Before the Most Holy! Thus are we placed in presence of the Eleven, and the kings are on their trial. The Nine are joined by the two men so dissimilar and so indissoluble, Pius IX and Antonelli, in whom, as an official biographer puts it, he early discerned "the man of God," appointed as his succour and stay in his divine office. At the head of the Eleven sits the portly, good-looking Pope, the beau-ideal of an important squire in a remote place—full of will, spirit, and self-confidence, with more art in governing than he has got credit for, at least in that domineering and deluding which avails with priests. He would be as hilarious as a squire who never put to death anything more precious than a pheasant, and never cursed even a gamekeeper with any intention that his curse should be bound in heaven.
Pius IX would now feel all the weight of his office. He was sitting as supreme Judge, to decide upon the claims of the kings of the earth. Were they worthy or were they not worthy to be received into the Council which was to lay "the corner-stone of reconstruction," the Council in which the prerogatives rightfully claimed by his predecessors of blessed memory, but from which the Church, slow of heart to believe, had hitherto withheld her former sanction, were at last to be openly acknowledged in his person?
No one could doubt what view Pius IX would take. The kings were clearly guilty. They had consented to the voice of their people against the voice of the Church. They had abolished harmonious laws. The internal tribunal was reduced to a voluntary confessional; the external tribunal, in most places, was removed, and everywhere subordinated. Even as to the Supreme Tribunal, who hearkened to the words, "Know that thou art the Father of princes and of kings, and the Governor of the world?"
When the call for Trent went forth, the only doubtful crowns were two lying away between civilization and Cimmerian night in England and Sweden. Now on every hand the word was, There are no Catholic princes. That old English crown was now represented by two monsters of power, the British Empire and the United States. Two other monsters had come up, Prussia and Russia. Spain was fallen, Poland was extinct, Italy was hostile, Austria was enfeebled, France was strong but not sound—there were no Catholic States. The social system was indeed in ruins. It was only by clearing away that the foundations for reconstruction could be properly laid; but clearing away was attended with danger. The princes were not to be invited, but they were to be allowed to claim admission. The Bull was then and there altered in this sense.[103]
Meanwhile symptoms of the coming conflict began to appear. Catholics of all classes looked forward to great events for the Church and the nations. Those who did not share the hopes of the hidden Council, or who recoiled from the dogmas likely to be decreed, felt anxious. The Press began to pour out pamphlets and reprints, enabling all to read up on the question of Councils.
"The Crusaders of St. Peter" was the title of historical tales now regularly appearing in the Civiltá, which continued for years. The object was to make the blood of Mentana the seed of a great œcumenical army. Every incident was described with vivid conception and boundless faith in the destiny of the Papacy, with faith too in the duty of all to rear up sons for the Crusade, and faith that those who fell escaped purgatorial pains and found direct entrance among the beatified.
The following are passages scattered here and there—
It was a sight to rejoice the angels in heaven, that of these brave men laying down the carabine to perform the little office of the Virgin, and then turning from the little office of the Virgin to take up the carabine.... On the march fatigue was lightened by reciting the prayer which had so often conquered the foes of the Church, the rosary.... The masters of war know that on the field of battle the last army to deserve ridicule is an army fresh from confession and communion.... A young gentlewoman gave birth to her first-born. "How long it will be," she said, "ere he can carry a musket! But Pius IX can do anything. He can make a zouave even now of my Eugenio." Melted by such faith, the Pope wrote a benediction on a paper "consecrated to him" by the infant. The venerated word was placed in the domestic sanctum, and in return for it "the zouave at the breast will do a soldier's service." Some weeks later, on receiving from him a first oblation, the Pope again wrote a word for "his soldier in swaddling clothes." The family were overjoyed at being permitted within five months to kiss two Papal autographs. The mother wrote, "Eugenio was asleep. I ran to put the Papal benediction on his head and forehead. He immediately broke out in a smile, and to me he looked like an angel. I could not restrain my tears. He still slept, but bounded for joy as long as I kept the blessed letters on his little head.... Should the avengers of Mentana try their hand, the zouave will lisp his first word crying Viva Maria!"
Arthur Guillemin said to his crusaders as he led them to the attack at Monte Libretti, fresh from absolution, "You are all in the grace of God; do not count them, they will fall into our hands." They marched into battle, some with the rosary round their neck, some with the Carmelite scapular on their breast, and some with the cord of St. Francis round the loins, just like that model of a crusader St. Louis. The young Count de Quélen, who fell heroically at Monte Libretti, had just received a letter from his mother. "If thou art to die, my good Urban, die like a hero, like a soldier of God." After his death she writes to a friend in Rome—