CANTO THIRD.
(For Cantos I. and II. of this Translation, see Catholic World for November, 1870, and January, 1872.)
Though round the plain their quick flight scattered them,
Bent for that Hill where reason turns our tread,[198]
My faithful mate close at my garment’s hem
I kept: how could I without him have sped?
Who else had o’er that mountain marshalled me?
He seemed, methought, as inly touched with shame:
O noble conscience, void of stain, to thee
How sharp a morsel is the smallest blame!
Soon as his feet the hurried movement checked
Which every action’s dignity destroys,
My mind, till now restrained and circumspect,
Expanded with new strength, as ’twere of joy’s.
My face I fixed upon that Hill to gaze
Towards highest heaven which springeth from the wave.
The sun behind me redly flamed; its rays
Broke by the shadow which my figure gave.
When I perceived before me that the ground
Was darkened only by myself, in dread
Of being there deserted, I looked round
And fronting me in full, my Comfort said:
“Why this distrust? believ’st thou not that I
Am with thee still, thy leader to the last?
’Tis evening now already where on high
My body lies, which once a shadow cast,
Buried at Naples, from Brundusium brought.
Now, if no shade before me meet thy sight
It need wake no more wonder in thy thought
Than why one heaven checks not another’s light.
Omnipotence to such forms hath assigned
The power of suffering torments—cold and heat—
But how, reveals not to created kind.
He is but mad who hopes this incomplete
Reason of ours may track the Infinite way
Which of three persons holds the substance one.
Rest, human race! contented when you say
Simply because: could ye the whole have known
No need had been for Mary to have borne;
And ye have seen in hopeless longing those
Who now to all eternity must mourn
Desire for which they vainly sought repose.
Of Aristotle and of Plato now
I speak, and many others”: he remained
Silent at this, and stood with bended brow
And troubled look: meantime the Hill we gained.
We found the cliff here sloping so steep down
That nimblest legs had there been useless quite.
The wildest way betwixt Turbìa’s town
And Lèrici, the roughest, were a flight
Compared with this, of open, easy stairs.
“Who knows,” my Master said—and stayed his pace—
“Where this Hill slopeth, so that one who wears
No wings may climb it?” Then his earnest face
Directed closely to the ground as if
Making in mind a study of the way.
Meantime I gazed up round about the cliff,
And on the left hand came to my survey
A band of spirits, moving on towards us,
That seemed not moving for they came so slow.
“Lift up thine eyes”—I to the Master thus—
“If of thyself thou art not certain, lo!
Yon souls our footsteps may direct perchance.”
Thereat he looked, then frankly made reply:
“Go we tow’rds them—so gently they advance—
And thou, my sweet son! keep thy hope up high.”
That people seemed as far, when we had gone
A thousand steps, I say, or thereabout,
As a good flinger might have cast a stone;
When all at once, like one who goes in doubt
And stops to look, their moderate march they checked
And close to that high bank’s hard masses drew.
“O ye peace-parted! O ye spirits elect!
Ev’n by that peace which waits for each of you
As I believe”—thus Virgil them bespake:
“Inform us where this mountain slopeth so
That its ascent we may essay to make;
For they mourn Time’s loss most, the most who know.”
Like lambs that issue from their fold—one—two—
Then three at once (the rest all standing shy,
With eye and nostril to the ground)—then do
Just what the foremost doth, unknowing why,
And crowd upon her back if she but stand,
Quiet and simple creatures, thus the head
I saw move towards us of that happy band,
Modest in face, and of a comely tread.
Soon as their leaders noticed that the light
On my right side lay broken at my feet,
So that my shadow reached the rocky height,
They stopped and drew a little in retreat.
And all the others following, though they knew
Not why they did so, did the very same.
“Without your question I confess to you
That here you see a living human frame:
Hence on the ground the sunlight thus is riven:
Marvel not at it, but believe ye all
Not without virtue by the Most High given
This man hath come to scale your Mountain’s wall.”
My Master thus, and thus that gracious band:
“Turn then and join us, and before us go”:
And while some beckoned us with bended hand
One called—“Whoe’er thou art there journeying so,
Turn! Think—hast ever looked on me before?”
I turned and gazed upon the one who spoke.
Handsome and blond, he looked high-born, but o’er
One brow appeared the severance of a stroke.
When I had humbly answered him that ne’er
Had I beheld him—“Look!” he said, and high
Up on his breast showed me a wound he bare;
Then added smilingly, “Manfred am I,
The Empress Constance’ grandson: in such name
Do I entreat, when back thou shalt have gone,
To my fair daughter hie, of whose womb came
Sicily’s boast and Aragon’s renown,
And tell her this—if aught but truth be said
That after two stabs—each of power to kill—
I gave my soul back weeping ere it fled
To Him who pardoneth of His own free will
My sins were horrible: but large embrace
Infinite Goodness hath whose arms will ope
For every child who turneth back to Grace;
And if Cosenza’s bishop, by the Pope
Clement set on to hound me to the last,
That page of Holy Writ had better read,
My bones had still been sheltered from the blast
Near Benevento, by the bridge’s head,
Under their load of stones: but now without
The realm they lie, by Verde’s river—bare—
For winds and rains to beat and blow about,
Dragged with quench’d candles and with curses there.
Yet not by their poor malediction can
Souls be so lost but that Eternal Love
May be brought back while hope hath life in man.
’Tis true that one who sets himself above
The Holy Church, and dies beneath its ban
(Even though he had repented at the last),
Outside this Mount must unadmitted rove
Thirty times longer than the term had been
Of his presumptuous contumacy past,
Unless good prayers a shorter penance win.
See now what power thou hast to make me glad:
Report of me to my good Constance bear,
How thou saw’st me, and what I’ve told thee add;
For much it profits us what they do there.”
ON MUSIC.
Harmony and melody—which have an equal share in the effects produced by sound—find their original type, it may be, in the double nature of the universe, and of human destiny considered socially and individually. Harmony, like the external world and its moving masses, presents us with various parts, linked together and arranged so as to subserve one and the same end. Regular and measured in its movement as the celestial orbs, no deviation is allowable even in its boldest flight. An almighty will seems to have bound it to magnificence and grandeur, restricting its freedom to the latitude of the laws whose expression it is. But melody is thoroughly moral, and consequently free. It is the heart’s utterance, and follows and renders its emotions faithfully. When brilliant, it recalls our joys; when sweet and lingering, it portrays our rare and delicious intervals of repose. It sighs for our disquietudes and sways beneath our sorrows, like a friend who shares them. Would it reproduce the sad and vague yearnings which by turns agitate and soothe the soul of man?—its songs are as dreamy as his chimeras. Melody is but one thought at a time, but—mobile and rapid—it renders all thoughts in succession and tells the tale of a complete destiny. Harmony, with its grand effects, seems made to appeal to assembled men; melody, to transport the memory in solitude. Words may of course be adapted to a piece of pure harmony; but they are only accessory. When melody is associated with human speech, they rival one another in charm and in power. Speech is, indeed, the heart’s expression; but melody remains its accent.—Madame Swetchine.
FLEURANGE.
BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.
PART SECOND
THE TRIAL.
XXVIII.
More than twenty-four hours had elapsed. Fleurange was already far away, and the incidents of the preceding days only seemed like a succession of troubled dreams. The conversation she heard on the terrace between the count and his mother, that which she herself had with the latter, her interview with George at San Miniato, the mysterious bouquet in the evening, and the sudden reappearance of Felix the next day—all these remembrances came back, one by one, but were all effaced by that of the farewell which succeeded them.
Yes, she had bidden him adieu for ever; whereas he smilingly said, “A rivederla!” and his mother, giving her hand graciously to her young protégée, continued to the last to play her part in this drama of two characters, which she and Fleurange alone understood.
The young girl also sustained hers without exhibiting any weakness; but in kissing the princess’ hand she gave to the words “Addio, principéssa!” an accent the latter fully comprehended the meaning of. She embraced her in return with involuntary tenderness, and even with an emotion that might have been considered surprising for so short an absence. George observed it, and felt more reassured than ever. Therefore, after Fleurange’s departure, what he felt was not so much sadness, as the need of some distraction powerful enough to relieve the insupportable ennui caused by her absence.
As to her, alone with Julian in the coupé of the vetturino, while Clara, her child, and a young Italian waiting-maid occupied the interior, she could not give herself up to the thoughts that were suffocating her. She must still continue the effort of concealment, and assume a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, which was more antipathic to her nature than anything else. She was to turn off to Santa Maria at the small village of Passignano, where they expected to arrive on the morning of the third day, and she did not intend announcing to the Steinbergs her intention of accompanying them to Germany till they stopped at the monastery on their way back from Perugia. By that time all her plans for the future would be more definitely arranged. There were some vague intentions floating in her mind as well as some irresolution, which she scarcely comprehended herself. She wished for the penetrating eye of her maternal friend to aid her in deciphering the confused condition of her mind and soul. Until then she was resolved to remain silent.
Her conversation with Julian dwelt principally on their unexpected meeting with their unhappy cousin.
“After serious reflection,” said Steinberg, “it seems to me impossible to do anything without running the risk of injuring the unfortunate man.”
“It appears he is now leading a respectable life,” said Fleurange.
“Yes; and for that very reason it is important to him that the past should not be made public. As Count George avails himself of his services, he must, I suppose, have had good recommendations.”
Fleurange made no reply. She did not venture to say she had often heard George reproached for his indifference to the position or reputation of many he employed in his collections, or the researches in which he was interested. “What have I to do with their private lives,” he would sometimes say, “in the kind of work I require of them? If they are intelligent and capable, that is sufficient. When I have an inscription to be copied, or a passage in a manuscript to be transcribed, I rather employ a capable rogue than an honest blockhead.”
Without knowing precisely why, this connection between Felix and George inspired Fleurange with involuntary terror, and, much as she wished it, she could not put the latter on his guard without betraying Felix’s real name and position. In short, the fatal remembrances connected with the cousin were now changed into a painful presentiment which added a darker shade to the sadness she sought to conceal.
After a long silence she resumed: “The Marquis Adelardi seemed to know the person who was with Felix the evening we met him?”
“Yes; and to have a poor opinion of him.”
“Did you question him afterwards on the subject?”
“I was desirous of doing so, and in the course of that evening at the princess’ I tried to introduce the subject. But he appeared to answer with repugnance. I was also cautious in my questions, so I was able to obtain very little information.”
Julian stopped, but after a moment’s reflection continued:
“The Marquis Adelardi, from what I learned at Bologna, was once connected with a conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy!”—exclaimed Fleurange with alarm. “The excellent and agreeable marquis? What are you saying, Julian?”
Julian smiled. “Come, Gabrielle, you need not be so frightened. I do not mean to imply he is a criminal, but I think that during one period of his life he was connected with some revolutionary agitation in Italy, and was brought in contact with more than one suspicious character, and Felix’s companion was probably one of them.”
The conversation was not prolonged, and Fleurange remained silent for a time. Julian’s last words added a new fear to all the painful impressions—some definite and others vague—which already weighed on her mind and heart. She pitied Felix, but she was more afraid of him. She now regarded his strange billet as a bold attempt to frighten her or excite her interest—an irresistible temptation to aim at effect, which he yielded to at the risk of being discovered. George’s connection with this bold and restless spirit filled her with greater anxiety than ever. It seemed at last as if so many things at once had never weighed upon her young heart, and that clouds were gathering on all sides around her.
At Passignano she left her travelling companions, and took a small vehicle for the monastery. All the dresses and ornaments the princess had added to her modest wardrobe were left in Barbara’s care during her supposed short absence, and the only luggage she brought with her from Florence was a small valise. This was at once deposited beside the driver, and, as soon as the young girl was seated, the calèche immediately started off.
The road gradually ascended, but this was only perceptible from the increasing beauty of the prospect which became more and more extensive. Afar off lay Lake Thrasimene, gleaming in the sun like a brilliant sheet of silver; nearer, a small stream, whose name, after twenty-two centuries, still recalls the memorable battle that ensanguined its waters, wound through the plain where it was fought.[199] It is stated in history that, during that famous day, neither the Romans nor Hannibal’s soldiers noticed the earthquake which rocked the ground beneath their feet. It might have trembled anew, and our poor Fleurange would perhaps have been equally insensible, so greatly absorbed was she in a struggle of another kind—between her will to do right and the violent inclinations of her heart.
She was now completely alone for the first time for a long period, and seemed to have regained her liberty of thought. Freed from the necessity of struggling against the softening emotions that would have enfeebled her courage, she could now yield without restraint to the pleasure of living over the past six months of her life. She leaned her weary head back, closed her eyes, and allowed her memory to recall all those dear but vain remembrances. She saw him once more whom she never expected to behold again; she listened anew to the voice she would hear no more; she allowed herself to tell him all she had so often repressed. It was a prolonged and dangerous dream, followed by a sorrowful awakening. And it profoundly troubled the peace of her soul, which, with her firmness, she had preserved only by a constant effort during the period of trial her youth had just passed through. “And it is ended!—ended!” she exclaimed, with a cry almost of despair, hiding her face in her hands. “I shall never behold him again!”
Suddenly she heard the mellow sound of a distant bell which revived a whole world of past impressions. She hastily raised her head and looked around. She was passing through a grove of acacias that shaded the winding road. Beyond were some large pines and a few rustic dwellings. Passing by one of them, she heard a voice exclaim, “Evviva la Signorina!”—and further on: “La Madonna vi accompagna!” Shortly after she passed under a half-ruined arcade which looked like a vestige of antiquity. The bell was still ringing, but its sound was more distinct, for they were approaching the chapel.
“What, so soon!” she cried, clasping her hands. “Have we arrived?”
At the end of the avenue the carriage turned to the left, passed by the chapel, and at length stopped before a small gate-way of sculptured stone, surmounted by a statue of our Saviour, at whose feet the following words in relief were distinctly legible: Venite ad me omnes qui laboratis et onerati estis, et ego reficiam vos.
Fleurange sprang from the carriage and eagerly rang. The gate opened: a soft expression of surprise and welcome greeted her. She replied with a smile, but did not stop, for at the farther end of the cloister she perceived her whom she sought.
It was noon: the children were just being dismissed from school, and Madre Maddalena stood looking at them as they went out, now and then saying some kind word. Fleurange, suddenly appearing in their midst, threw the little procession into disorder. Mother Maddalena, astonished, looked reprovingly towards the person who had unexpectedly disturbed the order of the time and place. She looked again—again hesitated—then at length her arms opened with an exclamation of joy:
“Fior angela mia!—Dear lamb returned to the fold!”
And the returned wanderer, falling into the arms of her mother, forgot in a moment all the fatigue, the dangers, the sufferings she had endured on the way, and all the thorns that had left their traces on her wounded feet.
XXIX.
The chapel was dim, cool, and filled with the odor of the fresh flowers on the altar and the incense used at the morning service. The nun and the young girl knelt for a few moments to offer up thanks to God as the preliminary obligation of their reunion, and invoke the Friend above all others who is not only the great I am, but Love itself. Fleurange soon rose up at a sign from the mother, and followed her into a well-known apartment on the ground floor called the garden parlor.
Like all convent parlors, it had no other furniture but a square table in the middle of the room, some straw-bottomed chairs ranged around, a book-case with a large crucifix on the top, and a statue of the holy Madonna on the other side, at the foot of which stood a vase full of flowers. What distinguished this parlor from all others of the kind was the view through the broad arched window on one side, and on the other through the open garden door. The beautiful landscape we have already described, bounded on the distant horizon by the sublime but graceful outline of the mountains, had in the foreground an abundance of flowers more carefully cultivated than is usually the case in convent gardens. At the right, the eye caught a glimpse of the arches of the cloister, and on the left the dense shade of a small grove of orange-trees now in bloom, beyond which was an orchard with vines interlacing the fruit-trees, and a carefully cultivated vegetable garden—the principal resource of the convent larder. Some doves were flying between the cloister and the garden, and during the hours of conventual silence there was no other sound within the peaceful enclosure but the noise of their cooing. But at recreation time the cloister, as well as the garden, resounded with the voices and laughter of the children, and Mother Maddalena’s parlor was not always as quiet as when she ushered Fleurange into it.
The door was scarcely closed when the nun took the young girl’s face between her hands, and attentively examined it, as if she would read the depths of her soul.
Mother Maddalena was about fifty years of age at this time. She had been uncommonly beautiful in her youth, and there was still a regularity and nobleness in her time-worn features which were set off by the white bandeau and guimpe that encircled her face like a frame to a picture. A long black veil fell in deep folds nearly to the ground. Her black eyes were uncommonly large and mild, and had an extraordinary expression sometimes seen in eyes devoid of any other beauty, and is exclusively peculiar to those which reflect that mysterious and ineffable joy which Bossuet calls “incompatible,” and says, to be tasted, “il faut qu’elle soit goûté seule.” Such was the look, full of divine joy and superhuman peace, now fastened on Fleurange, whose limpid eyes did not avoid the scrutiny, but remained fastened on those of the Madre. Only her pale face flushed and then grew paler than before.
“Poor child! poor child!” said Mother Maddalena at length after a long and silent examination. “Alas! how much she has suffered.—But no evil has tarnished her heart.” With her right hand she made the sign of the cross on Fleurange’s pure brow, and then pressed her lips to the same spot, adding, with a smile of satisfaction: “The Angel Gabriel, to whom I confided her at parting, has restored her to me, like a faithful guardian whose inspirations have been obeyed.”
Whether Fleurange now lost her customary self-control, or did not try to conceal her feelings in Mother Maddalena’s presence, while the latter stood looking at her silently, she burst into tears.
“Yes, I understand,” said the mother—“a great effort was required to overcome the natural tendencies of the heart, to act and to speak without the relief of weeping!—But my poor child succeeded, and is weary from the exertion—” She continued in a softer tone: “But it is the weary and heavy laden that have the promise of finding rest, and it is in this house especially that this rest awaits those who ask it of him who has promised it, and who alone can give it!—Come,” continued she in a firmer tone, after allowing Fleurange to weep some time in silence—“come, my dear Gabrielle, lift up your heart—the heart so susceptible of pain! Try to rise a little above your sufferings—sufferings which enfold the germ of so great a joy!” murmured she to herself, “whereas the joys of the world contain the germ of so much suffering!—Come, my child, come with me.”
The last words were uttered in a tone of mild authority. Fleurange unhesitatingly rose, and followed her across the garden, now exposed to the ardor of the sun’s says, into the small grove where the foliage was so dense that it was cool at mid-day. A flight of steps led to a little oratory in this peaceful solitude, where the pupils assembled towards sunset for prayers; but now it was entirely empty.
Mother Maddalena seated herself on a bench in front of the oratory, and Fleurange took a place near her.
“Now tell me, not only what I already know, but what I am still ignorant of.”
It was hardly necessary to articulate these words, for Fleurange had not come with the intention of concealing a single thought. She therefore began her account, and, at the mother’s request, went back to the very day she left the monastery with her father. She gave an account of her travels in Italy, with all her first impressions: her residence at Paris, and all her sufferings there; her life in Germany, with all its pleasures: then the ruin of her family and their separation; and, finally, of Florence—Florence with all its emotions, its joys, its dangers, its acute pains, and its fearful temptations.
For the first time in her life she uttered Count George’s name without hesitating, and related without any reticence or circumlocution all his name revived—everything! from the wild dreams that preceded their first interview to the reverie of the present day from which the convent bell roused her. She related everything simply, clearly, firmly, and in a tone which, as she proceeded, revealed more and more clearly to the ear attentively listening that her rectitude of soul was not changed or its vigor enfeebled.
Clearness of perception and energy of action were the two germs, as we have already said, that induced Madre Maddalena to believe, if sown in the heart and watered by the dews of divine grace, without which all our perceptions become dim and all strength fails, would enable this child, in spite of her youth, her beauty, and all the tendencies of a tender heart and an ardent temperament, to walk with a firm and sure step in the path of life.
She now saw her hopes realized, and thanked God for it. But she looked, nevertheless, with inexpressible compassion at Fleurange’s youthful face. Life was still so long before her, and from the very beginning the combat had been so arduous! It is true, her courage had thereby been tempered, but the day of rest was yet so far off! so many storms might yet rise, so many perils gather around her! From the safe port that sheltered her own life, she looked off over the sea of the world, on which floated this frail bark, praying in her heart to Him who commandeth the ocean and ruleth the storm to snatch her from the threatening waves and land her safely on the shore.
“I was not deceived,” said she, when the account was ended. “No, my child, you have not mistaken the path of duty, but have courageously followed its leadings. I could not be otherwise than satisfied with you. Fleurange, I give you my blessing, and God will bless you also.”
Saying these simple words, she softly laid her hand on the young girl’s head. This act, and the words accompanying it, increased the sensation of inexpressible comfort and solace, which was the natural effect of the complete unburdening of her mind. A divine peace, as it were, descended upon her, and enveloped her as a garment.
“Oh! madre mia!” she exclaimed, “let me abide here with you—never leave you again, nor this peaceful asylum!”
Mother Maddalena smiled, and was about to reply when the bell gave four strokes.
“We will talk about this another time,” said she. “The bell calls me away now, and I must leave you. We shall see each other again at the evening hour of recreation. I suppose you have not forgotten the way to your room. And you still remember the rule, I hope, and how the day here is divided. The bell rings at the same hours as before. Nothing is changed here.”
XXX.
It would not be easy for those who have never had this sweet experience, to realize the effect of being suddenly transported from the affairs and pleasures of the world, with all its cares and sorrows, to such an atmosphere as now surrounded Fleurange.
But if every one does not feel the need of pausing thus on the way through life, we cannot understand the astonishment and ironical disdain with which some, unwilling to make the trial, speak of these temporary retreats from the world, so customary in former times, and somewhat so in ours. Do they find life, then, always so pleasant and easy to bear? Does joy succeed so surely to joy in the happy succession of their days? and have these days so assured a duration that it would be useless to regulate their course or reflect on their end? Or have these persons such perfect control over their thoughts that no distraction ever disturbs their equilibrium, and the need of pausing for reflection and rest is never felt? We do not know. But what seems indubitable to us is that, for a great number, this rest is as refreshing as pure water and a shady spot of repose to the weary and thirsty traveller. And there is no doubt that our poor heroine belonged to this number. And this is why, in leaving Madre Maddalena, she returned to the chapel instead of going up to her room, and there, in the profound silence of the sanctuary, passed a whole hour in tasting the sweetness of an unburdened heart, and the sense of divine security which does not depend solely on the temporary shelter of the body, but on that deeper feeling of a permanent shelter of the soul which nothing earthly can affect.
If we consider all the sufferings this young girl had so recently passed through—if we remember that the enthralling influences of love had surrounded without tarnishing her, but still not without lending a disenchantment to every other but the object of her love, we shall not find it very surprising that in this spot, at this hour, she should have thought of cutting short her worldly life, and, without going any further in search of happiness, henceforth impossible, or a destiny that must ever remain imperfect, of devoting herself to the highest of all aims—that whose object is God alone, and the welfare of those whom he loved most while on earth—children and the poor.
Even at Florence, during the period of so much anguish, the cloister of Santa Maria appeared like a refuge, and more than once the idea of never leaving it had occurred to her then, as well as while listening to Madre Maddalena. But now the idea became more decided, and took possession of her imagination with an intensity stronger than ever before. She welcomed it, and gave herself up to it with a kind of pious intoxication. She tasted beforehand the bitter pleasure of sacrifice; she accepted with interior transport the perspective of absolute renunciation of all the joys of life; and when at length she brought her long meditation to an end, and prepared to leave the chapel, it seemed to her as if she had just received a supernatural inspiration.
She would have sought an interview with Mother Maddalena at once, but she knew it was a time when she was occupied in the school-room, after which she devoted a whole hour, towards the close of the day, to the poor who from far and near came to consult her about their affairs or relate their sorrows. The morning was given to the distribution of food, medicine, and assistance of all kinds of material wants, and the evening was consecrated to the exercise of charity under another form, the recipients of which were often more numerous than the others.
Fleurange was not unaware of this, and she decided to remain quietly in her room without attempting to see the superior again till after supper. But when, at the close of school, she saw two nuns taking the children to the oratory in the grove of orange-trees, she went down to join in the prayers that ended their day. The vine blossoms in the orchard united their sweet and delicate odor to that of the orange-trees, and, when this little perfumed grove resounded with the hymns of the children, it seemed as if all nature united with them in offering heaven the incense of praise. Prayers over, Fleurange joined the nuns and their pupils, and for awhile it seemed as if the peaceful days of her childhood had returned. Then came the silence of the refectory. But when supper at length was ended, she went in pursuit of Madre Maddalena. She knew she should not find her in her parlor, but on the terrace over the cloister which commanded a view of the country around. It was there she loved to remain in fine weather till the very close of day.
What Fleurange was so eager to say we know already. To think aloud was natural to her, and required no effort with Madre Maddalena especially. Besides, she only wished to resume the conversation interrupted in the morning, and make known all she had thought, and felt, and resolved upon during the time she passed in the chapel.
Mother Maddalena stood with her arms folded, and listened this time without interrupting her. Standing thus motionless in this place, at this evening hour, the noble outlines of her countenance and the long folds of her robe clearly defined against the blue mountains in the distance, and the violet heavens above, she might easily have been taken for one of the visions of that country which have been depicted for us and all generations. The illusion would not have been dispelled by the aspect of her who, seated on the low wall of the terrace, was talking with her eyes raised, and with an expression and attitude perfectly adapted to one of those young saints often represented by the inspired artist before the divine and majestic form of the Mother of God.
“Well, my dear mother, what do you say?” asked Fleurange, after waiting a long time, and seeing the Madre looking at her and gently shaking her head without any other reply.
“Before answering you,” replied she at last, “let me ask this question: Do you think it allowable to consecrate one’s self to God in the religious life without a vocation?”
“Assuredly not.”
“And do you know what a vocation is?” said she very slowly.
Fleurange hesitated. “I thought I knew, but you ask in such a way as to make me feel now I do not.”
“I am going to tell you: a vocation,” said the Madre, as her eyes lit up with an expression Fleurange had never seen before—“a vocation to the religious life is to love God more than we love any creature in the world, however dear; it is to be unable to give anything or any person on earth a love comparable to that; to feel the tendency of all our faculties incline us towards him alone; finally,” pursued she, while her eyes seemed looking beyond the visible heavens on which they were fastened, “it is the full persuasion, even in this life, that he is all—our all—in the past, the present, and the future; in this world and in another, for ever, and to the exclusion of everything besides!—”
Fleurange, accustomed to Madre Maddalena’s habitual simplicity of language, looked at her with surprise, and was speechless for a moment, struck by her tone and her unusual expression, no less than the words she had just uttered. A deep blush suffused the young girl’s cheeks and mounted to her forehead.
“My dear mother,” said she at length, casting down her eyes, “doubtless it is not given to all to feel such love for God; especially to love him thus to the utter exclusion of all else here below; but,” she continued with emotion, “is not the voluntary sacrifice of all the affections and joys of the world a holocaust likewise worthy of being offered him?”
Mother Maddalena’s eyes resumed their usual expression of mildness: “Yes, assuredly, my poor child. I did not wish to insinuate a doubt as to that. How could I, in this house, open to all who suffer, and where among our sisters—and not the least holy—are several who have brought hearts crushed by the sorrows of life? But still, that is not the irresistible call of God which we consider a genuine vocation. And what I wish you to understand, my dear Gabrielle, is this: if I know you—and who knows you as well?—you are one of those whom God would have called thus, had it been his will your life should be consecrated to him in the cloister. It is not for one like you to vow yourself to him through discouragement or disgust of the world, or because its happiness has lost its enchantment. The struggle has been severe, I know, but on that account would you have it ended? No. Gabrielle, on the contrary, you must resume your strength to continue the contest.”
Tears came into Fleurange’s eyes, and she bent down her head with an expression of sadness.
“Oh! my poor child,” resumed the mother, “it would be much easier for me to tell you to remain and never leave us again! It would be sweeter for me to preserve you thus from all the sufferings that yet await you. But believe me, the day will come when you will rejoice you were not spared these sufferings; and you will acknowledge that she who is now speaking to you knew you better than you knew yourself.”
The stars were now beginning to appear in the dim azure of the heavens, and the last gleams of daylight were fading away. It was the hour of the Ave Maria. The bell soon announced it, and they said the familiar prayer together before going down to the cloister.
XXXI.
After this conversation, Fleurange resolved not to reconsider the subject, but to renounce for ever the thought she had clung to for a moment with so much ardor. This submission, the effect of her simplicity and decision of character, did not prevent her from feeling it would require a great effort to begin a new life once more. And life would seem new to her, even in the Old Mansion, for she was no longer the same. An abyss separated her from the peaceful, happy days she passed there. But the Old Mansion was now like a dream that had vanished, and it was to an unknown place she was to direct her steps. The friends who would welcome her were certainly dear, and sometimes the thought of seeing them again made her heart beat with joy; but this feeling was frequently overpowered by stronger and more recent remembrances, and, in spite of all her efforts, regret—a continual, poignant regret—made her indifferent to everything except this great sacrifice, which would have been a sublime consolation, but which henceforth she was forbidden to think of.
The days did not pass, however, one by one, without infusing into her soul the benefit of retirement. It seemed to her as if the past and the future were suspended.
Recollections and anticipations ceased to preoccupy her, and, as if in a bark equally remote from these two shores—too far off to hear a sound from either side—she allowed herself to be rocked on the waves as on the ocean in serene weather, giving herself up to the calmness and silence of her present life, with no other feeling but the infinite peace that surrounded her, and seeing nothing above her but the ever smiling heavens! Such days cannot last, but they do not pass away without leaving some trace, were it only a remembrance full, not of regret, but of encouragement. The momentary sense of exquisite sweetness soon evaporates; but its strengthening influences remain, and develop in the soul that has tasted it once—even for an instant in life!
It was necessary, however, to begin to think of her departure, and of some pretext to offer the princess which would not appear like an arrangement. For this she awaited the return of the Steinbergs. Though it would be painful to reveal to them the real motive of her decision, she preferred to do it rather than give them also an imaginary reason.
But a sad, unforeseen event occurred which spared her any concealment or such an act of frankness. She had been at the convent about ten days when she was informed that the travellers had arrived an hour before at a neighboring inn, and her cousin was waiting in the garden parlor to see her. The sight of Clara’s charming face always afforded her pleasure, and it was now increased by the satisfaction of presenting to Madre Maddalena one of the daughters of Ludwig Dornthal, whose opportune appearance in her life was regarded by the mother as a striking proof of the intervention of the glorious archangel whom she had given her as a protector, and Clara Steinberg’s arrival at the convent had been anticipated as a festa.
But this festival was destined to be saddened. Fleurange was to learn sad news from the letters awaiting her cousin at Santa Maria. The young girl’s friend—so faithful and ready to aid her—the excellent Dr. Leblanc, was no more! He had sunk under the effects of an accident met with while taking a drive with Professor Dornthal in the environs of Heidelberg.
When Madre Maddalena appeared, she found the two cousins in tears, and her sweet smile of welcome was changed into anxious inquiries. Some moments were necessary for the explanations she asked for, and it was only after her soothing words and the peace that emanated from her presence had somewhat calmed Fleurange’s agitation that she had courage enough to open a letter from Clement containing the details of the cruel accident that had cost her old friend his life—the friend to whom her thoughts had so often turned during her recent perplexities, and who was taken from her in the very hour of her life when his aid and advice seemed most essential.
Clement wrote: “In returning from a drive to Stift-Neuburg, the carriage was upset and broken, and they were thrown violently to the ground. At first my father seemed the more injured of the two. He was entirely unconscious, and did not recover his senses for some hours. We are now, however, relieved from nearly all anxiety concerning him. His friend, whose senses never left him for a moment, declared from the first he had received some grave, internal injury from which he could not recover. Nevertheless, he prescribed all the necessary remedies himself, but at the same time made all his arrangements with admirable firmness: wrote to his sister, sent for a priest, and this at a time when we did not think him in danger. But on the third day his anticipations were verified—his case grew more serious. His poor sister had just arrived the day before yesterday, when he died in her arms.—
“Dear cousin,” Clement continued, “I have one request to make before I close, and this not in my own name, but on the part of my mother: Return, Gabrielle; if possible, return at once; at all events come soon. The sacrifice you imposed on yourself is no longer necessary, and your presence here is indispensable. My poor father is continually asking for you, and cannot be made to understand your absence. No wish to convince you, my dear cousin, would make me think deception excusable. You may believe me, then, when I repeat that the aid you so generously afforded us is now superfluous. You can without any scruple return home—your home, unless, which God forbid! your own choice leads you to prefer another. Poor Mademoiselle Josephine has but one wish—to see you again. She says it is the only consolation she looks forward to. Hilda is now with us; it is unnecessary to say she desires your return, and equally so to tell you your brothers beg and expect it.—”
Fleurange no longer needed a pretext. She would neither be obliged to reveal nor conceal anything—everything was arranged for her by the overruling force of circumstances, and her letter to the Princess Catherine became all at once easy to write. It was despatched that very day, and as soon as the sun began to gild the mountain-tops the next day but one, Madre Maddalena for the second time saw the child she so truly loved cross the threshold of her convent home to encounter once more the dangers of the world.
Would she again return?—return like the dove, beaten by the tempest, who has found no rest for the sole of her foot, to take refuge once more in this asylum of peace? Or was she gone to return no more? and would she now find the world smiling, and its freshness renewed, and her pathway smoothed before her and strewn with flowers? She did not seek to know. Mother Maddalena, as we are aware, did not consider such anticipations very important. She only hoped her feet might be guided by light from on high, and her courage in pursuing life’s journey unfaltering. She asked no more.
Besides, the ardor of the sun has its dangers as well as the storm, and the clearness of the soul’s heaven may be obscured in pleasant as well as in tempestuous weather. Let us, therefore, leave to God the appointment of every incident of our lives, and be solely solicitous of fulfilling our course well, without being anxious as to the way.
“And then—the way is short, however long it may seem, and it leads to that true life where we shall for ever live together, dear Gabrielle—where all your poor heart has vainly wished, sought, and hoped for here below will be given in full measure, pressed down, and running over; where all it has suffered here will bear no comparison with the radiant joys of eternal life! God is faithful. Let us wait. And what is it to wait—to wait thus, with sure faith in his promises for eternal reunion with God?”
Such were the last words of Mother Maddalena. She gave her blessing to Fleurange, who knelt to receive it, closed the convent gate behind her, and ascended to the terrace to follow her as long as she could with her eyes. Then she went down to the chapel, and there on her knees tenderly wept and prayed for her. For there is no affection equal to that of such large hearts expanded and filled with the love of God. And we shall be convinced of this if we recall the excessive devotedness of which they are capable—and they alone—through love for the most unknown of their brethren. Then we shall see what such hearts are to the objects of their affection, that they are kindled with a flame which purifies and tempers all that is noble and worthy of being developed, but prompt to extinguish and consume all that is frail, frivolous, impure, and of no permanent value.
XXXIII.
The Princess Catherine, in an elegant morning négligé, was alone with the Marquis Adelardi in her small salon when a letter was brought her on a silver salver. She glanced at the address.
“Ah! from Gabrielle,” she exclaimed. “The very letter I was expecting to-day.”
She opened it and hastily ran over its contents. “Very well done, very,” she said. “Nothing could be more natural. She hit upon the very best thing to say. It would be impossible for me to refuse without cruelty, as George himself would acknowledge. Here, Adelardi,” continued she, throwing him the letter, “read it. It must be owned that this Gabrielle is reliable and true to her word. Moreover, she has a good deal of wit.”
Adelardi attentively read the letter.
“What you have just remarked, princess, is very true, but this time circumstances have favored you. This letter was not written for the occasion; it is sincere from beginning to end. This young girl can keep a secret, but is incapable of prevarication. This is not the kind of a letter she would have written, if the contents were not absolutely true.”
“Do you think so?” said the princess. “It is of no consequence, however, as to that, though it would simplify everything still more. But in that case—Ah! ciel! let me look at the letter again.”
She now read it entirely through, instead of merely glancing at the contents.
“But in that case I have lost my physician—and the only one who ever understood my case. This, par exemple! is a real misfortune. If he had had time, at least, to answer my last letter, and tell me what springs I should go to this year! Whom shall I consult now? May is nearly gone, and next month I ought to be there. Really, I am unlucky!”
“What do you expect, princess?” said the marquis in a tone imperceptibly ironical. “One cannot always have good luck. On the other hand, you have just had your very wish!”
“I acknowledge it, and, to come back to Gabrielle, I must confess I have no reason to be otherwise than satisfied with her. Yes, we have had a lucky escape, Adelardi. But I can hardly forgive her for the fears she caused me, and the anxiety I still have.—What of George since yesterday? What humor will he be in for the news I have for him?—But what are you brooding over, Adelardi? You make me uneasy with your look of anxiety. I hope you do not think he is in danger of any new folly?”
“What kind of folly?”
“You know very well—the only one to be dreaded at present. Are we to have another of the scenes we have already witnessed?—Will he elude us, and follow her?—Or—how shall I express it?—will he, by way of diversion, do worse, and go from Scylla into Charybdis? One never knows what to expect from him.”
“Well, princess, I acknowledge I wish I were sure this young girl, in sacrificing herself—for you do not imagine, I suppose, that she is indifferent to George’s attractions—”
“It does not seem very probable,” said the princess; “but I hope you do not imagine I take into consideration the effect George would naturally produce when he takes pains to captivate a young girl of twenty, and especially one in Gabrielle’s position.”
Adelardi made no reply, but his face, already grave, grew still darker.
“Once more, Adelardi, what is the matter? One would really think you in love with her yourself.”
“By no means, though I fancy she might, in her turn, easily captivate anybody. Nevertheless, I have used all my efforts to withdraw George from the charm I fully saw the danger of before you. But to return to what I was saying: I wish I felt sure of never regretting the time when this noble girl’s influence seemed so formidable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, princess, I assure you I wish she were here to-day, that the charm of her presence might retain him every evening in this salon, from which, without speaking to her, or scarcely looking at her, he could not tear himself away when she was present. You see how different it is already, now she is gone; and why? Because these days, that seem so long, and the evenings so dreary and vacant, have revived a passion as dangerous to him as play or love. Pardon me, princess, I know his affection for you and his friendship for me; but we are both aware he cannot endure ennui, and should not be astonished that Gabrielle’s absence has left a void in his existence whose effect produces the greatest, the most intolerable ennui in the world. I feel it myself, and, were it not for the absorbing interests that preoccupy you, you yourself would endure with ill grace the sudden disappearance of this ravishing creature, the very sight of whom—”
“Come, come, Adelardi, be calm, or I shall again say—”
“No, princess, I am not in love with her, you may rest assured; but as for George, I doubt this moment if it were not better for him to be, and remain so, whatever might be the result, rather than—”
“Well, do finish; you terrify me to death.”
“Rather than be again seized with this mania for politics—a passion fatal to him, you know, and which may lead to the greatest imprudence.”
The princess became thoughtful.
“Yes, I am indeed aware of it. I know it but too well; but since his return I have found him so much calmer on this subject that it has not worried me.”
“It was because he was taken up with something else; but, owing to an encounter which unfortunately coincided with Gabrielle’s departure, and diverted his attention at the very moment he had absolute need of distraction, he is now so absorbed and led away that I truly regret, instead of her indefinite absence, we cannot announce the immediate return of her who, better than any one else—perhaps the only one in the world—could really save him from this new danger.”
“Thank you, my dear friend. That, par exemple, is a regret I can hardly sympathize in.”
“I venture to say, moreover,” said Adelardi, “that, sure of the future as he believes himself to be, thanks to your admirable diplomacy, we shall find him much more resigned to this news than might have been supposed.”
“I really hope so,” replied the princess, smiling, “especially as another fancy has taken possession of his mind, as to which, I must confess, I do not feel very anxious at present. ‘Un’ alla volta per Carità!’—We had to rally to the weakest point first; the enemy was at hand, and that enemy—love! Every means had to be used to rout him. Now the subject of politics is threatening to engross him. We will take that in hand later. The only thing that seems to me of real importance at present is to efface as fully as possible the remembrance of this beautiful Fleurange, for, among other discoveries, I find that to be Gabrielle’s real name. To this end I even welcome politics as an ally to be accepted for a time for certain reasons, but to be turned upon as an enemy the moment its services are no longer required.”
At this moment a servant appeared to ask the princess’ wishes respecting a picture just brought. She left the room a moment, and returned laughing.
“Guess what picture it was?” said she.
“Probably some new acquisition; some wonderful discovery you have made in your rounds, like that picture by Cigoli you got thrown into the bargain the other day when you bought the frame it was in.”
“By no means; this is a modern picture representing Cordelia at the feet of her father, and the original—”
“Come, princess, are you in earnest? Has George really given you that picture?”
“Given?” said the princess, her eyes twinkling as she played with her long necklace of pearls. “No; at least that was not his intention. But could he refuse to lend a picture that affords me so much pleasure during the absence of—Cordelia? It was the whim of an invalid suddenly deprived of her nurse! which, with some persistence on my part, could not be refused! and after giving, moreover, such a proof of indulgence to him and of condescension towards her!—”
“Ah! princess, what a consummate diplomatist you are!”
“To be serious,” said she, “do you know I had never noticed this resemblance at all, having seen the picture only once, then I did not examine it particularly, and I had never seen Gabrielle? You know George’s cabinet is a sanctuary I rarely invade, and, besides, the picture has had a curtain over it the past year.”
“And what inspired you with the idea of looking at it now?”
“He himself by the delightful tale he related to me the other evening.”
“And where have you hung it now?”
“In my dressing-room, where he never steps his foot,” replied the princess with a peal of laughter.
Marquis Adelardi, as we are aware, had deplored George’s infatuation as much as the princess herself, but he now felt dissatisfied with her and himself, and he soon left her to go in search of his friend. He felt anxious about him, for he knew he was tempted by a dangerous curiosity and was unwilling to lose sight of him. They had made arrangements to meet and dine together at a kind of casino then popular, and he hoped to retain him the remainder of the evening. But arriving at the place of rendezvous he did not find him as he expected. George was gone, but had left a note which drew from Adelardi an energetic exclamation of disappointment. The note ran thus: “Once is not a habit. I have accepted Lasko’s invitation for this evening. Dini will accompany me. But be easy, I am not going under my own name, and shall not be known by any one.”
“Lasko!” muttered the marquis, stamping his foot. “That is his name now! Confound him! why is he not still in the dungeons of Spielberg—the only place fit for him!”
TO BE CONTINUED.
THE PAPACY.
That such a power should live and breathe, doth seem
A thought from which men fain would be relieved,
A grandeur not to be endured, a dream
Darkening the soul, though it be unbelieved.
August conception! far above king, law,
Or popular right; how calmly dost thou draw
Under thine awful shadow mortal pain,
And joy not mortal! Witness of a need
Deep laid in man, and therefore pierced in vain,
As though thou wert no form that thou shouldst bleed!
While such a power there lives in old man’s shape,
Such and so dread, should not his mighty will
And supernatural presence, Godlike, fill
The air we breathe, and leave us no escape?
—Faber
THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES:
A RETROSPECT—CONCLUDED.
The inveterate hostility of the Florida Indians to the whites was further illustrated a few years later, when a vessel bound from Vera Cruz to Spain struck upon their shores, and the survivors, three hundred in number, including five Dominican religious, endeavored to escape through that territory to Mexico. They were so unrelentingly pursued by the natives, and suffered so many hardships on the route besides, that only one reached Tampico alive to tell the story of their fate. Father John Ferrer, however, one of the Dominicans, and a most holy man, who had predicted this fate of himself before he had even set sail from Vera Cruz, was captured by the Indians west of the Rio del Norte. If the remainder of his prediction held equally good, he must have survived among them in good health for several years; but nothing was ever heard of him afterwards. The bearer of these tidings, and the sole representative of the thousand souls who had set forth from Vera Cruz a few months before, was the Dominican lay-brother, Mark de Mena, whose escape, though he had been terribly wounded, and left to die on the road, was truly marvellous.
Such persistent barbarity needed a check, and Don Tristan de Luna was sent in 1559 to subdue the country. The expedition under his command numbered fifteen hundred men in thirteen vessels: missionaries, as usual, accompanied him. Again they were Dominicans, six in number. Again, also, storms and shipwrecks on those difficult shores played their part, and many lives were lost, among them one of the Dominicans. The aggressive character of the expedition was doubtless seriously affected by this early mishap, for but one portion of the survivors settled down at Pensacola Bay, calling their colony the mission of Santa Cruz, while the remainder, attended by two of the fathers, accompanied Don Tristan into “Coosa,” the territory of the Creeks. Don Tristan was kindly received by these Indians, formed an alliance with them, marched with them against their enemies, the Natchez tribe, and remained with them about two years. In this interval, however, the zeal of the two missionaries was rewarded only by the baptism of a few dying infants and adults. Don Tristan returned to Pensacola Bay, where the new governor arrived from Mexico shortly after, with eight more Dominicans. When the governor beheld how little had been accomplished, and heard the discouraging accounts of the missionaries besides, he resolved to abandon Florida, and to take the whole party back with him to Mexico. Don Tristan, however, persisted in remaining, and Father Dominic de Salazar, one of those who had been with him among the Creeks, together with Matthew, a lay-brother, and a few men besides, shared his solitude. But this courageous persistence was not destined to be crowned with any permanent result, for the Viceroy of Mexico despatched a vessel to the little colony with peremptory orders for all its members to return. Thus Florida was again left without the succors of a Christian mission. Father Dominic ended his life of zeal and labor as Bishop of Manila, in the Philippines.
At last, Pedro Melendez de Aviles, the first naval commander of his day, received from Philip II., together with the title of Adelantado of Florida, the command of a fleet of 34 vessels, conveying 2,646 men. Melendez had also a personal interest in this expedition, inasmuch as he hoped to recover a son, who, having been shipwrecked on the Florida coast, might still be alive and in the hands of the Indians, or have been captured by French cruisers, France and Spain being then at enmity with one another. He carried missionaries with him, chiefly Franciscans and Jesuits. The usual storms and shipwrecks intervened, and one vessel was captured by French cruisers, so that only a small force came to anchor off the mouth of the St. John’s River. Here a French fleet was found already riding, and a fort had been erected on shore. Melendez pursued the French vessel to sea, was in turn pursued by them, entered St. Augustine’s River while the French were wrecked outside, attacked their fort, and put all to the sword—a proceeding which the usages of war at that time might have palliated, but could never justify.
St. Augustine, the oldest of our American cities, was now (1565) founded by Melendez, and detachments were sent out to throw up forts along the coast. At his solicitation, St. Francis Borgia, then General of the Society of Jesus, sent three other Jesuits, one of whom, F. Peter Martinez, the superior, was killed by the natives, into whose hands he fell in consequence of having been shipwrecked. Others of the Society were afterwards sent, and the mission was erected into a vice-province, with F. John Baptist Segura as superior. It is impossible, in reading Mr. Shea’s History of the Missions, to follow the exact order of events. Suffice it to say—not to linger upon details at this point—that many Indian youths were taken to Havana and instructed by Father John Roger and Brother Villareal, the two companions of Father Martinez; that the vice-provincial and the other Jesuits sent with him were stationed at various points within the thus extensive limits comprehended as Florida; that missions were established among the Creeks and among another tribe superior to them (and supposed to have been the Cherokees), all of which were most meagre in result; that the Pope St. Pius V. addressed a letter (1569) to the governor of Florida, urging the repression of scandals among the whites, so that no obstruction should be offered to the work of conversion among the Indians; and that, finally, the working force of the Society was most seriously reduced, first, by the loss of Father Martinez, already mentioned, next by that of Brother Baez, who died from the effects of the climate, at his station on Amelia Island, and subsequently by the massacre in Virginia (or possibly Maryland) of Fathers Segura and Quiros, with four lay-brothers, at the instigation of a pretended Indian convert who had inveigled them thither. Father Segura’s party on this occasion included also several Indian youths who had been educated in Havana, and of these only one escaped with his life. From him the details of the martyrdom of his companions were gathered. Thus as early as 1570 was the region bordering on the Chesapeake, which was then called St. Mary’s Bay, sanctified by the blood of its martyrs.
The loss of so many valuable members in a field so sterile of fruit forced the Jesuits, in a manner, to abandon it, “to abandon it as they had abandoned no other, without being driven from it,” remarks Shea, and in the following year the survivors were recalled to the more inviting field of Mexico. In 1572, Melendez, who had visited Spain meanwhile, set out thence to make pursuit for the murderers of Father Segura and his companions. He captured eight of them, and these, under the instructions of Father Roger, who accompanied Melendez, embraced Christianity before their execution and died in the best dispositions. The apostate “chief of Axican,” who had promoted the massacre, had escaped to the woods and could not be taken. Melendez, on his return to Spain, was appointed to command the great Armada, which Philip was then preparing for the invasion of England, but he died before its completion. After his death, the northern limits of Spanish colonization in Florida were gradually pushed south to the line of St. Mary’s River.
The missions of Florida were now left entirely to the Franciscans, whose headquarters were at the convent of St. Helena, at St. Augustine, the venerable walls of which are still standing. Besides some who arrived in 1573, twelve Franciscans were sent thither in 1592. The accession of so considerable a number enabled the father guardian of St. Helena’s to station missionaries at various points where, from information received, there was a prospect of some success; and indeed, for the first time in the history of the missions of Florida, villages of Christian neophytes began to be formed. For the Yemassees, Father Francis de Pareja, a native of Mexico, drew up in their language his abridgment of Christian doctrine, the first work in any of our Indian languages that was ever issued from the press. The missions made peaceful progress for two years, when, in 1597, a sudden outbreak of Indian fickleness and perfidy occurred which spread havoc far and wide among them. Father Peter de Corpa, whose mission of Tolemato occupied the present site of the cemetery at St. Augustine, had found himself obliged to administer a public rebuke to the cacique’s son, who, from having been a fervent convert, fell at last into most vicious courses. The latter, filled with resentment, appealed to the national and religious prejudices of his followers, and, assembling a body of them, rushed to the chapel of Father Corpa, and slew him while he was on his knees before the altar.
Thence they repaired to the mission of Father Blas Rodriguez at Topoqui, and, warning him of his fate, bade him prepare for death. He entreated that he might be allowed first to say Mass, and by a strange condescension his murderers quietly awaited the termination of the holy sacrifice, and then despatched him as he knelt to make his thanksgiving. Fathers Badajoz and Aunon at Guale or Amelia Island were the next victims; but the latter, made aware of their approach and of their designs, had time to say Mass and communicate his companion. Then followed the massacre of Father Francis de Velascola, the most distinguished of the missionaries, at Asao. The assailants met with a repulse at St. Peter’s Isle, the seat of another mission, against which they had advanced with a flotilla of forty war-canoes; but before attacking this point they had fallen upon the mission of Father Francis de Avila at Ospa. He fled, was captured, grievously wounded, and was condemned to die. They finally concluded to sell him into a heathen village as a slave, and here for a whole year he was compelled to perform the most menial offices. At the end of this time his task-masters, growing weary of him, resolved to put him to death. He was fastened to a stake, the fagots were piled around him, and he was offered his life on condition that he should renounce his God and marry into their tribe. Spurning the proposal, he looked to receive the martyr’s crown, but on the demand of an old woman he was released, and given to her that she might exchange him against her son who was held a prisoner at St. Augustine. The exchange was effected, and the father was restored, but so changed in appearance from the effects of his hardships that he was not recognized by his friends.
The missions were now reduced to a feeble state indeed, and the governor of Florida applied himself to their restoration, in conjunction with the Bishop of Cuba, who visited the colony for the purpose. They began to revive from the year 1601, and in a few years the increase was very rapid, no less than forty-three Franciscans being sent thither in the three years 1612, 1613, and 1615, who aided in establishing on the coast and in the interior as many as twenty convents or residences. During the hundred years of peace that followed the revival of the missions under the Franciscans, towns of converts grew up along the Appalachicola, Flint, and other rivers; and the Appalaches, Creeks, Cherokees, Atimucas, and Yemassees responded to the cares bestowed upon them. Pensacola was founded in 1693.
At last, however, the encroachments of the colonists of Carolina began to grow serious. Under the auspices of the English government, a body of colonists heterogeneous in character, but of one mind in their hatred of the Spaniards and their religion, had been drawn to the shores claimed by the latter as belonging to Florida. They were composed of immigrants from Old and New England and the Low Countries, of French Huguenots, Scotch, and others. Charleston was founded by them in 1680, and they penetrated the country in various directions. They gained over the Yemassees from the Spanish; and in conjunction with them plundered and destroyed the mission of St. Catharine’s, as early as 1684. All the stations between the Altamaha and Savannah rivers, now a portion of Georgia, were broken up, and the Indians were killed, or captured and carried off by hundreds, the survivors taking refuge in the peninsula.
In 1702, the animosities of the European war of the Spanish succession extended hither, and war aggravated the hostility of the English colonists. In that year they made an attack on St. Augustine, but without capturing its fort, and fell upon the “Indian converts of the Spanish priests,” on Flint River, killing or capturing six hundred of them; and all captives of the English at this time suffered the hard fate of being sold as slaves in Charleston and other ports. The principal mission of the Appalaches at St. Mark’s was destroyed, and three Franciscans taken there were put to a cruel death. This tribe, in fact, was reduced within four years from seven thousand to four hundred. The Atimucas on the Appalachicola were invaded, and driven east of the St. John’s River. In short, ruin and desolation were spread on every side.
In 1730, the Yemassees turned upon their recent allies, the English, and were joined by the Creeks, Cherokees, and other tribes. They were defeated, as the Tuscaroras had been the year before; but while the latter were driven north and united themselves with the Five Nations, the former were compelled to take refuge in the peninsula. The treaty of Utrecht, the same year, at the close of the war of the Spanish succession, while it contracted the limits of the Spanish possessions in Florida, had also its effect in lessening the acts of hostility from which they had suffered. But the missions remained a mere shadow of what they had formerly been, and Spain was too feeble to guarantee the complete protection even of those that subsisted. Finally, the cession of Florida to England by the treaty of Paris in 1763 proved the death-blow of all of them. Most of the Spanish settlers left, and the Franciscans departed with them. England restored the country to Spain twenty years after; but, meanwhile, the Christian Indians had been expelled from the two towns they occupied under the walls of St. Augustine, and deprived of the soil they had cultivated and the church they had erected. They became Seminoles, which in their language signifies “wanderers.” Under Catholic influence, they had become a quiet, orderly, industrious race, living side by side with the Spaniards in peace and comfort. The English drove them back into barbarism and paganism. Even in their everglades they were not left in peace, for the government of the United States, which acquired Florida by purchase in 1821, expelled them from their wretched patrimony, but at a cost to the country of a thousand lives and fifteen millions of dollars. Its troops have, ever since the acquisition of Florida, made use of the ancient convent of St. Helena, at St. Augustine, as barracks. A remnant of the Indians is still left, and measures have been recently taken by the Bishop of St. Augustine, whose see was erected only in 1870, to revive the faith among them.
As in Florida, so in New Mexico, the missionaries were chiefly if not entirely Franciscans. We have already referred to the expedition of Coronado, and to the two missionaries, F. Padillo, and the lay-brother, his companion, who were left behind at their own request, and who became the first martyrs of the missions of New Mexico (1541). Little inducement presented itself for sending new missionaries in the field, but in 1581 the solicitations of a pious lay-brother, Augustin Rodriguez, engaged in the Mexican missions, caused the formation of a party consisting of Fathers Francis Lopez and John de Santa Maria, and himself, attended by ten soldiers and six Mexican Indians. After proceeding seven hundred miles, they found themselves among the tribe of Tehuas, who, unlike the Indians of the plains, lived in houses and dressed in cotton mantles. The soldiers now persisted in returning, but their departure seemed a less serious misfortune since the mission gave promise of success. So much so, indeed, that F. de Santa Maria was despatched to Mexico for auxiliaries, but on the third day out was surprised and killed by roving Indians. In an attack made on the Tehuas by their enemies not long after, F. Lopez fell by the hand of the assailants. Brother Rodriguez, left alone, subsequently fell a victim to his zeal in inveighing against the vices of those for whose conversion he was laboring; growing weary of his reproaches, they put him to death. Two other Franciscans in attendance on a subsequent expedition suffered the fate of martyrs, and thus the foundations of the New Mexican missions were laid in blood.
In 1597, Juan de Oñate led a colony to the Northern Rio Grande. Several Franciscans accompanied him, and the first Spanish post in this region, that of San Gabriel, was established. After a year, the commander sent a favorable report by the hands of two fathers and a lay-brother, who were returning to Mexico to solicit additional missionaries. One of the three, F. Christopher Salazar, died on the way, and was buried in the wilderness. The missionaries asked for were sent, five or six at one time, and six at another. So great was the success subsequently achieved that by the year 1608 eight thousand of the Indians of New Mexico had been baptized, and many of them were taught to read and write, before the Puritans set foot in New England (1620).
A report made to the crown in 1626 enumerates twenty-seven missions that had been established up to that time, six convents or residences, and four sumptuous churches built. Many of of these missions and residences, and three of the churches (those at Santa Fé, Pecos, and Jemez), are recognizable in the account of the diocese furnished in Sadliers’ Catholic Almanac for 1872. One of the missions was among the Zuñi, over against whose town of Cibola Friar Mark had planted his prophetic cross in 1539. The missionary at this post, F. John Letrado, lost his life in endeavoring to evangelize a neighboring tribe. F. Martin de Arbide perished in a like attempt.
Heaven itself seemed to come to the assistance of the missionaries by a miraculous intervention,[200] for a tribe which none of the fathers had previously met or visited was found fully instructed in Christian doctrine.
Some reverses occurred, owing to causes not clearly stated by Mr. Shea. They were probably due to the persistent hostility of the pagan portion of the population. In 1680, great devastations were committed by them, many missionaries were killed, and some churches destroyed which were never after rebuilt; but a period of comparative peace succeeded, which was disturbed finally only by the incursions of the Apaches. A mission was established among the latter in 1733, but without fruit. Nine years afterwards, some converts were made among the Moquis and Navojoes. A report among the United States Executive documents of 1854—and which corresponds with the statements published by Villaseñor, so long ago as 1748—bears testimony to the happy moral and industrial condition of the Christian Indians of New Mexico. The Puebla Indians, as they are now called, number in the diocese of Santa Fé 12,000.
The history of the missions of Texas need not greatly prolong our narrative. Shortly after the discovery of the mouth of the Mississippi by La Salle in 1691, who made no permanent settlement in Texas, the Spanish authorities sent thither a number of Franciscans. By them, eight missions were established, which prospered until a failure occurred in the crops which the Indians had been taught to raise. The cattle with which the missions had been stocked died at the same time, and moreover the soldiers, of whom there was a small guard at each post, had rendered themselves obnoxious to the natives. In consequence, the missions fell into decay. Their restoration began in 1717, and by 1746 they embraced posts among five different tribes. Visits were also made to the Osages and Missouris, in one of which expeditions a father lost his life and another was long retained as a prisoner.
The missions subsisted and flourished until 1812, when they were suppressed by the Spanish government. Even then, the Indians, though deprived of spiritual succor, remained faithful to the religious teachings they had received. Father Diaz was sent to them by the Bishop of Monterey, in 1832, and after laboring for a year at Nacogdoches, was killed by wandering Indians. Soon after this the whites began to pour into Texas, and by 1836 grew powerful enough to declare and to maintain the independence of the state. The demoralization and dispersion of the Indians followed, as a natural consequence. Father Timon, afterwards Bishop of Buffalo, was appointed in 1840 Prefect Apostolic of Texas, and, despatching thither Father Odin as Vice-Prefect, followed him shortly after. By an act of justice, of which modern governments rarely afford so striking an example, the old ecclesiastical property was restored to the church by the Texan legislature. Father Odin was made bishop in 1842, and his see became the diocese of Galveston in 1847, two years after the annexation of Texas to the United States. The biography of this eminent prelate (who subsequently became Archbishop of New Orleans), in Clarke’s Deceased Bishops, furnishes much interesting matter regarding the history of the church in Texas. The report of the diocese for 1871 supplies no information in regard to the Indian population, if indeed any Christians are still to be found among them within the limits of the state. Many relics remain of the churches, aqueducts, and other public works erected by the Franciscans and their neophytes during the prosperous period of the missions.
The first expedition to any portion of California, which was accompanied by missionaries, was that under Vizcaino, in 1596, to the peninsula, but no permanent footing was made at the time. In 1601, three Carmelite fathers visited that portion now included in the United States, and made a temporary stay, and no more, at what are now Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco. The Jesuits began their missions south of the Gila in 1642, and gradually extended them north, until, in 1697, they had entered the limits of our present territory. The success characteristic of their missions everywhere—for their failure in Florida was something abnormal—followed them here. All was proceeding well, when that extensive conspiracy arose in Europe against the Society which the history of the age subsequently shows to have been directed quite as much against the church as against the Jesuits. The King of Spain, having been drawn into the plot as other sovereigns were, ordered the Jesuits to be torn in a single day from all their missions throughout his wide domains. On the 3d of February, 1768, every Jesuit was carried off from California a prisoner. Accused of no crime, condemned without a trial, the missionaries were dragged from amid their neophytes, who in grief and consternation deplored their loss.
Spain was, however, not yet prepared to cut loose entirely from her religious traditions, and she sent Franciscans to take the place of the banished Jesuits. The vessel that landed the latter at San Blas returned to California with twelve Franciscans, at the head of whom was Father Junipero Serra, an experienced Indian missionary. After placing priests at the vacated missions, Father Serra went on to found others, San Ferdinand, San Bonaventura, and San Diego being established in 1769, that at Monterey in 1770—at the news of which foundations all the bells in the city of Mexico were rung—San Gabriel the same year, St. Anthony of Padua in 1771, San Luis Obispo in 1772, San Juan Capistrano in 1774, San Francisco in 1776, Santa Clara in 1777. In this interval many more of the sons of St. Francis came to join in the labors of their brethren, or to replace those who were worn out with toil. At Monterey, in 1771, when the feast of Corpus Christi was celebrated with a pomp such as the wilderness had never before seen, twelve priests joined in the sacred procession. The Dominicans, moreover, applied for a share in the work of the missions, and in 1774 were assigned to all those stations formerly served by the Jesuits, the Franciscans retaining only those that had been founded by themselves, except San Ferdinand, which was also given to the Dominicans. As the missions thus transferred were chiefly in Old California (the peninsula), their history does not enter within the scope of this narrative.
In 1775, the mission at San Diego was attacked by a large force of pagan Indians, led on by two apostates of their own race. Father Louis Jayme, one of the two priests stationed here, was awakened by the flames, and, supposing the fire to be accidental, came to the door with his usual salutation, “Love God, my children.” He was immediately seized, dragged off, pierced with arrows, and hacked to death by blows with swords made of hardened wood. The other father happily escaped. When Father Serra heard what had occurred, he exclaimed, “Thank God, that field is watered,” rebuilt the mission, after some opposition from the civil authorities, and went on with his labors in founding others. Father Crespi, the principal assistant of Father Serra, died in 1782, after a missionary career of thirty years, of which fourteen had been spent in California. Father Serra himself expired two years after. Although seventy-one years of age at the time of his death, his zeal was undiminished and his faculties were unimpaired. Under his administration, as Prefect Apostolic of California, ten new missions had been established, and ten thousand Indians baptized. Yet death found him busy with plans of still other foundations.
By a Papal Bull of June 16th, 1774, the power of administering confirmation was granted to the prefect apostolic. This privilege was of course shared by Father Serra’s successors in the same office. The first of these was Father Palou, under whom the following new missions were founded: Santa Barbara in 1786, La Purisima Concepcion, near San Luis Obispo, in 1787, Santa Cruz near Branciforte, and Nuestra Señora de Soledad, near Monterey, in 1791. Father Palou then returned to Mexico, where he became superior of the convent of San Fernando. He was succeeded as prefect by Father Lazven, who remained in office until his death in 1803. In the interval, Father Lazven founded three great missions, San José, San Miguel, and San Fernando, all in the year 1797. San Luis, Rey de Francia, was founded in the following year. St. Louis of France was thus honored in this remote wilderness at a time when the nation over which he had ruled rejected alike his faith, his institutions, and his family. The celebrated Father Peyri, whose portrait is given in Mr. Shea’s History of the Missions, superintended the foundation of this greatest of the Californian reductions. In front of the church, which is ninety feet in length, of stone, and rises at one end in a beautiful tower and dome (says Mr. Shea), “extends a colonnade not without architectural beauty, and nearly five hundred feet long, while in depth it is almost of equal proportions.” Three thousand five hundred Indian converts were soon gathered together, occupying twenty ranches around this abode of peace and plenty.
Father Mariano Payeras succeeded Father Lazven as prefect, and founded the mission of Santa Inez in 1804. At this time Spain became unable, amid the distractions which arose from the French Revolution—for which she herself had assisted in preparing the way by the share she took in the persecution of the Jesuits—to extend the aid which new foundations required, and, therefore, none were made. The missions already in existence were not affected to any great extent by the difficulties of the mother country, for they were self-supporting. In 1817, however, it became possible to found the mission of San Rafael, and this proved to be the last foundation under Spanish auspices. Others were projected, but the power of Spain in the western world was already tottering to its fall. In 1821, Iturbide’s short-lived empire replaced the authority of the Spanish crown in Mexico, and two years after, Santa Anna’s successful revolt changed the empire into a republic. Father Sanchez was now prefect, and in 1823 established the mission of San Francisco Solano, the first and last erected under Mexican rule.
Echandia, the governor sent out by the Mexican authorities, arrived in California in 1824. Then began the robbery and destruction of the missions, the first step in which was the substitution of government agents in the temporal rule of the missions for that of the fathers, who had always exercised this authority to the great advantage of the Indians, and without drawing thence any profit for themselves, since they were both by habit of life and by religious vow poor men. Father Peyri was driven from his mission of San Luis Rey which he had founded more than thirty years before, and had directed ever since with admirable skill; nor could the tears and entreaties of his neophytes move the stony-hearted governor to retain him. At this populous mission, many of the Indians had been taught the trades, and were blacksmiths, carpenters, and mechanics in various departments; they also owned sixty thousand head of cattle, and raised thirteen thousand bushels of grain yearly. At San Luis Obispo, Father Martinez had in like manner formed his flock to industry; they wove and dyed ordinary cloth and fine cotton fabrics, and could have always maintained a state of prosperity and happiness had their possessions and their beloved director been left to them, but the former were wrecked, and the latter was brutally expelled.
Five other fathers were driven from their missions, and a regular system of robbery commenced: ranch after ranch was taken, cattle were swept off, and the minds of the Indians were endeavored to be poisoned against the missionaries by Echandia, through wilful representations, so that in one case they attempted to take the life of a priest. Other missionaries, after having spent thirty or forty years in civilizing the Indians, and raising them to a state of comfort and plenty, found themselves obliged, by the ill-treatment they suffered, to leave the country. The prefect, Father Sanchez, was the special object of this persecution on the part of Echandia, and died of grief in 1831, consoled only by the momentary peace which reigned at the time under Echandia’s successor, Don Manuel Victoria, who during the few months he was in office restored the missions so far as he was able; but after his removal the pillage progressed as before.
Father Francisco Garcia Diego was appointed prefect in 1832, and arrived in California in January of the following year, taking up his residence at Santa Clara. The number of missionaries was now so reduced that Father Garcia found it necessary to take with him ten fathers to recruit their ranks. The new prefect did what he could to ward off the ruin which threatened the missions, but they were doomed, and the decree of secularization passed by the Mexican Congress in 1834 and enforced in 1837 only completed their destruction. Thus, this wretched republic, which is and always has been unable amidst the contentions of its rival chiefs, with their ever recurring pronunciamentos, to preserve domestic peace, and which has suffered the great public works erected in Mexico by the crown to fall into decay, carried spiritual and temporal ruin to the fair regions which had been consecrated to religion and peace, to industry and innocence, and overthrew the noblest monuments which the zeal and the faith of Spain had bequeathed to her colonies.
Father Garcia’s heart was wrung with anguish at the spectacle of desolation which surrounded him, and to which, with all his efforts, he was able to interpose only a feeble barrier. He repaired to Mexico to intercede with the government in behalf of his oppressed and helpless people. Through his influence the law of secularization was repealed, and an act passed restoring the property of the missions. But the reparation came too late; the plunderers were in full possession of their ill-gotten property, and no power could wrest it from them. Meanwhile, a severe illness at the capital, and the affairs of his order in Zacatecas, retained him in Mexico, where, in 1840, he received notice of his appointment to the bishopric of the Californias. He was consecrated in the same year, but was unable to take possession of his diocese until December, 1841.
On arriving at San Diego, he found the mission and the church in ruins. At San Gabriel, where extensive vineyards had been in full bearing, and to protect which the father was in negotiation with an American house for iron fences, even the vines were pulled up. This mission had loaded ships with its products, which were despatched regularly to San Blas and Lima. Amid its ruins, a traveller (Duflot de Mofras) describes in 1842 seeing the missionary Father Estenega seated in a field before a large table, with his sleeves rolled up kneading clay and teaching his Indians to make bricks. San Luis Obispo was in the same condition, and Father Abella, the oldest missionary in the country, whom La Perouse had seen here in 1787, still survived in 1842. His only bed was a hide, his only food dried beef, and he divided among his poor and plundered Indians the alms he received. At San José, Father Gonzalez, prefect of the northern missions, subsisted on the scanty rations furnished him by the officials. La Soledad, from having been an earthly paradise, was now a wilderness of ruin and desolation. Its missionary, Father Serra, of whom an American says “it was a happiness indeed to have known him,” had died of hunger and wretchedness in 1838 on the spot where thousands had enjoyed his hospitality. He expired in the arms of the Indians whom he had spent thirty years in instructing and protecting, falling at the foot of the altar just as he had begun Mass. At San Francisco Solano, everything had been destroyed, and the materials of the mission-house and chapel sacrilegiously used in building the palace of Don Mariano Vallejo. Santa Barbara still possessed its missions, the residence of the devoted prefect of the southern missions, Father Narcisso Duran, and at San Fernando, Santa Clara, and Santa Inez (where Bishop Garcia afterwards erected a seminary) the missionaries had succeeded in saving much. Everywhere else, ruin and desolation had overtaken the missions.
The Indian population of the missions was reduced from 30,650 to 4,450, their cattle dwindled from 424,000 to 28,000, and their other stock in proportion, for they had owned 62,500 horses and 321,500 sheep besides. They had raised annually 122,500 bushels of wheat and corn.
Their agriculture was now destroyed, and they themselves were mostly scattered and demoralized. “Bishop Garcia Diego y Moreno,” says Mr. Clarke in his Lives of Deceased Bishops, “stood in the midst of desolation, and but for his apostolic zeal and robust courage would have despaired.” He saved what he could of the missions, and rescued many souls from crime and barbarism; he made long, difficult journeys throughout his devastated diocese, and addressed the most moving appeals to the Mexican government. At last, after wearing himself out with labors that were far from fruitless, and which certainly stayed for a time the progress of disintegration, he retired to Santa Barbara to die, and there peacefully gave up his soul to God, April 13, 1846.
Thirteen missionaries still survived amidst the relics of the great works of charity and beneficence they had created or sustained, when in 1848 the soil of Upper California changed owners, and became attached to the domains of the United States. A new population overran the land, and the Indians of the missions have entirely disappeared. What is worse, they have been driven by the hostility of the Americans to the mountains, and provoked into acts of reprisal, the result of which will be that at no distant day the career of plunder and outrage of which they have been the victims, will be crowned by their total extermination.
We shall give in a note an account collated from Mr. Shea’s History of the Catholic Missions in the United States, of the manner of living followed in the mission establishments of California, by the Indians, under the direction of the fathers.
In the history of the missions of Maryland we are presented with a remarkable example of the influence of pure bigotry in arresting the most beneficent ministrations of religion towards both the white and Indian races. Under the mild and paternal administration of Lord Baltimore, the settlement, made so auspiciously on the feast of the Annunciation, March 25, 1634, soon attached to it the native tribes; for they were fairly dealt with, and were paid for whatever lands were required of them. Father Andrew White, an English Jesuit, and a confessor of the faith—for he had suffered exile abroad and imprisonment at home on account of it—was the spiritual director of the mission. Although fifty-five years of age, he had no sooner landed than he applied himself to the study of the Indian tongue. He and his companions then established themselves at the more advanced posts, prepared catechisms, etc., in the Indian language, and made good progress in the conversion of the natives, the principal chief and his family being the first to demand baptism.
In 1644, Claiborne, the persecuting agent of the persecuting colony of Virginia, swooped down upon the peaceful settlements of Maryland, and among other outrages carried off the Jesuits as prisoners to England. Father White was never able to return, but Father Fisher and others did after three years, and resumed the work of the missions. The rise of the Puritan party in 1652 after the usurpation of Cromwell, and the subsequent accession to power of the Anglicans, who in 1692 made their religion the state church, effectually extinguished the Indian missions. What became of the poor Indians, we know not; but, judging from what this class of religionists have done elsewhere, their fate must have been first to be robbed, then demoralized, and finally to be exiled or exterminated.
Thenceforward, not only were the Catholics who had planted the colony and who had invited thither the persecuted of other colonies to share with themselves in all the privileges of government and of perfect freedom of religion—not only were the Catholics deprived of all share in the administration of public affairs, but their religion was proscribed and their priests were hunted down. Grasping and domineering as the Puritans have shown themselves to be everywhere, never did they or their Anglican abettors display a blacker ingratitude than in their transactions on the soil of Maryland, where those who bestowed upon them an exceptional religious liberty were excluded from all share in its benefits.
The faith, though persecuted, was kept alive among the whites by the Maryland Jesuits, who continued to adhere to their flocks. Nor did the suppression of their Society in 1773 dissolve this bond, for by an association among themselves they retained their missions; and as their property was not confiscated here as was everywhere done in Europe, they retained that also. In 1805, Bishop Carroll, himself an ex-Jesuit, obtained from the superior in Russia, where the Society still subsisted, the privilege of affiliation with it for the late members of the order in Maryland. The bishop then confirmed them in the possession of their missions, and thus the Society resumed its footing in Maryland nine years before it had been restored all over the world by Pius VII. Among the young men who joined it in 1806 was the now venerable Father McElroy, who, in his ninetieth year, retains the zeal and energy of younger days. The Jesuit province of Missouri was, as before stated, an offshoot from that of Maryland, and some fathers of the western province are still living who made their novitiate in Maryland. Bishop Vandevelde, of Chicago, and subsequently of Natchez, where he died in 1855, was one of these. The present Vicar Apostolic of Kansas, a Jesuit from Missouri, perpetuates amidst his Indians the traditions of the mother province.
The old Catholic families of Maryland, sustained and encouraged by their pastors, and preserving the faith amidst obloquy and disfranchisement, have contributed their full share to the distinguished laity of their country, to the ranks of the religious of various orders, male and female, the secular clergy, and the episcopate. Their honorable record is too full to admit of a reference to individuals, were this even the place for it; but we might recall, among prelates, the names of Archbishops Carroll and Neale of Baltimore, and Bishops Fenwick of Boston, Fenwick of Cincinnati, and Miles of Nashville. Archbishop Eccleston of Baltimore, although a Marylander by birth, was of Protestant family, and was himself a convert. Bishop Chanche of Natchez was also a Marylander, but the child of refugees from San Domingo. The sees of Wheeling, Natchez, Chicago, and North Carolina are filled by sons of Maryland, the descendants of a later immigration. Even in colonizing other states, the faithful children of Maryland formed a nucleus of Catholicity, as in Kentucky, wherever they went. By a happy dispensation, this colony, grown into a diocese, and governed by a scion of one of these old families, the late eminent and beloved Spalding—gave him back to the archiepiscopal chair of his ancestral state.
In later, as in former times, Maryland has been the “land of the sanctuary” for the oppressed of other lands, and the trials and triumphs in which her own children have borne part have been shared by the strangers who have taken refuge within her borders. When, in 1770, a solitary Jesuit from Whitemarsh in Lower Maryland visited Baltimore, then an insignificant settlement, and so poorly provided as to Catholic worship that the priest brought his own altar-furniture, and had to say Mass in a private house, a large part of the flock in attendance was composed of Acadians who had been cruelly transported from their homes by the British government. Still later, the French Revolution threw upon her shores those devoted clergymen whose virtues and whose labors have shed so much honor on the church of their adopted country. The institutions of religion and of learning which they founded in Maryland have educated for civil life or for the church men who have attained the highest eminence in one or the other. The founders of or the preceptors in these institutions have filled sees in various portions of the country—Dubois at New York, David at Bardstown, Flaget at Louisville, Dubourg at New Orleans, Maréchal at Baltimore, and Bruté at Vincennes, all now deceased, besides the present Bishop of St. Augustine, among living prelates. St. Mary’s Seminary at Baltimore has seen advanced to the mitre, from among her Levites, Bishops Reynolds of Charleston, O’Reilly of Hartford, and Portier of Mobile; while Mount St. Mary’s, the “mother of bishops,” has given to the American hierarchy from among hers, Archbishop Hughes of New York, Bishops Quarter of Chicago, Gartland of Savannah, Carrell of Covington, Young of Erie, and the living archbishops of New York and Cincinnati—probably others.
The subsequent revolution in San Domingo drove hither also whites who escaped with little more than life, and blacks whose fidelity to their masters and to their religion withstood the shock of those terrible times. Among the former were the parents of Bishop Chanche; also, young Joubert, who, after becoming a priest, devoted himself to the blacks, that he might overcome his horror for the race that had massacred his parents; in furtherance of this lofty act of self-renunciation, he formed a community of religious women of color, whose first members were creoles of San Domingo. The Oblate Sisters of Providence still flourish, and impart the blessings of secular and religious education to the young of their sex and color. Finally—for we must hasten to a close—it is a noticeable fact that New England, which sent forth its Puritan colonists to harass the Marylanders and persecute the Jesuits, is now a portion of the Jesuit province of Maryland.
The great length to which this paper has expanded will preclude the possibility of giving any space to the history of the missions of France in Louisiana, and those extending from Canada into what is now New York and into the regions west of that state. This omission will be the more pardonable inasmuch as the history of the French missions is better known to Catholic readers than much of our other remote ecclesiastical history. There is one page, however, in these annals, touching the Christian settlements on our northeastern border, that we cannot pass over without notice. The town in the British Provinces now known as Annapolis was the point where Catholicity made its first foothold in any portion of the region north of us, at least the first since the time of the Northmen. Here, in 1608, two Jesuit missionaries arrived, who in 1613 were to be the pioneers of the Abnaki mission in Maine. The Recollects, a branch of the Franciscans, began their labors in Quebec in 1615. Other religious men, and some communities of pious women, came to their assistance. Notwithstanding wars between the various tribes, in the course of which the once powerful Hurons were almost annihilated, the missionaries had gathered together, by 1685, a number of Christian villages of Indians on the St. Lawrence, of which three still exist. Thence, missionaries were sent to the shores of Lake Superior, to the tribes south of the lakes, to Arkansas, and to the lower Mississippi. The heroic lives, the sufferings, and the death of Jogues, Brébeuf, and Lalemant, and so many other holy men who consecrated their lives to these missions, are almost familiar themes.
Of the Abnaki mission referred to above, and which was established on Mount Desert Island at the mouth of the Penobscot, nothing remained after a few years except a solitary cross guarding the grave of a French lay-brother, who died from wounds received in an attack made on the mission by the English from Virginia. The fathers were carried off by them on this occasion, and narrowly escaped being put to death by the authorities of Virginia. Thus, as Mr. Shea remarks, the first Abnaki mission was crushed in its very cradle by men who founded a colony in which the Gospel was never announced to the aborigines.
In 1642, an Abnaki who had been rescued from death by a Christian Indian, in one of the forays made by the pagan Iroquois on their neighbors, extolled the virtues of the Christians so highly on his return home that his people sent for black-gowns. Father Druillettes was sent to them in 1646, and the wonderful change effected by him in the few months of his stay excited even the admiration of the English, whose countrymen in Massachusetts were at this time enacting cruel laws against the religion and the order to which F. Druillettes belonged. In 1650, he returned to the Abnakis, and was received by them at Norridgewock, their principal village, amidst volleys of firearms, and with every demonstration of delight. A banquet was spread in every cabin, and he was forced to visit all.
“We have thee at last,” they cried; “thou art our father, our patriarch, our countryman. Thou livest like us, thou dwellest with us, thou art an Abnaki like us. Thou bringest back joy to all the country. We had thought of leaving this land to seek thee, for many have died in thy absence. We were losing all hopes of reaching heaven. Those whom thou didst instruct performed all that they had learned, but their heart was weary, for it sought and could not find thee.”
At the same time that Druillettes was planting the faith among the Abnakis—who have preserved to this day the precious legacy bequeathed to them—Rev. John Eliot of Roxbury, certainly a well-meaning man and a credit to the times and to the people among whom he lived, was endeavoring to christianize the Indians of Massachusetts—an attempt which the cruelty and rapacity of his countrymen would have rendered abortive, even if his barren theology had been able to affect anything in their behalf. So Drake, the Indian historian, admits that even among Eliot’s nominal disciples there was not the least probability that one-fourth of them were sincere believers in Christianity. Eliot himself said, before his death, “There is a dark cloud upon the work of the Gospel among the poor Indians.” In King Philip’s war even the Indian ministers threw off all disguise and took up arms against their white Christian neighbors. This last struggle against their destroyers resulted in a total ruin of the Indians. The Puritan, imagining himself the chosen of God, and regarding the Indians as Amalekites and Canaanites whom he was to exterminate out of the promised land, fell upon them with fire and sword.
Even the innocent son of King Philip, the last of the family of Massasoit, was sold into slavery to Bermuda by the men whose children have since lifted the finger of scorn at the population of the South, among whom England forced the institution that lately perished amid the throes of civil war—forced it by the aid, in part, of the vessels and the means of the pious fathers of New England. Father Druillettes, strange to say, visited Eliot, by whom he was hospitably received and entertained, and who invited him to pass the winter under his roof. But this visit to New England was probably one of business, and the father was soon with his beloved Indians again.
Father Rale was among the successors of Druillettes. An expedition of New Englanders destroyed his church and village in 1705, but the cession of the territory to England by France in 1713 restored temporary peace to the Abnaki mission. A deputation of their chiefs therefore visited Boston, and called upon the governor to solicit means for the rebuilding of their church. As Protestantism is always ready to interfere with religious enterprises which it could never itself have succeeded in, this exponent of the religion of New England offered to rebuild their church at his own expense if they would dismiss their missionary and take a minister of his own choice. The reply of the indignant spokesman of the Indians is worth quoting:
“When you first came here,” said he, “you saw me long before the French governors, but neither your predecessors nor your ministers ever spoke to me of prayer or the Great Spirit. They saw my furs, my beaver and moose skins, and of this alone they thought; these alone they sought, and so eagerly that I have been unable to supply them with enough. When I had much, they were my friends, and only then. One day my canoe missed the route; I lost my path, and wandered a long way at random, until at last I landed near Quebec, in a great village of the Algonquins, where the black-gowns were teaching. Scarcely had I arrived, when one of them came to see me. I was loaded with furs, but the black-gown of France disdained to look at them; he spoke to me of the Great Spirit, of heaven, of hell, of the prayer which is the only way to reach heaven. I heard him with pleasure, and was so delighted by his words that I remained in the village near him. At last the prayer pleased me, and I asked to be instructed: I solicited baptism, and received it. Then I returned to the lodges of my tribe, and related all that had happened. All envied my happiness, and wished to partake it; they too went to the black-gown to be baptized. Thus have the French acted. Had you spoken to me of the prayer as soon as we met, I should now be so unhappy as to pray like you, for I could not have told whether your prayer was good or bad. Now I hold to the prayer of the French; I agree to it; I shall be faithful to it, even until the earth is burned and destroyed. Keep your men, your gold, and your minister: I will go to my French father.”
In the unsettled condition of the boundaries, the New Englanders continued to make incursions upon the territory of the Abnakis. In one of these expeditions, Father Rale barely escaped capture, but his celebrated Abnaki dictionary was pounced upon and carried off, and now forms one of the treasures of the library of Harvard University. In 1724, he fell a victim to the persistence of his enemies. Notwithstanding these cruelties, the Abnakis, in the war of the Revolution, took part in the defence of the soil against England with the people who had desolated their home and put to death their beloved pastor. Orono, the Penobscot chief, bore a commission throughout the Revolution, and distinguished himself during the war as much by his bravery as by his attachment to his religion, never consenting to frequent Protestant places of worship.
These sketches, grown so much more lengthy than we had expected, and yet restrained with difficulty within their present bounds, must now close. May they be read with the attention the subject deserves, and thus serve to awaken the honest pride of our fellow-Catholics in the past history of their church on the soil of the United States. May our men of culture, stimulated by the appeal that shall be made to them by the reading classes, spread far and wide the affecting story of the church’s triumphs and reverses in our land, with all the glorious details of the lives and deaths of its heroes and martyrs! May this history grow to be a familiar one to the generation that is rising and the generations that shall succeed it. We love our country, and none dare question our love but they who would have the statute-books bristle with laws against us such as the genius of our institutions forbids and the fathers of the Republic rejected. Let us show our love for it by mingling the memories of all that is dear to us in the career of our religion with all that is noble and inspiring in the civil history of our land, our fair heritage of political and religious freedom.