ENGLISH SKETCHES.
II.
RUINS OF AN OLD ABBEY.
In the year of grace 1121, Henry I. was reigning in England. On the sudden death of his brother, William Rufus, he had seized the crown, which devolved by right on the next elder brother, Robert of Normandy, Robert being just then absent in the Holy Land, where, by military exploits of high renown and sweet courtesy of manner, he was winning the hearts of his soldiers and of Christendom. Hearing how things were going in England, he set sail in haste for Normandy; and there calling a fleet together, he steered towards Dover, where the usurper, apprised of his arrival, stood with an army drawn up upon the shore awaiting him. For three days and nights the brothers stood at bay, like two tigers ready to fly at one another's throats, but neither daring to strike the first blow in their fratricidal war. Presently we see gliding high up along the cliffs a venerable figure, clad in priestly garb, and bearing an olive branch in his hand. His name is Anselm. He has been roughly handled by Rufus, and has little kindness to expect from his successor. But Anselm heeds not his own interest or his life; he goes boldly forward, and with outstretched hand entreats the brothers to desist from their bloody intent, to exchange the kiss of peace, and settle their quarrel as became men and Christians. They hearkened to the voice of the saintly primate. This was his first service to Henry, and it was quickly followed by others so numerous and so important that the scholarly king, moved partly by gratitude, and partly by a desire to atone for certain of his own and his predecessor's misdemeanors towards the church, resolved, in 1121, to build a monastery which should be one of the glories of his reign, and bear witness to the end of time to his devout allegiance to the faith. With this view he built the Benedictine Abbey of Reading. It was on so royal a scale, both of magnitude and architectural splendor, that even now, in their utter dilapidation, the fragments of the cyclopean ruins give us no inadequate idea of what it must have been in the days of its strength and glory. The gigantic skeleton walls, as they stand out gaunt and ragged against the sky, resemble rather rocks than the remains of the work of puny human hands. The style was in the massive and lofty Norman Gothic of the period, as may be seen from the few bold arches that have withstood alike the ravages of time, the artillery of Cromwell, and modern depredations. The abbey was one of the wealthiest in the kingdom, and the mitred abbot was counted among the notable authorities of the land. He not only took rank with the highest nobles, but he enjoyed, likewise, many of the supreme prerogatives of royalty; he was privileged to coin money, and to confer the honor of knighthood. He exercised hospitality to kings and princes, and that right royally. King Henry, the founder, was a frequent guest at the monastery with his court, who were entertained there for weeks at a time with regal magnificence. The king was extremely fond of the abbey and the monks, and made it his custom to spend Holy Week there every year. After performing his Paschal duties in company with his family and his court, and passing the solemn week in fasting and prayer, he celebrated the joyful Easter dawn with a festive merriment, in which all the town was invited to join. Bonfires blazed on every surrounding hill, ale ran in the gutters, the poor were clad and fed, and all within reach of the royal bounty felt the joy of the Paschal alleluia. Queen Adeliza shared her husband's partiality for this lordly monastic retreat, and at various festivals through the year repaired to it, sometimes with her son, sometimes only with her women-in-waiting. When Henry died of overindulgence in his favorite dish of lampreys, at Rouen, he directed that his heart should remain there, but that his body should rest under the roof of his beloved Benedictine abbey. After his demise, it still continued to be a royal residence, and was often frequented by Henry II., who held a parliament there for the first time in 1184—an example which was followed repeatedly in the course of the succeeding reigns; the calm of the cloister offering a fitter atmosphere for grave deliberation to the law-makers than the hall of Westminster, disturbed as it was by courtly intrigues and political agitations. In 1452, Parliament was adjourned to Reading Abbey from Westminster, on account of the sudden outbreak of the plague, and later, in 1466, for the same reason. It was the scene of other meetings not devoid of historical importance. Here the Patriarch of Jerusalem, Heraclius, visited Henry II., and presented him with the keys of the Holy Sepulchre and the royal banners of the city, in hopes of luring him to undertake another crusade for the deliverance of the holy places.
Henry III. passed more of his time at Reading Abbey than at any of his own palaces; here he convoked assemblies of the nobles, and received brother princes and European guests of distinction. It was in the west hall of the monastery that Edward IV. received his fair young queen, Elizabeth Widville. In this same hall Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, who had the regency in the absence of Richard Cœur de Lion in Palestine, was put upon his trial. Two other ecclesiastical councils were held here in the reign of John. When Richard II., through the intervention of John of Gaunt, was reconciled to his nobles, he chose Reading Abbey as the ground of meeting. So it continued, up to the reign of Henry VIII., the resort of kings, and nobles, and prelates, until that ruthless despoiler passed an act for the suppression of monasteries, and converted the sacred precincts into a palace for his own sole use. The monks were scattered, and their brave and loyal abbot, Hugh Farringdon, having dared to denounce the iniquitous edict and defy the king, was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. With him closes the line of the Benedictine abbots. It is curious to see Henry VIII., after thus uprooting the church in his dominions, plundering her treasure, and persecuting her in every way, leaving a large sum of money in his will for "Masses to be said for the deliverance of his soul." He had made it high treason to hold the doctrine of purgatory, or to pray for the dead; and the act of saying Mass was punishable with death. He had overturned altars and banished priests; yet, when he came to die himself, he turned, in abject and cowardly fear, towards the church that he had so outraged, and besought her help in his extremity. Speaking of this act of Henry's, which throws such a sinister light on his fanatical hatred to Catholicism, and his violent enforcement of the "reformed religion," as it was styled, Hume, whose statements are as accurate as his views are false, remarks naïvely that it is a proof of the tenacity of superstition on the human mind, and says that it was one amongst so many of "the strange contrarieties of his conduct and temper," that he who had "destroyed those foundations made by his ancestors for the deliverance of their souls," should when it came to be the hour of death "take care to be on the safer side of the question himself." At the time of the dissolution, the revenues in money of this royal abbey did not exceed the small sum of £675 a year. Its wealth consisted not in accumulated riches, but in lands, and fisheries, and flocks, and herds. Many English sovereigns had bequeathed their dust to the consecrated shelter of Reading Abbey; amongst others, the Empress Matilda, wife of Henry I., and mother of Henry II., had been interred in its vaults. Their ashes found no mercy at the hands of the infuriated fanatics, who seemed bent on erasing from the face of the country every vestige of its ancient faith. The majestic pile, which had witnessed so many royal marriages, and echoed to the dirges of so many sovereigns, fell before the cannon of Cromwell, planted on Caversham hill. The beautiful church of S. Thomas à Becket, where the unfortunate Charles I., with a little band of his trusty cavaliers, had halted and knelt in prayer for protection against the mad soldiery before whom they fled, fared no better than the rest. The walls that still exist bear traces at every point of this savage act of vandalism. What the fury of the Roundheads left unfinished the more recent vandals have completed. The ruins have been plundered of every vestige of stone-facing; and those immense blocks that gave the old pile, even in its decay, such an air of imperishable strength and grandeur were, at great cost of labor and money, torn away and carried to Windsor, to serve in building the Poor Knights' Hospital. Some were condemned to the more ignoble use of erecting a bridge over the Wargrave Road. It is difficult to go beyond mere speculation in fixing the spots illustrated by so many memorable associations in the history of the old abbey. There can be no mistake, however, about the Chapter Hall, where the parliaments were held, and where kings and prelates feasted. There is a tradition that after the battle of Newbury, Charles I. and all his troops were daily fed for a considerable time in the refectory of the monks, one wall alone of which is now standing, but which quite justifies the supposition of this wholesale hospitality when we see the area formerly occupied by the apartment. The site of the church is also discernible, but the relative positions of the altars, transepts, and nave are but dimly suggested by the broken bases of the four enormous pillars that supported the towering dome. The present beautiful little Catholic church, with its adjoining presbytery, is built entirely from the ruins, so cruelly dismantled by successive goths. But all their efforts have failed to obliterate the royal aspect of the wreck, or to rob it of its air of immortality. The walls are built of sharp, small flint, imbedded in mortar that has now become as hard as iron—a circumstance which we may hope will put an end to any further devastation, as the tools of the workmen break like glass in the effort to penetrate it and dislodge the flint.
A fact that added to Reading Abbey a higher kind of interest than any earthly privilege can convey was that it possessed the hand of S. James the Apostle—a relic which had been brought from Germany to France by the Empress Matilda, and given by her to her father, Henry I., who presented it to the Benedictine monks encased in a rich shrine of gold, where devout worshippers came from great distances to venerate it. When the dissolution of monastic orders was decreed, the sacred relics which each community possessed were secreted in secure places, and often defended from outrage at the peril and sacrifice of life; but no mention is anywhere to be found of similar precautions being employed in the case of the famous Benedictine treasure. The Roundheads desecrated the tombs of the kings, and threw to the winds the bones of the monks who slept in the vaults around them; but we find no trace of insult offered to the hand of S. James, nor is any notice taken of it in the local chronicles of Reading from this time forth. There was a vague rumor of its having been conveyed to a convent in Spain; but no evidence of the slightest description supports this notion. About seventy years ago, some workmen, employed in breaking down a portion of the walls, came upon a small wooden box containing a human hand; it was bought as a curiosity for a mere trifle by a physician of the town, and after a while, we know not how or wherefore, it found its way to the Museum of the Polytechnic, where it remained until that institution was broken up; then the hand was transferred to the Athenæum, in Friar Street. Meantime, the circumstance of the discovery had travelled far beyond Berks, and some devout persons, believing this could be none other than the lost relic of S. James, offered considerable sums for it; but, for some reason that we can neither discover nor surmise, these offers were declined, and the hand remained "amongst other nick-nacks" to which some interest, historical or otherwise, was attached. Finally, the vicissitudes of fortune carried it to a shop-window, where it was long to be seen under a glass case so insecurely guarded that any expert thief might easily have purloined it. A Scotch Catholic gentleman saw it here, and offered fifty pounds for it. It was sold to him for this sum, and he placed it in the care of Canon B——, the dean of the church which is built on the original resting-place of the real relic, and dedicated to S. James. It was with the understanding, however, that he would claim the hand as soon as he had a suitable place for it in his own house. Canon B—— himself was strongly inclined to disbelieve in the genuineness of the relic. In the first place, the box in which it was found bore no sign or symbol of its being a reliquary, and there was no mark or seal attached to the contents indicating their character; then, again, the hand was small and the fingers tapering, much more like the hand of a woman than of a rude-limbed fisherman like the Apostle of Spain. There was one way of ascertaining with certainty that it was not the real hand, and this was by learning whether the body of S. James, which is preserved in the Cathedral of Compostela, wanted one hand. If the two were there, there was an end of the controversy, and it would be clearly proved that the hand found at Reading Abbey had been, at some unknown date, returned to its place. If one hand was missing, and if that corresponded to the one in his possession, it was at least a strong argument on the side of its genuineness, which other steps should be thenceforth taken to prove. At the canon's request, Dr. Grant, the late saintly Bishop of Southwark, wrote to the Archbishop of Compostela, asking him to allow the shrine to be opened and the necessary inspection of the relics made; but the archbishop replied that he could on no pretext, however laudable, consent to such an act, which, in his eyes, appeared like a desecration of their venerated patron. The question fell back, therefore, into impenetrable doubt as before. The hand remained at Reading, until at last the purchaser arrived and claimed it. He was persuaded that it was the real hand of S. James, and as such claimed to have it in his possession and under his roof. Canon B—— gave it up at once; but it was remarked by a pious Catholic at the time that if it was the real relic, the act of purchasing it for private possession, and removing it from a church dedicated to the apostle to whom it was supposed to belong, to a private house, could bring no blessing on those connected with it. These warnings were laughed at as superstitious by the owner of the relic; but they were strangely and fearfully fulfilled before long. He and three clerical friends were one day seized at dinner with agonizing pains, and, after a few hours' suffering, expired. One of the dishes had, by some unaccountable accident, been poisoned by the cook, who had employed some venomous root in mistake for horse-radish. We do not attach for a moment any supernatural significance to the incident, but merely give it as a strange coincidence. After this violent and sudden death of its owner, the hand passed into the possession of a relative, to whom he bequeathed it. Perhaps this short record of its recent history may meet the eye of some one who may be induced to search out the missing limb, and clear away the mystery that still hangs over the supposed relic of the apostle who warned us so solemnly against the iniquity of idle words. Who knows? Perhaps we may yet live to see a Benedictine monastery rise on the site of the ancient one where his hand was so devoutly venerated; monks, wearing the dark cowl of the inspired author of the Regula Monachorum, may again tread the hallowed ground of the old abbey, where in bygone days their fathers lived grand and awful lives under the serene and solemn shadow of their mighty cloisters, adjusting the strife of nations and of kings, teaching Christendom, feeding the poor, and taking the kingdom of heaven by violence amidst long vigils, and fasting, and humiliation, and the heroic practice of Christian sanctity; the old stones may yet echo to the chant of psalms as in the days of our forefathers, and the song of praise resound again in the desert—the same words, with other voices; for God changes not, neither does his church; for, like her Founder, she is immutable, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.
THE COURT OF FRANCE IN 1830.[134]
BY M. MENNECHET.
FROM PARIS, OU LE LIVRE DES CENT-ET-UN.
You think, my dear friend and editor, that the place occupied by the Tuileries in the panorama of Paris is so prominent a one that you desire to include a variety of accounts of it in the rich gallery of description you are now giving to the world, and you ask me, unskilful artist though I am, to draw you a faithful picture of its interior as I once knew it. You say that, having for fifteen years inhabited this palace, I must necessarily be well acquainted with all the details of it, and you wish me to take upon myself the office of introducing your numerous readers, and of giving them a nearer view of the chief personages of this royal domain. I may, you add, imagine myself once more at my bureau, distributing to curiosity or to attachment tickets of admission for some fête or ceremony, and that this will perhaps prove, for the time being, a pleasant illusion for me. Dreams like these, however, would possess no attraction for me. I have been too near a spectator of the court for it to have any illusions for my mind. In this respect, I may compare myself to an actor at the theatre, over-familiar with the scenes of the green-room. I need realities now to awaken my interest; and since the course of events has plunged me again into my original obscurity, I can no longer abandon myself to reveries of pride or of ambition. Nor had I risen so high that there was any danger that my fall would distract my reason or shake my philosophy. I had reached only that elevation which gives to objects their due proportions. I was neither too near nor too far, neither too high nor too low, not to be able to see and to judge calmly; and it is in my former observatory that I am now about to replace myself, in order to comply, as far as it may lie in my power, with your request. Perhaps I ought to fear that it may be said of me, He served the exiled family for fifteen years; he was indebted to them for his maintenance and that of others connected with him; he is biassed by feelings of gratitude; we cannot but distrust what he is about to tell us. God forbid that the reproach of fidelity and gratitude should ever offend me: these are virtues too rare for any one who is conscious in his own heart of possessing them to be ashamed of the fact. If, therefore, I should be accused of flattery, I shall not feel much grieved at the charge; for at least I shall have flattered only the unfortunate. Had not the sanguinary events of July shattered at one blow the crown of Charlemagne, the sceptre of S. Louis, and the sword of Henri IV.; did the family of Charles X. now reign at the Tuileries, I might be silent, lest my encomiums should be deemed interested; or were I to take up my pen, it would only be to demonstrate that the liberal ideas of the youth of the present day were even then admitted to the court; there was no exclusion, excepting for revolutionary principles.
Here might be a fine opportunity for me to enter upon a chapter of politics. I might prove to the partisans of the sovereignty of the people that they alone invoke the divine right, since the voice of the people passes for the voice of God—Vox populi, vox Dei; or, on the other hand, that their adversaries do well to range themselves on the side of hereditary right, which is a principle of order and security, as well for governments as for families—a right sacred and inviolable, and which has existed unquestioned from the days of Adam until the present time.
But I should find myself quite out of my sphere in the domain of politics, having always withheld myself from its complications. I therefore give your readers notice that I shall not introduce them into the great cabinet in which the councils of the ministers were held. I was not admitted there myself; and as I never listened at the doors, it would be impossible for me to relate anything that took place. All I know is that under the last ministry they used three sheets of paper too much, since the latter kindled so deplorable a conflagration.
The exterior aspect of the Tuileries is doubtless well known to my readers, at least from description, or through pictures or engravings. But those who have never had the opportunity of penetrating further I now invite to follow me into the interior, while I endeavor to bring before them some of the fêtes and ceremonies of the court of Charles X. Unless you are in full dress, let us not enter by the great staircase. There we should find a man, who is called a Suisse, although he is a Frenchman, who would tell you that etiquette does not permit you to enter the palace of the king wearing boots. You might exclaim against etiquette, forgetting, however, that, at least, it imposes upon vanity the obligation of enriching labor. The staircase by which I shall introduce you is free from such restrictions. You will find the steps much worn. They lead to the treasury of charities—a treasury quite the opposite of the cask of the Danaïdes; for although it be constantly drawn from, it is never empty.
Let us ascend another flight, and cross the black gallery, where, on the right and left sides, are lodged, in narrow and inconvenient rooms, the great lord and the valet de chambre, the maître d'hotel and the physician, the aide-de-camp and the chaplain, the gentleman and the plebeian. Here all ranks, all grades, all dignities, are confounded. When we shall repair to the final judgment, I suppose we shall all pass through a black gallery, in which, like that of the Tuileries, will be mingled all social ranks. We will now descend a flight, and enter the apartment of the first gentleman of the chamber, one of the great officers of the household. Let us request of him tickets of admission to the ceremony of the Supper; and, when we shall have obtained them from his habitual complaisance, let us hope that there may not have been, the night before, between him, the captain of the guards, and the grand-master of ceremonies, any dispute regarding the rights, privileges, and attributes of their respective offices. In that case it is by no means certain that the life-guardsman would permit us to enter, the password being frequently regulated by some petty revenge of the chief. This time, however, all is harmonious; the life-guardsman has made no objection, the usher has taken our tickets, and the valet de chambre has indicated our places behind the ladies. What an interesting tableau is presented by this religious solemnity! The chapel of the château being too small for the occasion, the gallery of Diana has been arranged for the ceremony. I see you smile as you raise your eyes to gaze upon the rich paintings which decorate the ceiling of this gallery. Cupid and Psyche, Diana and Endymion, Hercules and Omphale—all these gods and goddesses of paganism appear, little in keeping with the scene of a Christian celebration. But lower your eyes; look at this simple altar, at this pulpit, from which the minister of God will shortly speak, and you will no longer be tempted to smile, for you will have realized the distance which separates truth from error.
At one of the extremities of the gallery is laid an immense table, on which thirteen dishes of different kinds are thirteen times repeated. Each one of them is decorated with fragrant flowers, which exhale a delicious perfume. Along the entire length of the gallery are placed, right and left, three rows of benches. On one side are seated the ladies, whose elegant costumes are, it is true, somewhat worldly; but the books they hold in their hands attest, at least, their pious intentions.
Facing the pews reserved for the royal family, and on more elevated benches, are ranged thirteen poor young children, representing the thirteen apostles; for, at the time of the Supper, Judas had not denied his Master. Behind these are placed the musicians of the king, at their head Cherubini and Lesueur, and directed by Plantade; this combination of talent exhibiting a taste and power of execution unrivalled at that period, and which will still be remembered by many who have had the privilege of listening to them.
But suddenly a voice is heard—"The king." All advance, lean forward, and endeavor to obtain a view of him. He salutes all with the grace so natural to him; and respect alone represses the demonstration which his kindness seems to encourage. The divine office begins; at its conclusion comes the sermon; and finally, carrying out the pious custom of the kings of France, he himself washes the feet of the thirteen apostles as a token of Christian humility. The impious may smile at these touching solemnities of the worship of their forefathers; had they once assisted at a ceremony like this, they would smile no more. Afterwards, the officers of the household advance in a procession, holding in their hands the insignia of their office and bouquets. After them marches the dauphin of France, followed by the high officers. Thirteen times in succession they approach the table to seek the bread, the wine, the different dishes intended for the representatives of the apostles. They carry them to the king, who deposits them in baskets at the feet of each child. To these gifts he adds a purse for each, containing thirteen five-franc pieces. Then the ceremony is over, and the king may say to himself, "I have not only fulfilled an act of devotion and humility; I have also made thirteen families happy."
Having beheld the Most Christian King stooping from his royal majesty to those whom Père Bridaine called the best friends of God, let us now view him in that ceremony which alone, until lately, recalled the ancient traditions of chivalry. Here he is not only King of France; he is Grand Master of the Order of the Holy Ghost. This order, founded by Henri III., and which all the sovereigns of Europe were proud and happy to wear; this order, which decorated the breast of Henri IV., of Louis XIV., and of all the great warriors and statesmen of the last two centuries; this order, the most glorious recompense, and the one most coveted by the celebrated personages of the beginning of the present epoch, is at an end—the late revolution did not choose that it should survive the monarchy.
The last ceremony of the Order of the Holy Ghost took place on May 30, 1830, at Whitsuntide. The most perfect taste and the greatest luxury were displayed in the hangings which decorated the great vestibule and the stone gallery that lead to the chapel; the ingenious and varied talents of Hittorf, Lecointe, and Ciceri being brought into requisition on this occasion. The chapter of the order was held at eleven o'clock in the grand cabinet. There were assembled, in their rich costumes of black velvet, embroidered with gold and faced with green silk, the knights already received into the number, wearing crosswise the collar of the order, and on their cloaks the silver plates—the brilliant insignia of their dignity. The king, the natural nobility of whose appearance was enhanced by this picturesque costume, opened the assembled chapter; then the cortége took up their march to the chapel, where the knights lately promoted were to be received. They marched in double-file through rows, on either hand, of ladies elegantly dressed; the bystanders gazed eagerly on the knights as they advanced, and many satirical remarks were made upon the singular junction of the new celebrities with the members of the old aristocracy.
There walked together the Duc la Tremouille and M. Lainè, M. Ravez and the Duc de Montmorency.
To show how ambition may attain its ends by different paths, the Duc de Décaze and the Comte de Villete, the Comte de Peyronnet and the Duc de Dalmatie; and as if to demonstrate how differently two gentlemen may comprehend the duties of their position, the Duc de Mortemart and the Vicomte de Châteaubriand.
An especial circumstance added the attraction of curiosity while it lent a more touching interest to this scene; the king received as Chevalier of the Order of the Holy Ghost the young Duc de Nemours, in the presence of all his family. All those who were present on this occasion cannot fail to remember the noble and gracious air of the young prince, and the deep emotion perceptible in the voice of the august old man as he defined the duties of a true knight. One might have supposed him a father, happy and proud to find in his son a heart in which the seeds of honor and loyalty must necessarily germinate. All the spectators were moved. A mother wept. Would that these had been the last tears she was destined to shed!
Let us now pass from this grave and imposing ceremonial to those animated and joyous fêtes which took place every year at Saint-Cloud on the day of S. Henri. Shall I show you the Trocadere, filled with games of every description, shops of all kinds, in which the most famous actors of the capital, transformed into foreign merchants, distributed to all comers songs, toys, bonbons, and flowers, all for the trifling remuneration of thanks? Will you assist with the whole court at that brilliant representation of the heroic drama of Bissen, in which Franconi and his actors, men and horses, give proofs of such rare intelligence and address? At the conclusion of this spectacle, the Duc de Bordeaux[135] assembles his little army of children, and before the eyes of the astonished crowd causes them to manœuvre with all the coolness and experience of a veteran captain; then he leads them to the gymnastic games, in which he surpasses them all in strength, daring, and skill. Then, mingling with the soldiers of a neighboring post, he plays at quoits with the latter as if with comrades; but he takes care to lose the game just as he is on the point of winning it, so as to be generous without the appearance of it. Perhaps you might be interested to know that this promising child likewise ardently devotes himself to his studies under the care of his admirable instructors, MM. de Barande and Colart, and more especially to the history of his country; he obstinately refuses to call the Constable of Bourbon anything but the bad Constable, asserting that he has forfeited his right even to his name, having borne arms against his sovereign.
But whither have my reminiscences carried me? Here we are at Saint-Cloud; the games of a child have made me forget the pomps of a court, and, besides, I was only to speak to you of the Tuileries.
This court was not wanting in brilliancy; its luxury, however, was by no means extreme. These three hundred gentlemen of the chamber, these equerries, these officers of ceremony for the household and hunting service, richly dressed in vestments embroidered in gold, were tributaries to industry, and willingly paid the tax of vanity. We too often forget that the bread of the poor is in the hands of the rich, and that it is better for the former that this bread should be the price of labor than the gift of charity.
In order to reconcile ourselves with this luxury, which many unthinkingly condemned, let us assist at those jeux du roi, to which all the social notabilities were invited.
A week before the invitations had been issued, it would be known in all the workshops of Paris that a reception was to take place at the court, and more orders would be received than could be executed. Tailors, dressmakers, embroiderers, modistes, hair-dressers, jewellers, etc., all rejoiced; and the happiness of the invited guest, who repaired to the fête in a showy equipage, was shared by the workman who saw him pass.
Let us hasten to follow the line of those thousand carriages which advance in order towards the Tuileries some time before the hour indicated by the card of invitation; for here it is quite different from those balls of society where the fashion is to arrive late in order to produce a sensation; on the contrary, every one desires to be among the first to obtain a glance from the king. Already crowds are pressing into these vast drawing-rooms, where innumerable wax candles shed so favorable a light over the beauty of the women and their superb dresses. It is impossible to imagine, without having seen it, the magnificent spectacle presented by the throne-room and the Gallery of Diana; on entering these, the dazzling ensemble could be taken in at a glance, and each one stops for a moment, lost in admiration, to contemplate it.
Here are assembled the late minister, thinking how he may seize again the reins of power; the present minister, absorbed in the fear of losing them; and the future minister, musing over the chances he may possess of obtaining them. All three salute each other, press each other's hands affectionately: one might mistake them for friends. Here are grouped peers of France, proud of their hereditary rights, and confident in the stability of them, calculating how much the son of a lord may be worth, and by what dowry the daughter of a banker may purchase the title of countess and the entrée to the court. Here we behold the former senators of Napoleon, who have not, perhaps, renounced their own ideas and illusions; see beside them old generals, who, from the epoch of the Republic down to Charles X., have served all the different governments. The banner has changed, but what does that matter? Military honor has not suffered; that is to be placed only in courage.
These officers, with their large epaulettes, appear to cast disdainful glances on the crowd of men in blue coats, the collars of which, embroidered in fleur-de-lis, designate civic functions. The supporters of the ministry are surprised that so many members of the opposition should have been invited; the latter complain that there are so few of their own party present compared with the number of their adversaries. There is, however, for the time being, neither Right side, Left side, nor Centre—all appear harmonious; and should a vote now be taken, the urn would be filled with white balls, so great in those days was the influence of an invitation from the king—almost equal to that of a ministerial dinner at the present time.
But to the hum of conversation suddenly succeeds a profound silence; the king appears, followed by all the royal family. He circulates slowly through the apartments, and his kindness of heart suggests to him what to say, so as to please each one in turn. None are forgotten; and in addressing himself to the ladies, he perfectly understands the art of complimenting so as to flatter without embarrassing them. I must not omit, in my description of these brilliant assemblies, to speak of the members of the diplomatic corps, the richness and variety of whose costumes enhanced the magnificence of the scene; nor can I conclude without some mention of the courtiers of Charles X. I know it is a usual thing on the stage, and perhaps elsewhere, to depict a gentleman of the court as a low-minded, grasping, insolent imbecile. Those who view them all in this light resemble the traveller who, passing rapidly through a town, and seeing at a window a woman with red hair, came to the conclusion, and wrote, that all the women of the place were red-haired.
The gentleman of the court, such as I have usually known him, since the Restoration, is proud of his birth and of his name; but he knows that he has no more reason to pride himself upon their possession than a singer has to boast of the voice with which nature has gifted him, or a rich man of the fortune left him by his father. Devoted to the king, he does not consider himself the humble servant of the ministers; and when his conscience prescribes it, he places himself in the ranks of the opposition. He is extremely polite, knowing that this is the surest means of securing the recognition of his social superiority. He does justice to merit, and admires it frankly and without envy; but should this merit exist in a man of equal rank with himself, he would be tempted to dispute it. He is generous, for he knows that generosity is a great and noble virtue; and even should it not be a pleasure, it is a duty, for him to exercise it. Without being learned, he is not ignorant of any of the sciences, and he has a tact which enables him to appear a connoisseur in art even when such is not the case; but he no longer takes upon himself to be the protector of artists; he is their friend. He understands that the empire of the white plume and of the red heel is at an end, and that, in order to be respected, he must deserve to be so.
Finally, his morals are good, and this is, perhaps, the greatest change effected by the revolution.
Such, as a general rule, were the courtiers of my time, and amongst them were men full of talent, courage, and energy, sincerely devoted to the true interests of the people, who hated without knowing them; men of noble and loyal souls, filled with devotion to their country, and possessed of that strong, real, and passionate eloquence which astonishes, moves, and persuades those who are resolved to oppose them; men, in short, who, finding it impossible to do the good they desire, and unwilling to participate in the evil which may be done, retire into private life, carrying with them the regrets and the admiration of their fellow-citizens. I do not need to name them. The days devoted to jeux du roi were not the only ones on which persons of various stations were invited to the court. The birthday of the king was the fête of the people; on that day, every cottage was made happy, every family was supplied with bread. But as this fête was not celebrated in the year of grace 1830, I will speak only of New Year's day, on which, according to custom, all the different state corporations come to renew to their sovereign, whoever he may be, their pledges of fidelity and attachment, to pay their homage and proffer their good wishes. To these uniform speeches, prescribed by etiquette, expressive of sentiments more or less real, and couched in phrases more or less high-sounding, according to the taste or ability of the orator, Charles X. had the faculty of returning answers marked by kindness and good sense, rendered with a grace and facility of execution which no one has ever thought of disputing.
The custom which obliged the king to dine in public on New Year's day was not an unpleasant one to Charles X. He had no reason to fear that he might be compared to those Oriental monarchs who, when they have dined well themselves, think that none of their subjects ought to feel hungry. He knew that the wish of Henri IV. had been realized, and that the chicken in the pot was wanting neither to the industrious artisan nor to the hard-working laborers.
If, however, these state dinners were not destitute of charm for him, how much more did he enjoy that family reunion on the jour des rois, which, with its simple pleasures, is an inheritance of past generations! The customs attending this festival, on which royalty is freed from all cares or regrets, are of long standing. The ancients, when they desired to render a feast an especially gay one, always appointed a king, who was elected for the time. Neither is the use of beans, as a distinctive mark of power, a modern idea. The Greeks employed them in the nomination of their magistrates; and when Pythagoras told his disciples to abstain from beans, he gave them a wise counsel, of which every one does not comprehend the enigmatical and mysterious meaning.
Amongst us, however, the bean is attended by none of the dangers dreaded by Pythagoras. How happy is the king of the bean! He has neither courtiers who flatter him nor ministers who betray him; his subjects are his friends; he chooses his queen without regard to political considerations; he eats, he drinks, and, fortunate man, his reign is but for a moment!
The delights of this passing royalty were never more keenly experienced than at the Tuileries on the 6th of January, 1830. All appeared prosperous in the kingdom, and the descendants of Henri IV., assembled at a family dinner, were united in opinion and in affection. It was a fête day for all, and especially for the children, who rejoiced at the unwonted freedom from the restraints of etiquette. Around the royal table were seated, first the august old man, whose goodness of heart ever shone through the dignity of his character. On one side of him was placed the Duchess of Orléans, the happy mother of a numerous and handsome family; on the other the dauphiness, who endeavored to console herself for the want of the same happiness by adopting all the unfortunate—a woman sublime in misfortune, heroic in danger, and who, passing through every stage of affliction, at length reached that height of virtue before which all human glory must bow. Beside her was the Duc d'Orléans,[136] who, when exiled in foreign lands at the same period with Charles X., had given proofs of fidelity, affection, and devotion; he had shared the same trials, and conceived the same hopes. Then came the Duchess de Berri, handsome, happy, proud of her son, imparting gaiety and vivacity to all around her, little dreaming of the future which awaited her, and certainly very far from imagining that, ere long, the poor and afflicted of her asylum at Poissy would be obliged to petition for the charity of the public. We must not forget to mention, in this family group, the dauphin, Mlle. d'Orléans, the Ducs de Chartres, de Nemours, d'Aumale, the Prince de Joinville, the two young and pretty Princesses of Orléans. The Duc de Bourbon is not able to be present; his infirmities confine him to his château of Saint-Leu, where he had, at least, expected to die in peace. But let us reserve our attention for this child who is about to play so important a part among the guests.
By this time, the first two courses have exhausted the patience of these young hearts, but respect restrains any expression of this feeling in them. At length, however, the wished-for moment has arrived, and all eyes are turned towards an officer of the table, who carries on a silver salver, covered with a napkin, fifteen cakes, one of which contains the coveted bean. It falls to the lot of the Duc d'Aumale, as being the youngest, to distribute them among the guests, taking care to keep one for himself. Each one makes haste to ascertain his fate, and exclamations of disappointed ambition are heard on all sides. One child alone blushes and is silent; not that he is embarrassed by the rank about to devolve upon him, but he does not wish to mortify his competitors by giving vent to his innocent delight. His new majesty cannot, however, long remain incognito, and the Duc de Bordeaux is proclaimed king of the bean by universal acclamation. Then, following the example of their new sovereign, the children all give way to an extreme of gaiety, which the king encourages and partakes, and which the dauphiness does not seek to restrain. Soon the choice of the queen is made; it is the Duchess of Orléans, who willingly lends herself to receive an honor which, perhaps, she might not have coveted; and the dinner is concluded amidst shouts of laughter and cries of The king drinks! The queen drinks! frequently re-echoed.
The august personages seated around the royal table are not the only ones who share the cakes of the king. Pieces of these cakes are profusely distributed throughout France. Poets, authors, artists, actors, artisans, old and infirm servants of the Republic and of the Empire, destitute widows and orphans partake of the cake of the king and the bounty of Charles X. on this occasion.
But the time has come to rise from table, and Charles X. requests a moment of silence, which he succeeds with difficulty in obtaining.
"Sire," he says to his grandson, "your reign will be at an end in about five minutes; has your majesty no orders to give me?"
"Yes, grandpapa. I wish...."
"You wish! Take care; in France the king always says we wish."
"Well, then, we wish that our governor would advance us three months of our allowance."
"What will you do with so much money?"
"Grandpapa, the mother of a brave soldier of your guard has had her cottage burned down, and this will not be too much to build it up again...."
"Very well. I will undertake it...."
"No, grandpapa; because, if you do it, it will not be I."
"And how will you do without money for three months?"
"I shall try to gain some by the good marks I get from my teachers, and for which you always pay me."
"Ah! you depend upon that?"
"Certainly; for I must dress my poor people. I have my poor people, like you, like mamma, like my aunt.... Oh! I have made my calculations, and I am quite satisfied. When I shall have given ten francs to the poor woman in the Bois de Boulogne, who has a sick child, I shall still have twenty sous left for the prince."
At these words Charles X. tenderly embraced his grandson, and exclaimed, "Happy France, if ever he should be king!"
FOOTNOTES:
[134] We translate the following chapter from a work published in Paris many years ago, on account of its historical interest, containing, as it does, reminiscences of the youth of Comte de Chambord and other characters since become prominent.—Ed. C. W.
[135] Afterwards Comte de Chambord.
[136] Afterwards Louis Philippe.
THE FUR TRADER.
A TALE OF THE NORTHWEST.
Few men are now living who remember Montreal as it was in the beginning of this century, when the Northwest Fur Company had reached the summit of its prosperity, and the Frobishers, McGillivrays, McTavishes, and McKenzies, with a host of their associates, were "names to conjure withal"; so potent had they been made by a long and uninterrupted series of successful adventures in the fur trade of the northwestern wilds.
The princely hospitality exercised by the partners in their Montreal homes, and the fitful deeds of profuse generosity with which they delighted to surprise the people on both sides of the border, served to spread their fame far and wide, and to keep their "memory green" by many a sequestered hearthstone long after the Northwest Fur Company had ceased to exist, and its members had all passed away.
For many years the fireside legends of rural hamlets on the frontier were made up in a great measure from narratives of startling adventures, hazards, fatigues, and privations encountered by the clerks, agents, voyageurs, and coureurs des bois employed by this most energetic and enterprising, if at the same time most unscrupulous, corporation. Its schemes were devised with masterly skill, and executed with reckless daring. Not content to limit its transactions within the extensive regions allotted to its sway, it extended them north into territories over which the Hudson's Bay Company had long held control, and south into a large domain belonging to the United States, and occupied to some extent by traders under the protection of our government.
These invasions of the rights of others brought the servants of the company into frequent collision with its rivals; but the men appointed to such posts were selected from a large band of trained and tried veterans in the service, and the dashing promptitude with which they met or evaded opposition and obstacles seemed like magic to the opposing parties of trappers, free-traders, and half-breeds thus encountered, and gained them the reputation, among that superstitious class, of being in league with the father of all evil.
These collisions and outbreaks among the disciples of Mammon, as well as the pernicious influence gained and exercised by them over the savage tribes with whom they were engaged in traffic, were the occasion of great grief and anxiety to a widely different class of men, who had long occupied those territories, and braved the difficulties, dangers, and hardships of those bleak and desolate regions, on a widely different errand. Dauntless sons of Loyola, they had steadfastly pursued their vocation, "in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of the wilderness, in labor and painfulness, in much watching, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness," proving their allegiance to the Prince of Peace and their claim to his apostolic mission, while proclaiming the Gospel of salvation to the native children of those boundless deserts.
And so it befell that the servants of lucre, who traversed the same districts, at later periods, in pursuance of their vocation, not unfrequently took advantage of the openings thus prepared, and pitched their outposts side by side with the humble chapel and lodge of the missionary. Then the conflict between good and evil, between avarice and generosity, selfishness and benevolence, which had always agitated the Old World, was renewed in the wilderness, and carried on as earnestly as if rival crowns were striving for the mastery. An unequal strife it must always prove, so long as poor human nature prefers to be the victim of evil rather than the servant of virtue.
Many years ago—and long before Catholic missions interested us further than to excite a certain vague admiration for the self-sacrificing zeal with which they were prosecuted—we listened to the following recital from the lips of an old clerk of the Northwest Company, which we repeat as it was told to us, to set forth some of the difficulties that encompassed the missionaries among the Indians of the Northwest, tending to impede, if not frustrate, the object of their efforts.
On a fine day in the month of September, 18—, a fleet of canoes was sweeping down one of the large rivers which flow through the northwestern portion of our country. They were manned by Canadian voyageurs, the plash of whose paddles kept time with the gay chansons, which were borne in such unison upon their blended voices as to seem, except for the volume of sound, the utterance of but one.
In the leading vessel of the little squadron, well enveloped in the folds of a magnificent fur mantle, to shield from autumnal chills, which settle early upon those regions, their commander reclined at his ease. He was a person of imposing presence and stately manners, whose face, grave and thoughtful for one from which the flush of youth had scarcely passed, presented that fine type of manly beauty peculiar to the Highland Scotch.
He seemed too entirely absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the songs of his light-hearted companions, the merry chat with which they were interspersed, or even the sly jokes that, with the freedom produced by the lawless habits of the wilderness, were occasionally levelled at himself and, the confidential clerk who was his inseparable attendant. Nor did his reflections seem to be of an agreeable nature; for at times his dark eye would flash fiercely, and his brow contract to an ominous frown, and again his countenance would subside into its habitual and somewhat pensive expression.
Twilight was closing around them as they approached a trading-post of the Northwest Company, which had been recently opened near a long-established missionary station, the spire of whose humble chapel was lifted above the numerous huts that formed an Indian village of considerable extent along the bank of the river.
Here their commander ordered them to land, and, after securing the canoes for the night, to transfer their cargoes to the storehouse of the company. He directed in person the removal of the most valuable merchandise, and, entrusting the remainder to the care of his clerk, proceeded with haughty strides toward the lodge of the resident missionary.
He was met at the entrance by a reverend father in the habit of the Society of Jesus, and saluted with a distant politeness which quite unsettled his accustomed expression of composure and easy indifference. An embarrassing silence followed his admission within the lodge—a silence which the good father seemed in no haste to break—when the gentleman began with a hesitating manner, as if his proud spirit disdained what he was about to say in opening the conversation:
"I regret to hear, reverend father, that we have been so unhappy as to incur your displeasure in the course of our transactions with the natives; and I frankly confess that this regret is greatly increased by our knowledge of your influence over them, the exercise of which we would gladly have secured to promote the interests of our trade."
"It is not a question of my displeasure," the priest replied sadly. "To my Master you must answer for the crying injustice you have practised towards his children of the wilderness, and for the sinful courses into which they have been beguiled. You have betrayed his cause with those who trusted you on account of the name of Christian, which you so unworthily bear, and to him you must answer for it. As to my influence, it would have been easily secured, if your dealings with these untutored natives had been governed by justice and integrity. But I warn you, that unless you repent the wrongs you have inflicted yourself, and by the hands of your agents, upon them, making such requital as remains within your power, a fearful retribution awaits you in this world, and eternal despair in the next. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay.'"
"Pardon me, good father; but I think you greatly exaggerate the wrongs of which you speak. It is not possible for men of your calling to estimate or understand the scope of vast commercial enterprises and the course of great mercantile operations. Your imagination has brooded over the transactions which you so sternly condemn, until it has given them a false magnitude. They transpired in the ordinary course of business, and though followed by results which I deplore as deeply as yourself, I do not feel disposed to take blame to myself or our company for them."
"You will not plead 'commercial enterprise' or 'mercantile transactions' before the bar of the great Judge in excuse for eternal interests which have been sacrificed to your greed for gain; for confiding and innocent souls that have been betrayed and lost by your fault. Through your iniquities and those of your servants in dealing with these children, once so willing to be taught and to practise the duties of our holy religion, they have been transformed into demons of revenge; and, disregarding our remonstrances, have committed, and will continue to commit, deeds of bloody vengeance at which the world will stand aghast. Alas! the world will never know the provocations that goaded them to madness; for who will tell the story for the poor Indian? Merciless slaughter and extermination is all they have to look for at the hands of men calling themselves Christians."
"Good father, your imagination or ambition, or both, have led you astray in these matters, and hoodwinked your reason. You wish to be the sole power among these people, and are jealous of intruders who may endanger your sway. Your order, if it has not been greatly belied, has more than once mistaken worldly ambition for zeal in the service of God."
"One would think," the priest replied, smiling and casting his eyes around the comfortless apartment and its meagre furniture—"one would think that the scattered sons of a suppressed and persecuted order, who must toil diligently with their own hands to procure their sustenance, while they break the bread of life to these poor savages, might have escaped such accusation, if any servant of their Master might; but I thank him that he thus permits our enemies to set the seal of sacred verity upon the bleakest altars of our sacrifice!"
"All this is foreign to the purpose of my visit. I do not wish to dispute the glories of your exalted mission or to interfere with its dominion, but simply to inquire if we may not in some way propitiate your favor in the interests of our business. I am a man of few words, more accustomed to command than to entreat, and go directly towards the object at which I aim, instead of seeking out crooked paths. We will furnish money, if that will gain your patronage, to build and decorate temples and houses for your missions in these deserts that shall dazzle the senses of their savage tribes, and allure their souls to Christianity; for a master of the craft needs not to be told how easily they are impressed by external splendor. You would be wise to accept our proposal, were it only to promote the great ends for which you are striving."
"Sell the flock to the wolf, for the purpose of building and embellishing the fold! But in what direction do you wish our influence with this people to be exercised?"
"To draw back to us the trade which they withheld at first through dislike of our agents, and are now preparing to transfer to our rivals, these newly established American companies, greatly to our disadvantage. We have incurred enormous expense and labor to organize and provide our trading-posts at points accessible to them on the northern rivers, for their convenience as well as our own, to prevent the necessity for frequent and tedious journeys to Montreal; and it is unjust to deny us the benefit of them, and transfer it to rival associations. Then, these Americans have interests opposed to ours in every respect. I should think that you, who are a Canadian citizen, from Montreal like myself, would naturally take our part against our Protestant rivals."
"As befits my calling, I shall most approve those who deal most justly with my flock, of whatever name or nation. As to religion, I greatly fear it holds but feeble sway, by any name, among those who are fighting the fierce battles of Mammon! The officers and agents of the new establishments, like those of the Hudson's Bay Company, have, however, given an example, which you would do well to follow, by treating the missionaries and their cause with great respect, and refraining from defrauding the natives or seducing them into evil practices by the unlimited sale of liquors, by which they are changed to demons. The persuasions and example of your coureurs des bois have done much to demoralize the Indians; but your own conduct has done more, as your conscience must testify. Though you renounced the name of Catholic when you turned your back upon the obligations it imposes, your apostasy will not shield you from the consequences of your acts."
The gentleman started suddenly to his feet, as if stung by the words, his voice trembling with agitation as he said: "I see I but waste time and words in this parley, since you are resolved to magnify trifling faults into enormous crimes. But remember, should these natives persevere in their present savage schemes, and, from refusing to trade with us, proceed in their senseless anger to deeds of blood, it will be easy to fasten the odium of instigating their crimes upon you and your fraternity, who have stubbornly refused our proffered friendship."
As he gathered his mantle about him to depart, the priest replied meekly: "Your threats are vain; we have planted the grain of mustard-seed in these wilds, and it will grow and flourish. It matters not whether our hands or those of others shall carry on the work we have begun. Our times are in the hands of God, and not of men."
As his visitor withdrew, the reverend father opened his Breviary, and, pacing the apartment with measured steps, soon forgot the griefs, annoyances, and discouragements of his position in the consoling occupation of reading his Office, which now entirely absorbed him.
While he was thus engaged, the door was opened quietly, and a singular-looking stranger entered without hesitation or ceremony, depositing his rifle at the door. After peering inquisitively around the room, and casting sundry furtive glances towards the deeply abstracted priest from keen, gray eyes, which were deeply set under shaggy eyebrows, he proceeded to divest himself of a large package of furs and a miscellaneous assortment of traps that had been thrown over his shoulder, and, taking the place lately occupied by the lordly commander of the post, seated himself on one of the rude settles which served as chairs in the simple furniture of the lodge, with the careless ease of one accustomed to make himself quite at home wherever he might chance to halt.
The appearance and dress of this free-and-easy guest were so peculiar as to merit description. He was very tall, of lean and bony but muscular frame. He wore a hunting-frock, made from the dressed skin of the antelope, and confined at the waist by a leathern girdle buckled firmly; from which depended, on his right side, a sheath, into which a large hunting-knife was thrust, and on his left a shorter one for another knife of smaller size, used in skinning the animals taken. By the side of the latter hung a powder-horn and a large leathern pouch for other ammunition. His nether gear was a compromise between civilized and savage attire, as it served the united purposes of trowsers, leggings, and hose, being laced on one side with thongs of deer's tendons from the knees to his huge feet, which were encased in stout moccasins made of buffalo-hide.
He sat very composedly, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands in a musing attitude, his battered, sunburnt, and hardened face wearing an expression curiously compounded of shrewd intelligence, simplicity, inquisitiveness, and good-humor, over which a slight dash of veneration cast an unwonted gleam of bashful timidity as he threw occasional sidelong glances towards the good father, who, when he had finished his Office and closed the Breviary, noticed the presence of his guest for the first time, and, approaching to greet him, asked whom he had the pleasure to address.
"Wa'al," he replied in a voice cracked, as it were, by the northern blasts to which he had long been exposed, and marked by the sharp nasal twang of his native State—"wa'al, I'm Hezekiah Hulburt, at your sarvice. I hail from Conneticut, and follow trappin' for a livin'. The Injins call me Big Foot, and they've told me 'bout you and your dewins. Though I haint no great 'pinion of 'em, wild or tame, and don't put much faith in what they say, I conclude, from all I've seen and heard, that you're a preachin' the Christian religion among 'em under consid'able many difficulties. An Injin needs more'n a double load of Gospil truth to overbalance the evil that's in him, and then's, like's not, the fust you know, his Christianity'll kick the beam when opportewnity sarves. I know the critters well; and here, a while ago when our Methodist preachers undertook 'em, I told 'em 'twas no go, the Christian religion wouldn't fit an Injin no how; and they found t'was so. Mebbe you'll come eout better; and I guess likely you will, for you seem to know better how to go to work with 'em and keep the right side on 'em, which is everything with Injins. And then, you've got more things to 'tract their attention, and help to 'splain and 'spound Scripter truths to an Injin's idees. But this an't what brought me here neow. I come to have a little talk with you 'bout the doins of these here fur companies that are kickin' up such a shine among themselves and the trappers. It's gittin' to be a plaguy risky bizness to trade with any on 'em, they're so 'tarnal jealous of one another, and each one's so mad if a fellow trades with any but themselves. Nat'rally enough, I take to my own folks, and would ruther trade with the new company, bein's they're Americans and my own flesh and blood, as a body might say. Now, in this awfully spread-out country, for one who's only a pilgrim and sojourner, as 'twere, like myself, and who has nothin' but his own broad shoulders to depend on for carrying his marchandise, it makes a sight of odds whether he can trade it off near by, or has to foot it across the plains, and as like's not clean to the big lakes, 'fore he can onshoulder it. I'm a man of peace, and haint no notion of goin' in for a fight with 'em, du what they will. But they better look out for them Injins! These Nor'westers haint seen the airthquake yet that's to foller that are bizness of the Big Feather; but when it comes, it'll shake 'em in their shoes for all their big feelin's, and swaller their proud and scornful leader quicker'n a feller could wink. I wash my hands of the whole consarn, but I've hearn the rumblin' on't, and it's a-comin' as sure's my name is Hezekiah, if suthin' an't done, an' pretty quick time, too! Revinge is an Injin's religion; and be he Christian or be he pagan, what's bred in the bone stays long in the flesh."
The attention of the reverend father was now thoroughly awakened. He had heard from the Indians of the friendly Big Foot and the frequent assistance he had given to protect them from the dishonesty of the traders. He proceeded at once to draw from the trapper further particulars of an affair, the rumor of which had reached him and been alluded to by him in his interview with his preceding guest, but of which he could gain but little information from the natives.
The facts communicated were, that as soon as the new company was formed, the Northwest traders had scattered their spies among the Indians to watch any symptoms of an intention to transfer the trade, withheld from them on account of their dishonest conduct, into the hands of their rivals. These scouts had reported a general movement of all those tribes to whom the American stations were accessible, indicating their intention to unite among themselves, and open a friendly traffic with the new traders.
The "Northwesters," as those connected with the old company were called, took the alarm at the prospect of seeing a large and very lucrative branch of their business pass to the benefit of rivals, who were the more formidable from being on their own territory and under the protection of the United States government.
Their leader in that department, who visited the lodge of the missionary, was a man of unlimited resources; clever and crafty in scheming, unscrupulous in executing his devices. He entered without delay upon a systematic course of harassing and perplexing measures to clog the machinery and impede the operations of his competitors. There is reason to believe he found efficient aid in these from former partners and clerks of the Northwest Company, who, in accordance with the terms of agreement between the two companies at the time the American association was organized, had unfortunately been retained in its service.
He also enlisted a motley crew of voyageurs, coureurs des bois, half-breeds, free trappers, and renegades from civilization, to carry out his well-concerted plans for embarrassing the enterprises of his rivals by land and water, and discouraging their officers and agents in every department. All these designs were accomplished with such silent adroitness as not only to baffle detection, but to avoid awakening any suspicion in the minds of his victims, who found themselves thwarted and defeated at every point without being able to discover the cause.
As part of his general policy, he dispersed a large body of hirelings among the tribes who had formerly been hostile to those embraced in the newly contemplated alliance (but whose animosity had been quelled, and mutual friendly relations between the factions established, by the diligent exertions of the missionaries), representing to them that their ancient enemies were about to unite, under the approbation of the missionaries, with the American companies, to destroy them and take possession of their hunting-grounds; that the missionaries had been insincere in their professions and instructions, aiming only to keep them quiet until measures were perfected for their ruin. These emissaries were also instructed to offer them arms and ammunition, if they would waylay the different parties on their course to the American trading-posts, and prevent their reaching them; and the highest price for any peltries thus obtained.
The most considerable body of Indians, bound for one of these posts with a large amount of valuable furs, was under command of the great chief, Big Feather. Against this band the hostile force was directed. It was surprised, completely routed, and the chief, with many of his followers, killed. All the goods were conveyed by the victors without delay to the nearest station of the Northwest Company.
Their operations were equally successful in other quarters, and the trade entirely secured for that season.
The free trapper whom the Indians called Big Foot had held himself neutral, but had noted, with the keen shrewdness of his race, the course affairs were taking, and had traced the disturbing cause to his own satisfaction. He exerted all his influence to pacify the outraged Indians, so cruelly betrayed and plundered, and used his best efforts to convince the victors of the stratagems and falsehoods by which they had been deceived.
Both parties listened with cool decorum to his arguments, but would make no reply. This silence was deemed an ill omen by the priest and the hunter.
Now, this chief, Big Feather, had a young daughter, who was the delight of his heart and the glory of the whole tribe. She was beautiful, graceful, and modest; with a quiet stateliness of manner that distinguished her among the daughters of her people, and was attributed by them to the power of the Christian faith, which she was the first of her nation to profess, and soon led her father and brother also to receive.
She had been so unfortunate as to captivate the unprincipled commander of the Northwestern trading-posts, who had used every artifice to gain her young heart, and, it was well known, had long sought an opportunity to get her within his power. On the night of the ambush and attack by which her father lost his life, the quarters where she was left were also attacked, some of the women and children cruelly massacred, but her body and that of her nurse, or attendant—with whom she was provided, as daughter of the chief, according to the custom of the natives—were not to be found among the slain. Her people suspected they had been carried captive to the headquarters of the company.
The trapper was convinced that her brother, who escaped from the fatal affray, and was now chief in the place of his father, was preparing to make a vigorous effort to recapture her and avenge the death of the old chief. It would need little persuasion to bring all the natives friendly to his tribe to make common cause with him in such a conflict, and scenes of frightful bloodshed must ensue, the end of which could hardly be conjectured.
The question discussed with painful anxiety between the missionary and the trapper was, whether anything could be done to prevent this shocking result. To this end, a Christian brave of the village was summoned, and the subject of their conference explained to him.
"And now," said the reverend father, "if you know of any plans of this kind, or of any means by which their execution can be prevented, it is your duty, and I conjure you, to reveal them."
"The voice of our father is good," replied the Indian with great respect, "and, when he speaks for the Great Spirit, his words are strong; but would he make of his son a babbling woman? Who drew the knife? Was it the hand of thy children that dug up the hatchet? And shall they talk of peace when the blood of their chief and his men cries to them for vengeance. When the daughter of our nation is seized for the wigwam of him whose words filled the coverts with creeping foes to drink our blood, shall we give him our Bird of Heaven and say 'it is well'?"
"But if she could be recovered without the shedding of blood; if a council of the Indians on both sides could be called, that the truth of this matter might be fully revealed and understood, would it not be better than useless strife? The traders care not for your race. They care not if you fight until there is no one left of your tribes to tell the tale; and will you give them that satisfaction? They have set you against each other. They have deceived your brothers with lying words; and will you crown their lies with success? Above all, shall it be said that we have delivered the message of peace and the commands of the Great Spirit to his children of the wilderness in vain?"
"If he loves his children, why did he not smite their foes? The tongue of the pale-face is long; its words reach afar. They are sweet as honey, while his heart is full of poison. His arm is strong, and the knives in his camp are sharp. His coverts in the wilds are many, and past finding out. Who shall find and bring back our daughter, if we take not the war-path to the strong house of the pale chief?"
"I'll warrant ye I will!" exclaimed the trapper, unable to remain silent any longer. "I haven't wandered through this awfully mixed-up part of God's creation, where the woods and the waters, the mountains and the valleys, lay round in a permiscus jumble that'd puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer, for these twenty years, without sarchin' out as many hidin'-places as there's quills on a hedgehog. And to say that I've sojourned all that time among Injins of all sorts, on the freendliest tarms, and 'thout a hard word with any on 'em, drunk or sober, heathen or Christian, to be carcumvented by a pesky Britisher at last, is an idee that'd raise a Yankee's dander if anything would. No, no! Just you jine hands with me, and he'll find he's no match for Injins and a Yankee, or my name an't Hezekiah! We'll be too much for the 'tarnal sarpent!" And he fell into a series of low chuckles expressive of his foregone persuasion of victory.
"Enough!" said the Indian gravely. "The ear of the young chief shall be filled with the words of our father and the Big Foot, and his voice make reply." And he departed. The missionary requested the trapper to remain with him through the night and until the answer of the young chief should be made known.
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.
S. CATHARINE OF RICCI.[137]
[The following sketch of a great Dominican saint is from the pen of a member of the same order who escaped in an extraordinary manner from the massacre of Paris. We are pleased to learn that a colony from the French province so auspiciously restored by F. Lacordaire is about to be established in St. Hyacinthe, Canada.—Ed. C. W.]
"All the mysteries of Jesus Christ gleam with the same brightness," says Bossuet; they are stamped with the mark of that divine folly which is the summit of wisdom, and of which S. Paul spoke when he confessed that he knew nothing but Jesus Christ crucified, and wished no other glory than his sublime ignominy. Now, this scandal of the cross is especially manifested in the lives of the saints; for the saints are the most faithful images of Jesus Christ crucified. The world does not understand these magnanimous souls, all of whose desires tend to the things above; it is offended by this scandal, and sympathizes only with those lives in which the mysteries of divine love are closely concealed. It does not understand the Gospel, and is, as it were, blinded by these words of Jesus Christ. "Father, I thank thee that these things have been concealed from the proud, and revealed to the humble of heart."
"Whenever," again says Bossuet, "we attempt to fathom the depths of divine wisdom by our own strength, we are lost and confounded by our pride; whereas the humble of heart may enter therein undisturbed." Such are the maxims to be kept in view whilst reading the lives of the saints, and especially the admirable life of S. Catharine of Ricci, wherein God pleased to manifest to the world all the riches and all the folly of his love.
S. Catharine of Ricci was born at Florence on the 23d of April, 1522. On the day following, she was baptized in the church of S. John the Baptist, and received the name of Lucretia Alexandrina Romola. Her father was the head of the family of Ricci, one of the most illustrious in Florence, and her mother was the last offspring of the noble house of Ricasoli. From her earliest years Alexandrina gave evidence of the eminent sanctity to which God had predestined her. When only three years old, she began to devote herself to prayer. She sought solitude and silence, that she might more freely converse with God, who wished to draw to himself the earliest affections of this chosen soul. When God predestines a soul to heroic sanctity, he generally bestows on her many special graces, even before the development of free will gives to the creature the full possession of herself. True, there are many exceptions; God calls to himself some, who, having allowed themselves to be deceived by the artful smiles of the world, bring to the foot of the altar only the shattered fragments of their hearts; but in general, he comes before the dawn, knocks at the door of the heart, and cries out, as in the Canticle: "Open to me, my sister, my spouse; for my head is covered with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night."
It was at once evident that Alexandrina was not made for the empty and turbulent pleasures of worldly life. God could not permit so pure a chalice to be profaned; so sweet a flower could blossom only under the quiet shelter of the cloister. It was in the convent of the Benedictine nuns of S. Peter de Monticelli that the daughter of Pier Francesco de Ricci was initiated into the monastic life. It was a house of education, and Alexandrina entered there as a pupil. The religious, seeing the angelic piety of the child, doubted not that she would one day take the habit of their order. Unfortunately, the primitive fervor, charity, self-abnegation, and humility ceased to dwell within these cloisters; and Alexandrina, perceiving that she could not there make her permanent abode, at the age of nine years returned to her father's house. There she continued, as well as she could, the customs of the convent, without objection from her father, who, considering them as innocent plays of a puerile piety, allowed her full liberty to exercise her devotions.
But Alexandrina had higher views. Already had she decided, in her own mind, to become a religious. One day, two lay Sisters of the Monastery of S. Vincent de Prato came to Pier Francesco to beg alms. Alexandrina was so edified by their piety, their modesty and recollection, that she decided at once that the convent of Prato was the one to which God called her. She acquainted her father with her determination; but he, unwilling to be separated from a child who was all his joy, replied by a formal refusal. He knew not that when God calls a soul to himself, even the heart of a father must yield to the irresistible attraction of that love in comparison with which all other affections, even the most holy, are incapable of enchaining a soul which listens to the voice of Jesus Christ. Therefore, rather than see his daughter wither like a plant kept from its native soil, he permitted Alexandrina to receive the veil in the convent of Prato. She received the habit of S. Dominic on Whitmonday, May 18, 1535, having completed her thirteenth year. She took the name of Catharine, in memory of her mother, who had been dead several years. The fervor of the young novice can be easily imagined; but God, who had destined her to the most sublime revelations, wished to cast into the depth of her soul the foundation of all solid virtue—humility; therefore, he permitted that this precious treasure should not be appreciated by the community during her year of novitiate. The supernatural gifts which had already been bestowed upon her rendered more difficult the obligations of common life. Meanwhile, she was admitted to profession on the 24th of June, 1536. From that day the order of S. Dominic received a new and most pure glory. This glory had been foretold by Savonarola, who, one day pointing to a place in his neighborhood, said to some religious of S. Dominic: "There a fervent community of pious sisters will be soon established." As soon as the soul of Catharine, like an altar prepared for a long sacrifice, was consecrated by her religious vows, Jesus Christ surrounded her with his sweetest favors, and illumined her with his most brilliant lights.
But lest the sublimity of these revelations might weaken the profound humility of this soul, God permitted that the Sisters of Prato, far from admiring in her the wonders of the divine operations, understood nothing of these ecstasies, which they attributed to the most common causes; and, in fine, she was afflicted by two terrible diseases, which lasted two years, after which she was miraculously cured by blessed Jerome Savonarola. At this time the Sisters of Prato began to judge more rightly their holy companion, and her confessor commanded her to tell him faithfully all that God deigned to reveal to her in these intimate communications.
It is here begins that wonderful succession of extraordinary favors bestowed on S. Catharine de Ricci. Her life seemed one continual ecstasy; her visions participated more and more in the divine light; her union with Jesus Christ, consecrated by a nuptial love and the stigmata, became more intimate; the report of her sanctity spread itself abroad; the most important personages of Italy came to Prato to consult and venerate the humble religious, whose whole life is an eloquent teaching and living representation of Jesus Christ crucified. This part of the saint's life contains facts of too elevated a character to be completely treated of in a synopsis; it is necessary to read those chapters in which the author has so well treated of the most difficult questions of mystical theology. But it is easier to follow S. Catharine in the government of her monastery and her salutary influence abroad.
She was elected prioress in the first month of the year 1552. Her immediate duty was to instruct her sisters, and to inspire them with an appreciation of their sublime vocation. Often she called her community to the chapter-room, and, addressing to them a doctrine which came from God himself, she taught her spiritual daughters the way they were to follow in order to reach the summit of religious perfection. She has left us an abridgment of her mystical teaching in a letter which she addressed to a religious. "At first," says she, "we must endeavor to be disengaged from every earthly affection, loving no creature but for God's sake; then, advancing a degree, we must love God, not only from self-interest, but purely for himself and because of his supreme excellence.
"Secondly, all our thoughts, words, and actions should tend towards God; and by our prayers, exhortations, and good example, we should aim only at procuring his glory in ourselves and in others.
"Thirdly, and lastly, we should rise still higher in the fulfilment of God's will, to such a degree as to have no longer any desire in regard to the misfortunes or joys which happen to us in this miserable life.
"But we shall never arrive at this height of perfection unless by a firm and courageous denial of our own will. To acquire such self-abnegation, it is absolutely necessary to lay the foundation of profound humility, that, by a perfect knowledge of our own misery and fragility, we may ascend to the knowledge of the greatness and goodness of our God."
It appears that the whole spiritual doctrine of S. Catharine is contained in these two fundamental points—self-abnegation and humility, in order to deserve the enjoyment of divine contemplation: this is the true and the only way to sanctity.
Although the first duty of a superior is to guide those confided to his care, he has, however, a more painful task—he must govern them; and it is here that the superior meets the most serious obstacles in the exercise of his charge. It is always difficult to govern others; for government is the application of laws with firmness, yet without too much severity. Now, human nature shrinks from submission, which, nevertheless, the superior is obliged to require, unless he be a prevaricator; on the other side, he must often adopt measures of government which can be discerned only by the most consummate prudence and a profound knowledge of the weakness of human nature.
In a religious community the difficulty is still greater; for the law is supported by conscience only, and it tends to guide those who have accepted it to that ideal perfection in which the soul is no longer attached to the earth. During forty years S. Catharine governed the convent of Prato with a prudence, a sweetness, and a firmness that made it the perfect type of a religious community. She combated most energetically all abusive exemptions from common life, and showed herself a faithful guardian of holy observances. But if she was the enemy of relaxation of the rule, she also censured severely the proud zeal of those souls whose whole perfection consisted in repeating the prayer of the Pharisee: "O God, I thank you that I am not as the rest of men. I fast twice a week."
Under the direction of a prioress so holy and so wise, the Sisters of Prato walked with rapid strides in the way of perfection; and how could it be otherwise, when they beheld their superioress tender towards them as a mother, and discharging her offices sometimes even in the raptures produced by the divine revelations?
The influence of S. Catharine was not confined to the monastery of Prato. God would not permit that this community should be the only witness of such elevated sanctity. The religious of her order—her brethren in S. Dominic—were the first witnesses of the extraordinary graces which she had received from heaven, and, on her side, S. Catharine had for them the greatest esteem, the most lively affection, regarding them as laborers chosen by God to cultivate his choicest vineyard. Every time the fathers came to Prato to exercise the functions of prior, confessor, or preacher, they seemed to her as "so many angels descended from heaven, whose presence alone was sufficient to inspire the sisters with sentiments of respect, and whose coming was to infuse fresh zeal for a more perfect life."
By degrees the influence of S. Catharine, and the renown of her sanctity, were spread throughout Italy. Persons from all parts came to consult her and beg her prayers. Joan of Austria, Archduchess of Tuscany, was bound to her by a tender friendship; she went often to the convent of Prato to confide to the holy prioress all the vexations and sorrows of her life. She profited so well by the counsels of her holy friend that she was no longer called by other name than the good archduchess. As if Germany envied Italy the treasure she possessed in the monastery of Prato, the King of Bavaria sent his son there to convince himself of that which the renown had spread concerning this servant of God, and to recommend himself and his kingdom to her prayers. The influence of S. Catharine in the world had been deepest on those whom the author of her life so justly calls her spiritual sons: Antonio de Gondi, Philippo Salviati, Giovanni-Batisti de Servi, Lorenzo Strozzi, and many others.
The first and most celebrated of all was of the illustrious house of Gondi. A branch of this family established itself in France at the commencement of the XVIth century, and from it descended the famous Cardinal de Retz.
The author, in devoting a short and interesting biography to some of the spiritual sons of S. Catharine, shows us what salutary influence she exercised over the chief persons of her country, and to what degree of eminent sanctity she conducted those souls who sought her direction. Faithful to all the suggestions of gratitude, she did not forget that the great Apostle of Tuscany had prophesied the glory of the monastery of Prato, and that twice she had been cured by his supernatural intervention; therefore, she forwarded in every way devotion to Savonarola. She charged Brother Nicholas Fabiani to revise the writings of that celebrated Dominican, and she addressed herself to Count Luis Capponi to procure a beautiful portrait of Savonarola. She had for that illustrious character the tenderness of a daughter and the admiration which a great life inspires in a soul capable of comprehending it.
The last years of the life of S. Catharine was a union the most intimate with God, a continual succession of ecstasies; her body was on earth, but her soul was in heaven.
Towards the month of January, she fell sick, and died on Friday, the 2d of February, in the same year. Numerous miracles attested the eminent sanctity of her life. She was beatified by Pope Clement XII. on the 30th of April, 1732, and was canonized by Benedict XIV. on the 20th of June, 1746.
This is an incomplete synopsis of the two volumes published by R. P. Bayonne. This work, destined to make known one of the greatest glories of the order, recommends itself to us by the grandeur of the subject itself, and unites a solid doctrine to a brilliant style, and all the charms of a perfect narration. We hope it will soon be translated into English, that the American public may become more fully acquainted with a book which takes an honorable place in modern literature.
FOOTNOTES:
[137] Life of S. Catharine of Ricci, Religious of the Third Order of S. Dominic. By R. P. Hyacinth Bayonne, O.S.D.