alone everywhere.”
“What succession of events brought you to this retreat? Are you a native of this country?”
“I was born on the sea-coast in the principality of Oneglia, and have only lived here fifteen years. As to my history, it is only one long succession of calamities.”
“Have you always lived alone?”
“I lost my parents in my infancy, and do not remember them. I had one sister who died two years ago. I never had a friend.”
“Poor man!”
“It was the will of God.”
“What is your name, pray?”
“Ah! my name is a terrible one! I call myself The Leper! No one in the wide world knows the name I derived from my family, or that which I received on the day of my baptism. I am The Leper, and this is the only title I have to human kindness. May it remain for ever unknown who I am!”
“Did the sister you lost live with you?”
“She remained five years with me in my present habitation. As unfortunate as I, she participated in my sorrows, and I endeavored to alleviate hers.”
“How do you employ yourself in such utter solitude?”
“The details of my lonely life would only be very monotonous to a man of the world who seeks happiness in the activity of social life.”
“Ah! you little know the world—it has never made me happy. I am often solitary from choice, and there
may be more similarity in our ideas than you suppose. And yet, I acknowledge, perpetual solitude frightens me. I can hardly conceive it endurable.”
“‘The cell continually dwelt in groweth sweet,’ says The Following of Christ. I am beginning to realize the truth of these consoling words. Loneliness is also relieved by labor. A laborious man is never absolutely unhappy, as I know by experience. During the pleasant season, the cultivation of my flowers and vegetables is a sufficient occupation. In the winter I make baskets and mats. I try to make my clothes. I daily prepare my own food from the supplies brought me from the hospital, and prayer fills up the vacant hours. Thus the year passes, and, when gone, it seems short.”
“I should think it would seem a century.”
“Affliction and sorrow make the hours appear long, but the years always fly with the same rapidity. Besides, there is one enjoyment left in the lowest depths of misfortune which but few can understand, and may seem strange to you—that of living and breathing. In warm weather, I pass whole days motionless on the ramparts, enjoying the air and the beauties of nature: my thoughts are vague and fluctuating; sadness dwells in my heart without oppressing it; my eyes wander around the country, and linger on the rocks that surround us; all these objects are so imprinted on my memory that they form, as it were, a part of myself: each site is a friend I greet with pleasure every day.”
“I have often experienced something of this kind. When trouble depresses me, and I do not find in the hearts of others what my own craves, the aspect of nature and inanimate objects consoles me. I become
attached to the very rocks and trees, and it seems to me that all created things are friends whom God has given me.”
“You encourage me to explain, in my turn, what passes within me. I have a genuine affection for the objects that are, so to speak, my daily companions, and every night, before going to my tower, I come here to take leave of the glaciers of Ruitorts, the dense woods of Mont St. Bernard, and the fantastic peaks that overlook the valley of the Rhine. Though the power of God is as evident in the creation of an ant as in that of the whole universe, the grand spectacle of yonder mountains fills me with greater awe. I cannot look at those lofty elevations, covered with eternal glaciers, without being filled with solemn wonder. But in the vast landscape spread out before me, I have favorite views to which I turn with special pleasure. Among these is the hermitage you see yonder on the top of Mount Charvensod. Alone in the woods, near a deserted pasture, it catches the last rays of the setting sun. Though I have never been there, I feel a peculiar pleasure in looking at it. When the daylight is fading away, seated in my garden, I turn my eyes toward that lonely hermitage, to seek rest for my imagination. I have learned to look upon it as a kind of property. It seems as if I had some confused reminiscence of once living there in happier days which I cannot fully recall. I love especially to gaze at the distant mountains, which look like a cloud on the horizon. Distance, like the future, inspires me with hope. My overburdened heart imagines there may be a far-off land where, at some future time, I may at length taste the happiness for which I sigh, and which a secret instinct is constantly assuring me is possible.”
“With such an ardent soul as yours, you must have passed through many struggles in resigning yourself to your lot, instead of yielding to despair.”
“I should deceive you in allowing you to think I have always been resigned to my lot. I have not attained that self-abnegation to which some anchorites have arrived. The entire sacrifice of all human affection has not yet been accomplished. My life has been one continual combat, and the powerful influences of religion itself are not always able to repress the flights of my imagination. It often draws me, in spite of myself, into a whirlpool of vain desires, which tend toward a world I have no knowledge of, but strange visions of which are ever present to torment me.”
“If you could read my soul and learn my opinion of the world, all your desires and your regrets would instantly vanish.”
“Books have vainly taught me the perversity of mankind, and the misfortunes inseparable from humanity: my heart refuses to believe them. I am continually representing to myself circles of sincere and virtuous friends; suitable marriages full of the happiness resulting from health, youth, and fortune. I imagine them wandering together through groves greener and fresher than the trees above me, with a sun more dazzling than that which brightens my world, and their lot seems worthy of envy in proportion to the misery of mine. At the beginning of spring, when the wind from Piedmont blows through our valley, I feel its vivifying warmth penetrating me, and a thrill passes over me in spite of myself. I have an inexplicable desire, and a confused notion of a boundless happiness that I am capable of enjoying, but which is denied me. Then I fly from my cell, and wander in the fields,
that I may breathe more freely. I avoid the very sight of the men whom my heart longs to embrace, and from the top of the hill, concealed among the bushes like a wild beast, I gaze towards the city of Aosta. With envious eyes I see afar off its happy inhabitants, to whom I am scarcely known. I stretch forth my hands towards them, and, with groans, ask for my share of happiness. In my agony—shall I acknowledge it?—I have sometimes thrown my arms around the trees of the forest, imploring Almighty God to infuse life into them that I may have a friend! But the trees make no response, their coldness repels me, they have nothing in common with my throbbing heart, which is aflame. Overcome by fatigue, weary of life, I drag myself back again to my asylum, I lay my torments before God, and prayer restores somewhat of calmness to my soul.”
“So, poor, unfortunate man, you suffer at once all the ills of soul and body?”
“The latter are not the most severe!”
“Then you are sometimes freed from them?”
“Every month they increase and diminish with the moon. I generally suffer most at its first appearance. My disease then abates and seems to change its symptoms: my skin grows dry and white, and I feel nearly well. But my malady would be endurable but for the terrible wakefulness it produces.”
“What! does even sleep abandon you?”
“Ah! sir, the sleepless, sleepless nights! You have no idea how long and sad they are when I cannot get a moment’s sleep, and my mind dwells on my frightful situation—with no hope for the future. No! no one could realize it. My restlessness increases
as the night advances, and, when nearly at an end, my nervousness is almost unendurable: my mind is confused. I experience an extraordinary sensation that never comes over me but at such sad moments. Sometimes it seems as if an irresistible power was drawing me down into a bottomless gulf: sometimes I see black clouds before my eyes, but while I am examining them they cross each other with the quickness of lightning, they grow larger as they approach, and then look like mountains ready to overwhelm me with their weight. At other times, I behold clouds issuing from the earth beneath me like swelling waves, which rise one above the other and threaten to engulf me; and, when I wish to rise in order to throw off these sensations, I feel chained down by some invisible force that renders me powerless. You will perhaps think these are dreams; but you are mistaken. I am really awake. I see all this again and again, and with a sensation of horror that surpasses all my other sufferings.”
“It is possible you are feverish during these long, sleepless nights, and this, perhaps, causes a kind of delirium.”
“You think this may be the result of fever? Ah! I wish it might be true. Until now I have feared these visions were symptoms of madness, and I acknowledge this greatly worried me. Would to God they were the effects of fever!”
“Your case inspires me with a lively interest. I acknowledge that I had never imagined anything like your situation. I suppose, however, it was less sad when your sister was living.”
“God alone knows what a loss her death was to me. But are you not afraid to come so near me? Sit down there on that rock, and I will
conceal myself beneath the vines, so we can talk without seeing each other.”
“Why so? No, you shall not leave me. Come nearer.” In saying these words the traveller involuntarily put out his hand to take the Leper’s, but the latter hastily withdrew his.
“Imprudent man! You were going to take hold of my hand!”
“Well, I would have pressed it heartily.”
“It would have been the first time such a happiness was granted me: my hand was never pressed by any one.”
“What! Have you never formed any ties, except the sister of whom you have spoken—never been loved by any of your own condition?”
“Happily for the human race, there is not another in my condition on the earth.”
“You make me shudder.”
“Pardon me, compassionate stranger! You know the unhappy love to speak of their misfortunes.”
“Go on, go on: you interest me. You said your sister lived with you, and aided you in bearing your sufferings.”
“She was the only tie that bound me to the rest of mankind! It pleased God to break it, and thus leave me isolated and alone in the midst of the world. Her soul was ripe for the heaven where she now is, and her example sustained me under the discouragement which has often overwhelmed me since her death. But we did not live in that delightful intimacy which I so often imagine, and which should bind together the unfortunate. The nature of our disease deprived us of this consolation. When we came together to pray, we avoided looking at one another, for fear the sad spectacle might disturb our meditations: our souls alone
were united before God. After prayer, my sister generally retired to her cell or beneath the nut-trees at the end of the garden, and we lived almost constantly apart.”
“But why did you impose so cruel a restraint upon yourselves?”
“When my sister was attacked with the contagious disease to which all our family were victims, and came to share my asylum, we had never seen one another. Her fright was extreme when she beheld me for the first time. The fear of afflicting her, and still more of increasing her malady by approaching her, made me resolve on this sad kind of a life. The leprosy had only attacked her breast, and I had still some hopes of her being cured. You see the remains of a neglected trellis: it was then covered with a hop-vine that I trained with care, and divided the garden into two parts. On each side of this, I made a little path where we could walk and converse together without seeing or coming too near each other.”
“It would almost seem as if heaven wished to embitter the sad pleasures it still left you.”
“But at least I was not then alone. My sister’s presence gave some cheerfulness to my asylum. I could hear the sounds of her steps. When I returned, at dawn, to pray beneath these trees, the door of the tower would softly open, and my sister’s voice would imperceptibly mingle with mine. In the evening, when I watered my garden, she sometimes walked here at sunset, in the same place where we now are, and I could see her shadow pass and repass over my flowers. Even when I did not see her, there were everywhere traces of her presence. Sometimes it was only a withered flower in the path, or some branch of a shrub she had dropped, but now I am alone, there
is neither movement nor life around me, and the path that led to her favorite grove is already overgrown with grass. Without appearing to observe me, she was constantly studying what could afford me pleasure. When I returned to my chamber, I was sometimes surprised to find vases of fresh flowers, or some fine fruit she had taken care of herself. I did not dare render her similar services, and had even begged her never to enter my chamber, but who can place a limit to a sister’s affection? One incident alone will give you an idea of her love for me. I was walking rapidly up and down my cell one night, tormented with fearful sufferings. In the middle of the night, as I was sitting down a moment to rest, I heard a slight noise at the door. I approached—listened—imagine my astonishment! it was my sister who was praying on the outside of my door. She had heard my groans. She was afraid of annoying me, but wished to be at hand if I needed any assistance. I heard her repeating the Miserere in a low tone. I knelt down by the door, and, without interrupting her, mentally followed her words. My eyes were full of tears: who would not have been touched by so much affection? When her prayer was ended, I said in a low tone: ‘Good-night, sister, good-night: go to bed, I feel a little better. May God bless and reward you for your piety!’ She retired in silence, and her prayer was surely answered, for I at last enjoyed several hours of quiet sleep.”
“How sad must have been the first days after your beloved sister’s death!”
“I remained for a long time in a kind of stupor that deprived me of the faculty of realizing the extent of my misfortune. When at length I came to myself, and was able to
comprehend my situation, my reason almost left me. It was a season doubly sad for me, for it recalls the greatest of my misfortunes, and the crime that came near resulting from it.”
“Crime! I cannot believe you capable of one.”
“It is only too true, and, in giving you an account of that period of my life, I feel too sensibly I shall fall in your estimation; but I do not wish to appear better than I am, and perhaps you will pity while condemning me. The idea of voluntarily leaving this world had already occurred to me in several fits of melancholy, but the fear of God had hitherto made me repel the thought. The simplest circumstance, and apparently the least calculated to trouble me, came near causing my eternal loss. I had just experienced a new affliction. A little dog had been given us some years previous. My sister was fond of him, and after her death the poor animal was, I acknowledge, a real comfort to me. We were, I suppose, indebted to his ugliness for his making our house his refuge. He had been rejected by everybody else, but was a treasure in the asylum of a leper. In gratitude to God for the favor of such a friend, my sister called him Miracle, and his name—such a contrast to his ugliness—and his constant friskiness often dispelled our sorrows. In spite of my care, he sometimes got out, and it never occurred to me it might injure any one. But some of the inhabitants of the town became alarmed, thinking he might bring among them the germ of my disease. They sent a complaint to the commander, who ordered the dog to be killed immediately. Some soldiers followed by several civilians came here at once to execute this cruel order. They put a cord around his neck in my presence,
and dragged him away. I could not help looking at him once more as he was going out of the gate; his eyes were turned towards me, as if to beg the assistance which it was not in my power to give. They wished to drown him in the Doire, but the crowd waiting on the outside stoned him to death. I heard his cries, and took refuge in my tower more dead than alive; my trembling knees refused to support me; I threw myself on my bed in a state impossible to describe. My grief made me regard the just though severe order only as a cruelty as atrocious as it was needless, and, though I am now ashamed of the feeling that then excited me, I cannot yet think of it with coolness. I passed the whole day in the greatest agitation. I had been deprived of the only living thing I had, and this new blow reopened all the wounds of my heart.
“Such was my condition when, that same day, towards sunset, I came here, and seated myself on the very rock where you are now sitting. I had been meditating awhile on my sad lot, when I saw a newly-married couple appear yonder, near the two birches at the end of the hedge. They came along the foot-path through the meadow, and passed by me. The sweet peace that an assured happiness confers was imprinted on their handsome faces. They were walking slowly arm-in-arm. All at once they stopped; the young woman leaned her head upon her husband’s breast, who clasped her in his arms with joy. Shall I confess it? Envy for the first time penetrated my heart. Such a picture of happiness had never struck me before. I followed them with my eyes to the end of the meadow. They were nearly hidden by the trees when I heard a joyful cry. It came from the united families who were coming to meet
them. Old men, women, and children surrounded them. I heard a confused murmur of joy. I saw among the trees the bright colors of their dresses, and the whole group seemed enveloped in a cloud of happiness. I could not endure the sight: the torments of hell seized hold of my heart. I turned away my eyes, and fled to my cell. O God! how frightfully lonely and gloomy it seemed. ‘It is here, then,’ I said to myself—‘I am to live for ever here. After dragging out a wretched existence, I must await the long-delayed end of my life! The Almighty has diffused happiness, and in torrents, among all living creatures, and I—I alone!—am without support, without friends, without a companion.—What a terrible destiny!’
“Full of these sad thoughts, I forgot there is one Being who is the Comforter. I was beside myself. ‘Why,’ I said to myself, ‘was I permitted to behold the light? Why has Nature been so cruel a step-mother to me?’ Like a disinherited child, I saw before me the rich patrimony of the human race, of my share of which heaven had defrauded me. ‘No, no,’ I cried in my fury, ‘there is no happiness for thee on earth. Cease, then, to live, poor wretch! Thou hast disgraced the earth long enough with thy presence: would it might swallow thee up and leave no trace of thy miserable existence!’ My fury continuing to increase, a mad desire to destroy myself took possession of my mind. I resolved at last to set fire to my dwelling, and allow myself to be burned up in it with everything else that might recall my memory. Excited and enraged, I went forth into the fields. I wandered for some time in the darkness around my dwelling. I gave vent to my overburdened heart in involuntary shrieks, and frightened myself
in the silence of the night. I reentered full of rage, crying: ‘Woe to thee, Leper! Woe to thee!’ And, as if everything conspired for my destruction, I heard the echo from the ruins of the Château de Bramafan repeating distinctly: ‘Woe to thee!’ I stopped, seized with horror, at the door of the tower, and a faint echo from the mountains repeated a long time after, ‘Woe to thee!’
“I took a lamp, and, resolved to set fire to my dwelling, went into the lowest room, carrying with me some twigs and dry branches. It was the room my sister occupied, and I had not entered it since her death. Her arm-chair was in the same spot where I moved it for the last time. I shivered with fear at the sight of her veil and some of her clothing scattered around. The last words she uttered before her departure came back to my mind: ‘I shall not forsake you when I die: remember, I shall always be with you in your sufferings.’ Placing the lamp on the table, I perceived the cord which held the cross she wore on her neck. She had placed it herself within her Bible. I drew back, filled with awe at the sight. The depths of the abyss into which I was about to plunge were at once revealed to my unsealed eyes. Trembling, I approached the sacred volume. ‘Here, here,’ I cried, ‘is the aid she promised me!’ Drawing the cross from the book, I found a sealed note which my dear sister had left for me. My tears, which grief had not hitherto allowed me to shed, now escaped in torrents: all my detestable projects vanished at once. I pressed the precious letter to my heart a long time before I could read it: then, falling on my knees to implore the divine mercy, I sobbingly read the words that will be for ever
graven on my heart: ‘Brother, I shall soon leave you, but not forsake you. From heaven, which I hope to enter, I will watch over you, praying God to give you the courage to endure life with resignation till it pleases him to reunite us in another world. Then I shall be able to show you how much I loved you. Nothing will prevent me any longer from approaching you: nothing can separate us. I leave you the little cross I have worn all my life. It has often consoled me in my sorrows and been the only witness of my tears. Remember, when you look upon it, that my last prayer was that you might live and die a good Christian.’
“Cherished letter! it shall never leave me. I will carry it with me to the grave. It will open to me the gates of heaven which my crime would have closed for ever. When I had finished reading it, I felt faint, exhausted by all I had undergone. My sight grew dim, and, for some time, I lost both the remembrance of my misfortunes and the consciousness of existence. When I came to myself, the night was far advanced. In proportion to the clearness of my mind, I experienced a feeling of profound peace. All that had taken place the evening before seemed like a dream. My first impulse was to raise my eyes heavenward in thanksgiving for having been preserved from the greatest of misfortunes. The heavens had never appeared so serene and glorious: one star before my window outshone the rest. I gazed at it a long time with inexpressible delight, thanking God for granting me the pleasure of beholding it, and felt interiorly consoled at the thought that some of its rays were permitted to cheer the gloomy home of the Leper.
“I went up to my cell in a calmer frame. I spent the remainder of the
night in reading the Book of Job, and the sublimity of his thoughts at length entirely dispelled the gloomy ideas that had beset me. I never experienced such fearful moments during my sister’s life. To feel her near me made me at once calmer, and the very thought of the affection she had for me afforded me consolation, and inspired me with courage.
“Compassionate stranger! may God preserve you from ever being obliged to live alone! My sister and my companion is no more. But heaven will grant me the strength to endure life courageously; it will grant it, I trust, for I pray for it with all the earnestness of my heart.”
“How old was your sister when she died?”
“She was barely twenty-five, but her sufferings made her look much older. In spite of her fatal disease, which changed her features, she would have been handsome, had it not been for her frightful pallor, the result of a living death which made me groan whenever I looked at her.”
“She died quite young?”
“Her delicate and feeble constitution could not resist so many sufferings combined: for some time I had perceived her loss inevitable. Her lot was so sad that I could not desire her to live. Seeing her daily languishing and wasting away, I felt, with a fearful kind of joy, that the end of her sufferings was approaching. For a month she had been growing weaker; frequent swoons were constantly threatening her life. One evening (it was about the first of August) I saw her so weak that I was unwilling to leave her. She was in her arm-chair, not having been able to lie down for several days. I seated myself near her, and in the profound darkness we held our last conversation. I could not restrain my tears. A sad presentiment agitated
me. ‘Why do you weep?’ she said. ‘Why distress yourself? I shall not forsake you when I die. I shall always be with you in your sufferings.’
“A few moments after, she expressed a desire to be carried out of the tower, that she might offer her prayers in the grove of nut-trees where she passed the greater part of the pleasant season. ‘I wish,’ she said, ‘to die looking at the heavens.’ But I did not imagine her end so near. I was about to take her in my arms, when she said, ‘Only support me. I am, perhaps, strong enough to walk.’ I led her slowly to the nut-trees. I made a cushion of the dry leaves she herself had gathered together, and, covering her head with a veil to screen her from the dampness of the night, I seated myself near her. But she desired to be left alone during her last meditation, and I went to a distance, but without losing sight of her. From time to time, I could see the flutter of her veil and her white hands raised to heaven. When I drew near the grove, she asked for some water. I carried her some in a cup. She wet her lips, but could not swallow. ‘I feel the end has come,’ said she, turning her head. ‘My thirst will soon be assuaged for ever. Support me, brother: aid me in crossing this gulf—so long desired, but so terrible. Support me, and say the prayers for the dying.’ These were her last words. I drew her head against my breast, and said the prayer for the departing soul: ‘Go forth from this world, my beloved sister, and leave thy mortal remains in my arms!’ I held her in this way for three hours, during the last throes of nature. At length, she quietly passed away, and her soul left the earth without a struggle.”
At the end of this account, the
Leper covered his face with his hands. Sympathy deprived the traveller of the power of speaking. After a moment’s silence, the Leper rose. “Stranger,” said he, “when grief or dejection comes over you, think of the Leper of the city of Aosta, and your visit will not have been a useless one.”
They walked towards the garden-gate. As the officer was about to go out, he put his glove on his right hand. “You have never pressed any one’s hand,” said he. “Do me the favor to press mine. It is the hand of a friend who is deeply interested in your lot.”
The Leper drew back some steps with a kind of terror, and, raising his eyes and hands towards heaven, he cried: “O God of goodness! pour down thy blessings on this compassionate man!”
“Grant me another favor, then,” resumed the traveller. “I am going away. We may not see each other again for a long time. Can we not write one another sometimes, with the necessary precautions? Such a correspondence might divert you, and it would afford me great pleasure.”
The Leper reflected for some time. At length he said, “Why should I cherish any delusion? I ought to have no other society but myself, no friend but God. We shall meet in his presence. Farewell, kind stranger, may you be happy! Farewell for ever!” The traveller went out—the Leper closed the door and drew the bolts.
ON THE PRESENT CONDITION OF THE HOLY FATHER.
FROM LA CIVILTA CATTOLICA.
Some fourteen months ago, a breach was made in the Porta Pia, and an entry effected into Rome in the name of Italy.
The machinations of those who effected that entry in order to subvert the authority of the Pope are still at work, and most assiduously, in endeavoring to convey the impression that this act of theirs now stands before the world simply as an accomplished fact, and as such is, if not approved, at least tolerated by those most interested in contesting it. Thus they endeavor to delude the world and lull to sleep the misgivings of Catholics; for in order to confirm and strengthen this impression there is scarcely a stratagem or subterfuge to which the government (itself the author of the fact) does not resort, through the journalism notoriously in its pay, not only throughout the Peninsula, but elsewhere.
This government, which sprang from accomplished facts and falsehoods, hopes by means of these same accomplished facts and falsehoods to place on a firm foundation its sway in the Campidoglio, which now rests on a very insecure footing; therefore it endeavors to persuade the world, and especially Catholics, that the Supreme Pontiff, while in its hands and under the law of its Guarantees, is
actually more at liberty, more independent in action, and more useful to the church, than he was when he reigned as a sovereign prince and was bona-fide ruler in his own state.
The absurdity of this claim is manifest; but what absurdity is there of which the government of the Subalpinists in Italy does not avail itself, in order to attach credit to itself, by means of the arts learned in the school of its great father and master, Bonaparte?
It is important, therefore, or rather we should say it is absolutely necessary, that an honest and Christian journalism should perseveringly oppose manifest truths to this interminable repetition of falsehoods, paid for by the Subalpine rulers, respecting the present condition of the Holy Father; and thus, by ventilating fraud, undeceive simple and credulous minds.
With this intention, we shall in few but veracious strokes of the pen describe the undisguised reality of the state in which the head of the church, the Supreme Pontiff, Pius IX., finds himself at the present moment in Rome, six months after the solemn publication of the laws of the Guarantees.
II.
We assert, then, that the Pope endures imprisonment in Rome at the hands of the Subalpinists, and that his captivity, instead of being mitigated, is every day aggravated. This is proved by the following facts:
1. He is in the hands of an inimical power, or, as he himself has defined it, he is sub hostili dominatione constitutus. Now, he who is in the hands of an enemy, however much that enemy may affect humanity and regard towards him, is beyond all contradiction his prisoner.
2. The Holy Father fell into the hands of this inimical power through sheer force. This is rendered evident by the formal declaration made by the Subalpine ministers before taking up arms against him, in which they affirmed that to invade or take Rome with bomb-shells and cannons would be an act contrary to the rights of nations, an act so iniquitous that it would be unworthy even of a barbarian government: yet in the very face of these declarations they did take Rome with the argument of bomb-shells and cannons, and with the same argument they continue to occupy it.
3. The Holy Father, being in the hands of an inimical power, which has dispossessed him by violence of all sovereignty, and substituted its own in lieu of his, is now by this same power subjected to every kind of ridicule in his double majesty as pontiff and as king: burlesque honors are proposed to him, which would by preference be offered to him publicly, in order to induce the idea that the Holy Father, by accepting them, is reconciled to the government, and has basely ceded to it the inalienable rights of God, of the church, and of the Catholic world. Moreover, the obligation resting on the Sovereign Pontiff of preserving his own dignity keeps him shut up in the Vatican: the outer doors of which are guarded by a guard of honor formed of the self-same wretched soldiery who, led on by Subalpine leaders, made the breach in the Porta Pia, and struck to the earth his own sovereign banner in Rome.
4. Finally: The inimical power in whose hands the Holy Father now finds himself is, either from weakness or malice, incapable of protecting his august person from any kind of insult. So that, supposing it to be morally possible for him without compromising
his dignity to leave the cloisters of the Vatican, yet would a material obstacle present itself in the outrages and dangers, threatening life itself, to which he would be exposed amid the crowds of cut-throats, atheists, and the lowest rabble of every country, which this power has congregated together and maintains in Rome, to represent in that city the people of the plébiscite; that is, a people hostile to the Papacy and rebellious to its throne.
These are the principal facts which most clearly demonstrate the state of imprisonment into which the Sovereign Pontiff was thrown, by the events of the 20th September, 1870, in his own city of Rome: and we defy all the sophistry of all the journalists, politicians, and diplomatists of the government, seated as it is in the metropolis of the Catholic world, to deny it, without denying the light of the sun at mid-day.
Besides this, that the captivity of the Holy Father has been aggravated during these fourteen months is seen and felt by every one who is not under the influence of the Subalpinists, those men who have carried their effrontery to the length of placing the centre of their government in the city of Rome itself, and with one of their laws of guaranty for the independence of the Pope have arrogated to themselves the right of imposing the future conditions of his existence in the Vatican, as if they were the rulers of the Holy See. Whoever considers the forces of moral and material hostility that these Subalpinists have accumulated in Rome against his prerogatives, cannot fail to perceive that the rights which in this city are most readily trodden under foot, are, after those of God, those of the Pope: and the person who is the most insulted therein is, after that of Christ, precisely
the person of the Sovereign Pontiff, Pius IX., decreed sovereign and inviolable, by the law, as the person of the king himself.
From this it follows that the Holy Father is at the present moment the legal prisoner, in Rome, of the Subalpine government, since by the aforenamed laws, termed those of the Guarantees, not only has that government confirmed the violent spoliation of himself, but, in spite of the opinion of the world, has dared to justify the act by defining in those laws the limits of the liberty it intends to concede to him. This is neither more nor less than the usage commonly observed towards a prisoner of state or of war.
By this means, the present condition of the Pontiff in his own Rome is in truth that of the strictest imprisonment by the anti-Christian sect, headed by the government of the Subalpinists now lording it over Italy.
III.
Neither is the Holy Father, Pius IX., the prisoner of an inimical power solely on account of his civil prerogatives: it is his ecclesiastical jurisdiction that is aimed at more than anything else: while usurping the regal crown, it seeks equally to abolish the Papal tiara; and, if, after having barbarously dispossessed him of his kingdom, it does not also make a barbarous assault on the majesty of his Pontificate, this reserve arises only from the hindrance occasioned by very strong and extrinsic causes, and not from good-will or any other than a reprobate sentiment.
This profound enmity of the Subalpine rulers to the Pope as the supreme pastor of the Catholic Church is so well-known as to need no demonstration. Yet for superabundance
of proof, we will say that it is shown:
1. By all that has been previously done against Catholicity for twenty-two years past in Piedmont, and for half that time throughout the rest of Italy, by the faction to which these rulers belong—a faction whose politics are expressed by an obstinate war, sometimes of a Julianistic character, sometimes of that of a Nero—a war which attacks directly or indirectly the church itself, and all connected with it, and this in such a manner as to render it palpable that not even the Unity of Italy is desired for its own sake, but rather as a means by which to work the destruction of Catholicity and the overthrow of the Papacy.
2. It is shown by the special mandate which the Subalpine faction superintending the Masonic government of the Peninsula have received from the General Masonic Order—a mandate bidding them become the immediate (because proximate) instruments of the downfall of Papal Rome, the centre of the Catholic Church; and which then bids them proceed to the utter spoliation of the Sovereign Pontiff himself—two events which it hopes will lead (if that were possible) to the annihilation of Catholicity, that being the ultimate end of all the conspiracies of the order.
3. It is shown by the open confessions made in Rome, throughout Italy, and in all Europe, by journalists united by the bonds of faction to our Subalpine patrons; and even more by the discovery, lately made, that persecution is already well established in Rome against everything ecclesiastical or Catholic—whether in things or persons.
From these facts, it is demonstrated that the Holy Father is now the prisoner in Rome of a government
which in his person hates above everything, and as far as it dare makes war against, his prerogatives as Pontiff, and as Head of the Catholic Apostolic and Roman religion. Pius IX. is in the hands of Turks embittered to the last degree. Against him and his tiara every tool is made use of, and with equal skill—whether it be cannons or sophistry, buffoonery or the judgment-hall, the pick-axe or calumny.
IV.
The war of Nero carried on against the Holy Father and the church is at the present moment tempered by the war of Julian. It was for this purpose that our Subalpinists devised the law of the Guarantees, behind which they know how to mask the ugliness of their rascalities, at least for a time. “Do you see?” they exclaim in every tone, and have had written in every language: “We have surrounded the Pope with so many privileges that the like was never seen. Of what do you complain, O you insatiable Catholics? Have we not constituted the Pope inviolable as is the king? What more would you have?”
We would have—simply that the Pope should be inviolable, because he is a king in earnest truth, and not a mere semblance of one. But to this question of to-day concerning the sovereign and personal inviolability of the Pope, facts are the best reply. These show that practically he is as inviolable as the first article of the statute, and has been inviolable throughout the kingdom.
This privilege of inviolability implies that the person sovereignly inviolable can, in no manner whatsoever, be publicly insulted without the offenders being repressed by force and punished according to law.
Meantime, first, it is a notorious fact that every day the sheets belonging to this faction, not excepting those of the government throughout the kingdom, and particularly in Rome, insult, hold up to derision, and vilify the inviolable person of the Pope: and that he is exposed to ridicule by means of most infamous caricatures; and all this with impunity. For it is notorious that newspapers are very rarely sequestrated on account of this continuous and general contravention of the laws of the Guarantees; and up to this period not a single sentence has been issued from the tribunals against the insulters of his Pontifical Majesty. On the other hand, the exchequer is most rigorous against any one suspected of insulting the royal majesty through the press; chiefly, however, against the Catholic journalists who defend the inviolable Pontiff. Thus (a fitting commentary), of ten law-suits against offenders by means of the press, eight are commonly to the prejudice of Catholics accused of offences against the king or of illicit voting. The inviolability of the Holy Father, therefore, practically resolves itself into the fact that every miscreant may insult him with impunity, while it is dangerous for an honest Catholic to defend him through the press.
It is a notorious fact, and of very frequent occurrence, that groups of ribald men, escaped from every Italian galley, stroll along the avenues, singing shameful verses, nay, even menacing ones, in regard to the Supreme Pontiff, and it is no rare thing for a rabble to provoke and utter cries of a character most outraging to his name and honor. And yet the police, ever ready to hinder similar outrages in regard to the king, become deaf or soften down the words when they hear the Holy Father
vituperated in this fashion. No one has ever been arrested for such a crime, and no one has ever been cited before the tribunals. The inviolability of the Holy Father, we repeat it, consists practically in the freedom with which every vagabond is permitted publicly to insult him.
3. It is a notorious fact that large bands of these miscreants have often gathered together beneath the walls of the Papal palace to load the guard stationed inside with foul language, that guard being placed there by the consent of the laws of the Guarantees to the Pope. Yet here they hurl their blasphemies and imprecations against the sanctity of the Pope, in the very hearing of the guard of honor placed there by the government, and these have never been known to discompose themselves on this account even to the extent of a gesture of disapprobation toward the rogues thus possessed by the devil. Yet woe to the wretch who should commit any such atrocity at the portals of the Quirinal, when inhabited by certain other inviolable persons in the kingdom of the Subalpinists! Therefore, once more: the inviolability of the Pontiff is practically converted into a tacit license for the lowest rabble to insult his person beneath the very portals and under the windows of the Vatican.
We might enumerate many other facts, equally well known, to demonstrate how little is the practical value of the sovereign inviolability decreed to the captive Pope; but let those already brought forward suffice. These being admitted, it will be understood that his Holiness, thanks to the distinguished privilege conferred on him by our Subalpine gentlemen, not only could not make his appearance in the streets of his own Rome without manifest risk of life, but he could not even descend to the basilica of the
Vatican to perform a sacred function, without exposing himself to contumely and insult by the very side of St. Peter’s tomb, and even on the altar itself. The occurrences of the 8th December, 1870, in the vestibule of the Pontifical residence; of the 10th March, 1871, within the Gesù; and of the 23rd, 24th, 25th August, close to the Lateran and the Church of Maria soprà Minerva, confirm what we assert.
This, then, in its veritable reality, is the present condition of Pope Pius IX. in Rome, after the oft-repeated promulgation of the law declaring him an inviolable sovereign like to the king.
Nor may the salaried apologists of our patrons treat these matters as a jest in order to exculpate themselves from so horrible an abomination. Facts are facts, while words are but breath. The most irrefutable facts prove that if our Holy Father were to show himself publicly in the Rome of to-day, uncivilized as it is by these Subalpine rulers, the treatment he would receive would be no other than such as is given alike to the clergy as to the most holy things, nay, to Christ himself, in the blessed sacrament of the altar.
Now, it cannot be denied, for the Roman journals attest it, citing days, time, places, names and surnames, that every day priests or religious, bishops or prelates, are attacked or ill-used in the most populous districts of Rome; that almost every day sacred images are stoned or profaned at the corners of the streets; and not unfrequently the adorable eucharist, when borne as a viaticum to the sick, is exposed to mockery in the public square, even by those who wear military badges; and all this occurs with the tacit consent of the officers charged with keeping order in the city, no one of whom has ever
imprisoned a single person guilty of such misdeeds. And after that they would have us believe that Pope Pius IX. would be safe either in the city or in the Vatican from the outrages or even from the blow of these most civilized gentlemen who form the new Roman people!
Be silent, as long as we live, O whited sepulchres!—race fit only to patronize assassins!
V.
Moreover, the Holy Father, by the noble munificence of his jailers, is reduced to that degree of poverty that, were it not for the oblations of the faithful, he must either pine in misery or suffer the degradation of his majesty. The glorious conquerors of Rome have taken everything from him, excepting the Vatican. And if, up to this time, they have refrained from sacking this edifice, it is owing to that veto of potentates which, as yet, has forbidden them access to it. Jugglers are in possession of the Quirinal; and they drew near to the public treasury of the Pontificate with the sword of guardianship. In one flash of lightning, the Pope saw himself deprived of everything. With a simple substitution of voters, the Pontifical estate is become the Subalpine estate—a magnificent example! since then magnificently imitated by the Commune of Paris!
Is is true that, in their law of the Guarantees, they have deigned to assign to him a species of civil list amounting to several millions of lire. But this was done for the sake of appearance alone; for well they knew that, in practice, this article would have precisely the same effect as that other article prescribing the famous inviolability. How in fact could these persons, who for five-and-twenty
years have known the magnanimous firmness of character of Pius IX., persuade themselves that he would lower his dignity to accept an obolus from their criminal and sacrilegious hands, in compensation for the kingdom they have taken from him? They understood beforehand that this would be impossible, because, even admitting that the Holy Father had been willing to admit their civil list, under the title of restitution, a thing not unlawful in itself if done without prejudice to his rights, they perceived only too clearly that he could not have done so in view of the malignant interpretations which would have followed the act, occasioning an immense scandal and clamor; as if the Pope by receiving a modicum of that property the whole of which belongs to him by right had conceded the rest, over which he has immemorial claims.
The matter, however, took such a shape that these brave gentlemen had an ample field in which to display large figures, and even to acquire the name of prodigality in offering round numbers to their victim. Yes, indeed, they were prodigals, like unto those who offered vinegar to the crucified Saviour.
God, ever adorable in his providence, has so disposed events that the hearts of Catholics throughout the world have been moved to compassionate their father in chains, and the gold of their filial charity has abounded so wonderfully in his hands, that he has been able to succor most plentifully those of his faithful servants who have fallen into straits for conscience’ sake, together with many indigent persons who have no other resource for a livelihood than the heart of the imprisoned Pontiff.
The glory of this munificence is due to God alone, and the merit of it is to be ascribed to the faith of
good Christians. On the other hand, the infamy of having embittered the captivity of the Holy Father, by reducing him, with the Sacred College and his whole court, to a state of absolute want, if he would not wear the appearance of dishonor, this belongs exclusively to the Subalpine rulers, who at the foot of the Campidoglio are enjoying the spoils of the Pontificate, as the crucifiers on Mount Calvary enjoyed the spoils obtained by rending the garments of Christ.
VI.
The jailers, and the friends and servants of the jailers of the Holy Father, boast very much of the ample liberty he enjoys, which he can use during his imprisonment for the regulation of the church and for performing his office as Pope.
Let us examine a little in what this charming liberty consists. This at the very first glance resolves itself into the following very clear formula: The Pope is at liberty to do that—and that alone—which the inimical power whose prisoner he is permits him to do.
And, in point of fact, the Holy Father is under this power, which holds him in its hands, being sub hostilem potestatem redactus, as he himself lately expressed it again in the Encyclical of May 15, 1871, in which he formally repudiates the Guarantees offered him in exchange for his principality. He who is under is dependent, and can do only that to which he who is above consents. Thus the liberty of the Pope is subject to the limits which the inimical power, his oppressor, pleases to impose on him. And this same law of the Guarantees is the proof of the fact, inasmuch as it contains only a concession of hypothetical privileges. But he who
concedes accounts himself superior to him to whom the concession is granted. Whence the true measure of the liberty of Pius IX. as Pope, is now simply the arbitrary will of Italian Masonry, governed by the Subalpinists. This is a certain fact as to matters in general.
With regard to particulars, the Holy Father uses such liberty as he owes to his own courage and diligence, and the inimical power, his jailer, cannot hinder him, though it would willingly do so, because a power stronger than itself, or certain human respects, forbid such opposition. As, for example, the Subalpine patrons would gladly hinder his Holiness from publishing bulls or encyclicals, in condemnation of their lofty enterprises against God, religion, and the Apostolic See. His Holiness, not being at liberty to publish them in Rome under their very nose, sends them out of Italy to be printed, and in this way publishes them.
Now, what can these very liberal gentlemen do in a case like this? Drag the Pope before the courts, and imprison him in the Castle of St. Angelo? Most willingly would they do this; but the rulers of Europe would oppose it. There is, then, no course left to them except to interdict the publication of them within the state by sequestrating the papers which reprint these acts of the Pope; and this they did with the Encyclical of November 1, 1870. If for others of later appearance they have shut their eyes and left them to their course, it has been because they have at last been obliged to pay some regard to public opinion, and have found their account in putting on a semblance of toleration.
In a similar manner, the Holy Father, finding that the Subalpine masters trumpeted forth loudly to
the world that he was left at liberty in the creation of bishops throughout Italy, embraced the opportunity to exercise his right and to fulfil his duty. With prudence certainly, but yet with boldness, he addressed himself to the work. The matter was very displeasing to our gentlemen. But how were they to hinder it? They wanted to give the Christian world to understand that they are honorable men, not only in the modern sense of the word, but also somewhat in the ancient sense: they wanted to prove that they knew how to keep their word without being compelled by cannons so to do. So for this time it does not appear that they will refuse entrance into their dioceses to the new pastors.
But thieves and loyalists as they are, they have taken advantage of this act of the Holy Father, turning it to their own interest by cowardly proclaiming in every direction that the Holy Father, by thus using the privileges comprised in the law of the Guarantees respecting the induction of bishops into their sees, has, ipso facto, accepted their law, and thus retracted his refusal of the 15th of May, 1871, and thus (according to them) the conciliation between themselves and the Holy See is in good progress; and it will not be long before the august Pontiff will give up his kingly crown into the hands of John Lanza: and in this manner the Italy of the Subalpinists will enjoy the distinguished honor of having the supreme head of the church for the court-chaplain, and most humble servant of his ministers: an honor certainly due to their merits as against faith, morality, and Catholic worship.
This attempt at imposition is the more senseless in that it supposes that the Holy Father had no other right to nominate the bishops than
as a state privilege; while the contrary is the case: the insertion of the state in these nominations is merely a privilege granted by the Pope: and the fact that the Pope has not thus recognized the Subalpine gentlemen outside of their own territory proves that he, far from accepting their Guarantees, does not even recognize them as juridically masters of the district in which they compiled the documents.
But the senselessness of the attempted imposition serves to prove how determined they are to prevent the Holy Father from exercising any true liberty.
VII.
Excepting the above-named use of his liberty, which the Holy Father courageously exercises in spite of the useless repugnance of his jailers, he in everything else remains in all the bonds and perplexities with which they think fit to surround him. And thus:
1. Pius IX. is not at liberty to have a journal in Rome, in which he may contradict the infinite number of falsities which the inimical power, through its officious and official oracles, utters against his person, against his acts, those of his court, or those of the ministers of the Holy See.
Should he do so, the executive would subject him to all those rigorous measures and sequestrations to which all the Catholics sheets of Rome have been subjected which have endeavored to defend his honor or his cause.
2. Pius IX., as we have already pointed out, is no longer at liberty to publish his bulls, encyclicals, or allocutions in Rome: the fact being that the inimical power, in this same law of the Guarantees, has reserved
to itself the faculty of judging them; and hence, either by way of legal or illegal confiscations, has full and absolute power to suppress their publication by main force. This obliges the head of the church to make public his acts regarding the universal government of Catholicism, by despatching them to be divulged outside the dominion of his jailers; as he has done up to this date, and will continue to do donec transeat iniquitas.
3. Pius IX. in Rome is not at liberty to contradict publicly by telegraph the inventions concerning himself and his Pontifical acts which the inimical power, his jailer, diffuses through the world by this said telegraph; because the telegraph is under the express authority of said power, and the use of it can be denied or rendered difficult at its pleasure. Thus, last March the world received through the telegraph fabulous accounts of a consistory held by the Pope, of an allocution and other particular acts, all invented on the spur of the moment; and before the world can detect the disgraceful imposture, it may expect that for many days the falsehoods will be printed even in Catholic journals, because our Subalpine gentlemen have it in their power to mislead by means of the telegraph the Catholic community with any kind of misrepresentation concerning the words and deeds of the Pope, without the possibility of the Pope’s being able immediately to undeceive them. Whence the necessity that no reliance at all should be placed on any telegram that the agency of the Subalpine government transmits from Rome respecting the words or affairs of the Supreme Pontiff.
4. Pius IX. in Rome is not at liberty to carry on a private correspondence
securely with the bishops and faithful of the world by means of letters or telegrams; because both mails and telegraphs belong to the inimical power which holds him captive. As an inimical power, precisely because it is inimical, believes itself licensed to take every precaution regarding its imprisoned enemy, so no one can ever feel certain that the secrecy of the letters interchanged has not been violated, or that the telegrams have not been altered or refused. All this is a question of trust. But meanwhile, setting aside the case of telegrams directed to the Pope, and refused by the telegraph officials, it is a fact that the Holy Father is obliged to keep his missives away from the mail-bags of Italy when he has any important correspondence to carry on, as also other persons are obliged to do when they wish to communicate with the Holy See. We repeat it: it is a question of trust: and how much those who now command in Rome may be trusted is attested by the honesty they have thus far exhibited.
5. Pius IX. in Rome and in the Vatican is not at liberty to receive every one who wishes to visit him, or whom it may be necessary he should see. All the approaches to the Pontifical palace are guarded by bailiffs of the inimical power. And these men, though they may often allow the goers and comers to be insulted by the rabble, never, however, omit to play the spy. This office they perform so well that certain journals written by those who are doubly linked with the police of the Subalpine gentry would be able to furnish, if needed, the daily list of all those admitted to the vestibule of the apostolic residence. It is clear from these circumstances that it depends solely on the arbitrary will of
the inimical power to forbid any one the power of ingress, or, if it prefer, to expel the individual from the city, and thus save him the trouble of the journey to the Vatican.
In addition to these facts, the stonings, menaces, hootings, and similar acts of urbanity practised in the streets of Rome and in the neighborhood of St. Peter’s toward the numerous Catholic deputations which came this year to pay their homage to the august prisoner, by the rabble introduced through the breach of the Porta Pia—these attest how great is that beautiful liberty enjoyed by the Pope in receiving visitors, whether they come of their own accord or that he sends for them.
6. Pius IX. in Rome will not long be at liberty to regulate the religious institutions, and to employ them in the service of the churches, as is right and proper he should do; because the inimical power is already on the alert to deprive the Holy See of this strong spiritual garrison: it is abolishing the orders, and depriving them of their property. The superiors-general of these orders, which are immediately subject to the Pontiff, will in a short time have no bread to eat, no room to shelter them; they will wander homeless over the earth, and lose their subjects on all sides. In this way, one of the instruments of the Pontiff, most useful to him in the administration of the church, will be, as it were, broken in his hand, and in the city in which the Head of the Catholic Church has his seat the profession of the evangelical state will be prohibited; and the Pope will not be even able to give shelter to the various missionaries who are toiling in the cause of Christianity among the heathen of Asia and America, when they come to render an account of their newly founded missions; for in all Rome he will no
longer have a religious house of hospitality at his disposal.
We will not lengthen details in order to enumerate the various other particular modes of liberty which the Holy Father can no longer exercise in the fulfilment of his supreme office. The exposition we have already given suffices to prove that he has no liberty, save such as the author of his affliction permits, either from his own authority or from other causes; the permission being compulsory on the part of the enemy, and most unwillingly given. And this is the marvellous liberty now enjoyed by the Sovereign Pontiff, thanks to the Subalpinists, who have dethroned him and uncrowned him in Rome itself, out of love, as they say, for the holy church!
VIII.
Let us be just. Our Holy Father might be in a much worse condition than the present one. His jailers as yet do not do him all the wrong they would wish, but are not able to do him. This is true enough. They have not as yet assailed the Vatican, and dragged Pius IX. to the Fortress of Ancona, as they have done to the illustrious Cardinal Morichini, Bishop of Jesi; or to a convent of Turin, as they have done to the imperturbable Cardinal de Angelis. We repeat it: they would like to do this, but are not able; they would like to do this and worse, but the governments of Europe have absolutely forbidden them to set foot in the Vatican, or to lay hands on the Sovereign Pontiff. This and nothing else restrains them in the frenzy of their hatred from beheading him at once. This and nothing else constrains them to moderate the impetuosity of their hatred in carrying on their persecutions against the Papacy. Fear compels these little Neros to don the mantle
of Julian; for, while under the eyes of two diplomatic bodies in Rome, they dare not carry their outrages on the Pope and his dignity beyond a certain limit.
From this we may infer that the only and ultimate safeguard remaining at the present moment to the Holy Father in the Vatican is not the law called the law of the Guarantees, nor is it trust in the governors, but the corps of diplomatists who have received from their various governments instructions to maintain inviolate the asylum of the octogenarian Pontiff, and to protect his august person.
Were it not for this only and ultimate safeguard, Catholics throughout the world would now be weeping over their Father exiled from Rome, and perhaps as having already expired from the bullets or sword of the enemy.
IX.
But how long will this only and ultimate safeguard endure?—this protection which renders the life and person of the Holy Father secure in Rome?
As long as the Subalpinists hold the reins of government in Italy, there seems no reason to fear that the security will become less. These men know too well that, were they to lose Rome, they would lose everything; and the only mode of keeping possession of Rome a little longer is not to violate the Vatican. But on that day on which the Italian faction shall get tired of being led by these ten or twelve Piedmontese who form the perpetual Zodiac of the ministry; on that day when this faction is weary of seeing all the master-machinery of the state, the army, finance, bureaucracy, and diplomacy regulated by Piedmontese; on that day when it takes it into its head to render the
government of this factious Italy Italian in its manner of rebellion, rather than provincial—on that day the danger will arise that even this said only and ultimate safeguard may lose its force. For in such a case, the mobocracy would come to the surface, and a scene of destruction would be inaugurated varying little from that carried out by the Commune of Paris.
The dilemma is this: either the Subalpinists or the Socialists must prove fatal to our poor Italy, prepared as it is for revolution. God alone knows what is to happen in the proximate future. But it is certain that the present condition of the Holy Father in Rome cannot endure much longer: it is certain that any agreement between him and his spoilers is utterly out of the question. It is also certain that Europe could not tolerate for a series of years that the Head of the Catholic Church should be held as a prisoner by the men who at the present day hold dominion throughout the Peninsula; and, finally, it is certain that in his own time God will interfere, and his intervention will not be to reward the persecutors of his Vicar on earth. These four certainties keep the world in suspense, and the authors and approvers of the transitory triumph of the Porta Pia in uneasiness.
But in this extremity of affairs and in this intense trepidation of mind, what is the duty of Catholics?
Is it to wish for an agreement between the Pope and the inimical power which oppresses him?
This is but to assume the office of members of the faction, under the disguise of zealous Catholics. He only who hath his part in the leaven of the Pharisees can believe it possible for the successor of St. Peter to sacrifice the eternal rights of Christ to the interests of Belial.
Is it to recommend the Holy Father to abandon his own state and seek compensation in some Catholic country outside of Italy? This is the advice of the imprudent. The Holy Father has received from God the grace of office to determine what is the best for the Apostolic See and for the church. No one need trouble himself to give advice unasked. He has his natural counsellors, and above all he has the Spirit of the Lord, with whom he is in daily and fervent communion. If Pius IX. remains in Rome, notwithstanding the satanic tempest which howls so wildly and so furiously against him, it is a sign that he knows such to be the will of God, and therefore makes it his duty to remain. In the course of events, we shall see that, if the Pope has remained in Rome, it is because it was best that he should remain there.
The real duty of Catholics is, on the other hand (besides assiduous prayer, conformably to the example of the primitive Christians when St. Peter was in vinculis), to unite and so work as to hasten the liberation of our common Father.
The Italian factionists reproach us Catholics of Italy with being parricides because we implore from God and men this sighed-for liberation. But it seems to us that it is they who commit parricide who, having imprisoned the Pope after officially declaring such an act to be contrary to the laws of nations and more than barbarous, have brought injury and evil upon the country which we are ever praying God to diminish. As for the rest, we Italian Catholics do not understand how the independence, glory, and prosperity of our country can be made properly to consist in the spoliation and captivity of the Supreme Pontiff, and in being trod under foot by the Subalpinists.
We, imploring the liberation of our Holy Father, have not the remotest idea that that liberation will cost any part of Italy its independence. The honor of calling foreigners into Italy, to subject it to personal advantage, and to pay for such power by presenting these foreigners with Italian provinces, nay, with the keys of Italy itself—we Catholics leave this to the idol of the Subalpinists, to their Cavour, and to their sheep of every color.
We Italian Catholics, we say it again, do not desire that the domination of our Father should bring with it any foreign domination, not even over a hand’s-breadth of Italian territory. The shameful traffic in people and in Italian territory could not be for us a means of liberating the Pope, as for the Subalpinists it has been a means of the so-called liberation of Italy. In this we are all agreed; we wish for the independence of justice, because justice alone ensures the happiness of nations.
But we Italian Catholics can of ourselves do little, because the dominant inimical power, being the enemy of the Pope, is naturally our enemy also, although we are the immense
national majority. We are the deplorable victims of modern liberty, which wholly consists in the oppression of the many, who are honest but weak, beneath the feet of the few, who are crafty and strong. Besides this, very serious and insuperable difficulties of conscience oblige us to abstain from using the most powerful of legal arms which liberalism says it has left in the hands of that majority which is trodden under foot by the minority. So that, if we may from this take occasion to cherish more solid hopes that God will at length assist us in effecting means of safety, yet in actual combat we now find ourselves unequal to the contest.
This is not the case with the Catholics of the other countries of Europe. It is their peculiar privilege so to address themselves to the work that their governments may not only preserve and strengthen the only and ultimate safeguard of the life and person of the Holy Father in Rome; but that they may use their power for his liberation; that thus with his full liberty the true liberty of the people may again flourish—that liberty which is now enchained with Pius IX. in the Vatican.