Chapter XXIX (1)

Tom Murdock, seeing that his hopes by fair means were completely at an end, and that matters were likely to progress in another quarter at a rate which made it advisable not to let the leading horse get too far ahead, {108} determined to make a rush to the front, no matter whether he went the wrong side of a post or not--let that be settled after.

He had left home, and left a report behind him, which he took care to have industriously circulated, that he had gone to Armagh, and was about to be married to "a young lady" with a large fortune, and that he would visit the metropolis, Fermanagh, and perhaps Sligo, before he returned. But he did not go further than an obscure public-house in a small village in the lower part of the county of Cavan. There he met the materials for carrying out his plan. The object of it was shortly this--to carry away Winny Cavana by force, and bring her to a _friend's_ house in the mountains behind the village adverted to. Here he was to have an old buckle-beggar at hand to marry them the moment Winny's spirit was broken to consent. This man, a degraded clergyman, as the report went, wandered about the country in green spectacles and a short, black cloak, always ready and willing to perform such a job; doubly willing and ready for this particular one from the reward which Tom had promised him. If even the marriage ceremony should fail, either through Winny's obstinacy or the clergyman's want of spirit to go through with it in the face of opposition, still he would keep her for ten days or a fortnight at this _friend's_ house, stopping there himself too; and at the end of that time, should he fail in obtaining her consent, he would quit the country for a while, and allow her to return home "so blasted in character" that even "that whelp" would disown her. There was a pretty specimen of a lover--a husband!

It was now the end of June. The weather had been dry for some time, and the nights were clear and mild; the stars shone brightly, and the early dawn would soon present a heavy dew hanging on the bushes and the grass. The moon was on the wane; but at a late hour of the night it was conspicuous in the heavens, adding a stronger light to that given by the clearness of the sky and the brilliancy of the stars.

Rathcash and Rathcashmore were sunk in still repose; and if silence could be echoed, it was echoed by the stillness of the mountains behind Shanvilla and beyond them. The inhabitants of the whole district had long since retired to rest, and now lay buried in sleep, some of them in confused dreams of pleasure and delight.

The angel of the dawn was scarcely yet awake, or he might have heard the sound of muffled horses' feet and muffled wheels creeping along the road toward the lane turning up to Rathcash house, about two hours before day; and he must have seen a man with a dark mask mounted on another muffled horse at a little distance from the cart.

Presently Tom Murdock--there is no use in simulating mystery where none exists--took charge of the horse and cart to prevent them from moving, while three men stole up toward the house. Ay, there is Bully-dhu's deep bark, and they are already at the door.

"That dog! he'll betray us, boys," said one of the men.

"I'd blow his brains out if this pistol was loaded," said another; "and I wanted Tom to give me a cartridge."

"He wouldn't let any one load but himself, and he was right; a shot would be twiste as bad as the dog; beside, he's in the back yard, and cannot get out. Never heed him, but to work as fast as possible."

Old Ned Cavana and Winny heard not only the dog, but the voices. Winny's heart foretold the whole thing in a moment, and she braced her nerves for the scene.

The door was now smashed in, and the three men entered. By this time old Ned had drawn on his trousers; and as he was throwing his coat over his head to got his arms into the sleeves he was seized, and ere you could count ten he was pinioned, with his arms behind him and his legs tied {109} at the ankles, and a handkerchief tied across his mouth. Thus rendered perfectly powerless, he was thrown back upon the bed, and the room-door locked. Jamesy Doyle, who slept in the barn, had heard the crash of the door, and dressed himself in "less than no time," let Bully-dhu out of the yard, and brought him to the front door, in at which he rushed like a tiger. But Jamesy Doyle did not go in. That was not his game; but he peeped in at the window. No light had been struck, so he could make nothing of the state of affairs inside, except from the voices; and from what he heard he could make no mistake as to the object of this attack. He could not tell whether Tom Murdock was in the house or not, but he did not hear his voice. One man said, "Come, now, be quick, Larry; the sooner we're off with her the better."

Jamesy waited for no more; he turned to the lane as the shortest way, but at a glance he saw the horse and cart and the man on horseback on the road outside; and turning again he darted off across the fields as fast as his legs could carry him.

Bully-dhu, having gained access to the house, showed no disposition to compromise the matter. "No quarter!" was his cry, as he flew at the nearest man to him, and seizing him by the throat, brought him to the ground with a _sough_, where in spite of his struggles, he held him fast with a silent, deadly grip. He had learned this much, at least, by his encounter with the mastiff on New Year's day.

Careless of their companion's strait, who they thought ought to be able to defend himself, the other two fellows--and powerful fellows they were--proceeded to the bed-room to their left; they had locked the door to their right, leaving poor old Ned tied and insensible on the bed. Winny was now dressed and met them at the door.

"Are you come to commit murder?" she cried, as they stopped her in the doorway; "or have you done it already? Let me to my father's room."

"The sorra harm on him, miss, nor the sorra take the hair of his head well hurt no more nor your own. Come, put on your bonnet an' cloak, an' come along wid us; them's our ordhers."

"You have a master, then. Where is he? where is Tom Murdock?--I knew Tom _Murder_ should have been his name. Where is he, I say?"

"Come, come, no talk; but on wid your bonnet and cloak at wanst."

"Never; nor shall I ever leave this house except torn from it by the most brutal force. Where is your master, I say? Is he afraid of the rope himself which he would thus put round your necks?"

"Come, come, on wid your bonnet an' cloak, or, be the powers, we'll take you away as you are."

"Never; where is your master, I say?"

"Come, Larry, we won't put up wid any more of her pillaver; out wid the worsted."

Here Biddy Murtagh rushed in to her mistress's aid; but she was soon overpowered and tied "neck and heels," as they called it, and thrown upon Winny's bed. They had the precaution to gag her also with a handkerchief, that she might not give the alarm, and they locked the door like that at the other end of the house.

Larry, whoever he was, then pulled a couple of skeins of coarse worsted from his pocket, while his companion seized Winny round the waist, outside her arms; and the other fellow, who seemed expert, soon tied her feet together, and then her hands. A thick handkerchief was then tied across her mouth.

"Take care to lave plenty of braithin' room out iv her nose, Larry," said the other ruffian; and, thus rendered unable to move or scream, they carried her to the road and laid her on the car. The horseman in the mask asked them where the third man was, and they replied that he must have {110} "made off" from the dog, for that they neither saw nor heard him after the dog flew at him.

This was likely enough. He was the only man of the party in whom Tom Murdock could not place the most unbounded confidence.

"The cowardly rascal," he said. "We must do without him."

But he had _not_ made off from the dog.

The cart was well provided--_to do Tom Murdock justice_--with a feather-bed over plenty of straw, and plenty of good covering to keep out the night air. They started at a brisk trot, still keeping the horses' feet and the wheels muffled; and they passed down the road where the reader was once caught at a dog-fight.

But to return, for a few minutes, to Rathcash house. Bully-dhu was worth a score of old Ned Cavana, even supposing him to have been at liberty, and free of the cords by which he was bound. The poor old man had worked the handkerchief by which he had been gagged off his mouth, by rubbing it against the bed-post. He had then rolled himself to the door; but further than that he was powerless, except to ascertain, by placing his chin to the thumb-latch, for he had got upon his feet, that it was fastened outside. He then set up a lamentable demand for help--upon Winny, upon Biddy Murtagh, and upon Bully-dhu. The dog was the only one who answered him, with a smothered growl, for he still held fast by the grip he had taken of the man's throat. Poor Bully! you need not have been so pertinacious of that grip--the man has been _dead_ for the last ten minutes! Finding that it was indeed so, from the perfect stillness of the man, Bully-dhu released his hold, and lay licking his paws and keeping up an angry growl, in answer to the old man's cries.

We must leave them and follow Jamesy Doyle across the fields, and see if it was cowardice that made him run so fast from the scene of danger. Ah, no! Jamesy was not that sort of a chap at all. He was plucky as well as true to the heart's core. Nor was his intelligence and judgment at fault for a moment as to the best course for him to adopt. Seeing the fearful odds of three stout men against him, he knew that he could do better than to remain there, to be tied "neck and crop" like the poor old man and Biddy. So, having brought Bully-dhu round and given him 'his cue, he started off, and never drew breath until he found himself outside Emon-a-knock's window at Shanvilla, on his way to the nearest police station.

"Are you there, Emon?" said he, tapping at it.

"Yes," Emon replied from his bed; "who are you, or what do you want?"

"Jamesy Doyle from Rathcash house. Get up at wanst! They have taken away Miss Winny."

"Great heaven I do you say so? Here, father, get up in a jiffy and dress yourself. They have taken away Winny Cavana, and we must be off to the rescue like a shot. Come in, Jamesy, my boy." And while they were "drawing on" their clothes, they questioned him as to the particulars.

But Jamesy had few such to give them, as the reader knows; for, like a sensible boy, he was off for help without waiting for particulars.

The principal point, however, was to know what road they had taken. Upon this Jamesy was able to answer with some certainty, for ere he had started finally off, he had watched them, and he had seen the cart move on under the smothered cries of Winny; and he heard the horseman say, "Now, boys, through the pass between 'the sisters.'"

"They took the road to the left from the end of the lane, that's all I know; so let you cut across the country as fast as you can, an' you'll be at Boher before them. Don't delay me now, for I must go on to the police station an' hurry out the sargent {111} and his men; if you can clog them at the bridge till I cam' up with the police, all will be rights an' we'll have her back wid us. I know very well if I had a word wid Miss Winny unknown to the men, she would have sent me for the police; but I took you in my way--it wasn't twenty perch of a round."

"Thank you, Jamesy, a thousand times! There, be off to the sergeant as fast as you can; tell him you called here, and that I have calculated everything in my mind, and for him and his men to make for Boher-na-Milthiogue bridge as fast as possible. There, be off, Jamesy, and I'll give you a pound-note if the police are at the bridge before Tom Murdock comes through the pass with the cart."

"You may keep your pound, man! I'd do more nor that for Miss Winny." And he was out of sight in a moment.

The father and son were now dressed, and, arming themselves with two stout sticks, they did not "let the grass grow under their feet." They hurried on until they came to the road turning down to where we have indicated that our readers were once caught at a dog-fight. Here Emon examined the road as well as he could by the dim light which prevailed, and found the fresh marks of wheels. He could scarcely understand them. They were not like the tracks of any wheels he had ever seen before, and there were no tracks of horses' feet at all, although Jamesy had said there was a horseman beside the horse and cart.

Emon soon put down these unusual appearances--and he could not well define them for want of light--to some cunning device of Tom Murdock; and how right he was!

"Come on, father," said he. "I am quite certain they have gone down here. I know Tom Murdock has plenty of associates in the county Cavan, and the pass between 'the sisters' is the shortest way he can take. Beside, Jamesy heard him say the words. Our plan must be to cut across the country and get to Milthiogue bridge before they get through the pass and so escape us. What say you, father--are you able and willing to push on, and to stand by me? Recollect the odds that are against us, and count the cost."

"Emon, I'll count nothing; but I'll--

"Here, father, in here at this gap, and across by the point of Mullagh hill beyond; we must get to Boher before them."

"I'll count no cost, Emon, I was going to tell you. I'm both able and willing, thank God, to stand by you. You deserve it well of me, and so do the Cavanas. God forbid I should renuage my duty to you and them! Aren't ye all as wan as the same thing to me now?"

Emon now knew that his father knew all about Winny and him.

"Father," said he, "that is a desperate man, and he'll stop at nothing."

"Is it sthrivin' to cow me you are, Emon?"

"No, father; but you saw the state my mother was in as we left."

"Yes, I did, and why wouldn't she? But shure that should not stop us when we have right on our side; an' God knows what hoult, or distress, that poor girl is in, or what that villain may do to her; an' what state would your mother be in if you were left a desolate madman all your life through that man's wickedness?"

These were stout words of his father, and almost assured Emon that all would be well.

"Father," he continued, "if we get to the bridge before them, and can hold it for half an hour, or less, the police will be up with Jamesy Doyle, and we shall be all right."

The conversation was now so frequently interrupted in getting over ditches and through hedges, and they had said so much of what they had to say, that they were nearly quite silent for the rest of the way, except where Emon pointed out to his father the easiest place to get over a ditch, or through a hedge, or up the face of a {112} hill. Both their hearts were evidently in their journey. No less the father's than the son's: the will made the way.

The dappled specks of red had still an hour to slumber ere the dawn awoke, and they had reached the spot; there was the bridge, the Boher-na-Milthiogue of our first chapter, within a stone's throw of them. They crept to the battlement and peered into the pass. As yet no sound of horse or cart, or whispered word, reached their ears.

"They must be some distance off yet, father," said Emon; "thank God! The police will have the more time to be up."

"Should we not hide, Emon?"

"Certainly; and if the police come up before they do, they should hide also. That villain is mounted; and if a strong defence of the pass was shown too soon, he would turn and put spurs to his horse."

As he spoke a distant noise was heard of horses' feet and unmuffled wheels. The muffling had all been taken off as soon as they had reached the far end of the pass between the mountains, and they were now hastening their speed.

"The odds will be fearfully against us, father," said Emon, who now felt more than ever the dangerous position he had placed his father in, and the fearful desolation his loss would cause in his mother's heart and in his home. He felt no fear for himself. "You had better leave Tom himself to me, father. I know he will be the man on horseback. Let you lay hold of the horse's head under the cart, and knock one of the men, or both, down like lightning, if you can. You have your knife ready to cut the cords that tie her?"

"I have, Emon; and don't you fear me; one of them shall tumble at all events, almost before they know that we are on them. I hope I may kill him out an' out; we might then be able for the other two. Do you think Tom is armed?" he added, turning pale. But it was so dark Emon did not see it.

"I am not sure, but I think not He cannot have expected any opposition."

"God grant it, Emon! I don't want to hould you back, but don't be 'fool-hardy,' dear boy."

"Do you want to cow me, father, as you said yourself, just now?"

"No, Emon. But stoop, stoop, here they are."

Crouching behind the battlements of the bridge, these two resolute men waited the approach of the cavalcade. As they came to the mouth of the pass the elder Lennon sprang to the head of the horse under the cart, and, seizing him with his left hand, struck the man who drove such a blow as felled him from the shaft upon which he sat. Emon had already seized the bridle of the horseman who still wore the mask, and pushing the horse backward on his haunches, he made a fierce blow at the rider's head with his stick. But he had darted his heels--spurs he had none--into his horse's sides, which made him plunge forward, rolling Emon on the ground. Forward to the cart the rider then rushed, crying out, "On, on with the cart!" But Lennon's father was still fastened on the horse's head with his left hand, while with his right he was alternately defending himself against the two men, for the first had somewhat recovered, who were in charge of it.

Tom Murdock would have ridden him down also, and turned the battle in favor of a passage through; but Emon had regained his feet, and was again fastened in the horse's bridle, pushing him back on his haunches, hoping to get at the rider's head, for hitherto his blows had only fallen upon his arms and chest. Here Tom Murdock felt the want of the spurs, for his horse did not spring forward with life and force enough upon his assailant.

A fearful struggle now ensued between them. The men at the cart had not yet cleared their way from the {113} desperate opposition given them by old Lennon, who defendant himself ably, and at the same time attacked them furiously. He had not time, however, to cut the cords by which Winny was bound. A single pause in the use of his stick for that purpose would have been fatal. Neither had he been successful in getting beyond his first position at the horse's head. During the whole of this confused attack and defence, poor Winny Cavana, who had managed to shove herself up into a sitting posture in the cart, continued to cry out, "Oh, Tom Murdock, Tom Murdock! even now give me up to these friends and be gone, and I swear there shall never be a word more about it."

But Tom Murdock was not the man either to yield to entreaties, or to be baffled in his purpose. He had waled Edward Lennon with the butt end of his whip about the head and shoulders as well as he could across his horse's head, which Lennon had judiciously kept between them, at times making a jump up and striking at Tom with his stick.

Matters had now been interrupted too long to please Tom Murdock, and darting his heels once more into his horse's sides, he sprang forward, rolling young Lennon on the road again.

"All right now, lads!" he cried; "on, on with the cart!" and he rode at old Lennon, who still held his ground against both his antagonists manfully.

But all was not right. A cry of "The police, the police!" issued from one of the men at the cart, and Jamesy Doyle with four policemen were seen hurrying up the boreen from the lower road.

Perhaps it would be unjust to accuse Tom Murdock of cowardice even then--it was not one of his faults--if upon seeing an accession of four armed policemen he turned to fly, leaving his companions in for it. One of them fled too; but Pat Lennon held the other fast.

As Tom turned to traverse the mountain pass back again at full speed, Lennon, who had recovered himself, sprang like a tiger once more at the horse's head. Now or never he must stay his progress.

Tom Murdock tore the mask from his face, and, pulling a loaded pistol from his breast, he said: "Lennon, it was not my intention to injure you when I saw you first spring up from the bridge to-night; nor will I do so now, if your own obstinacy and foolhardy madness does not bring your doom upon yourself. Let go my horse, or by hell I'll blow your brains out! this shall be no mere tip of the hurl, mind you." And he levelled the pistol at his head, not more than a foot from his face.

"Never, with life!" cried Lennon; and he aimed a blow at Tom's pistol-arm. Ah, fatal and unhappy chance! His stick had been raised to strike Tom Murdock down, and he had not time to alter its direction. Had he struck the pistol-arm upward, it might have been otherwise; but the blow of necessity descended. Tom Murdock fired at the same moment, and the only difference it made was, that instead of his brains having been blown out, the ball entered a little to one side of his left breast.

Lennon jumped three feet from the ground, with a short, sudden shout, and rolled convulsively upon the road, where soon a pool of bloody mud attested the murderous work which had been done.

The angel of the dawn now awoke, as he heard the report of the pistol echoing and reverberating through every recess in the many hearts of Slieve-dhu and Slieve-bawn. Tom Murdock fled at full gallop; and the hearts of the policemen fell as they heard the clattering of his horse's feet dying away in quadruple regularity through the mountain pass.

Jamesy Doyle, who was light of foot and without shoe or stocking, rushed forward, saying, "Sergeant, I'll follow him to the end of the pass, {114} an' see what road he'll take." And he sped onward like a deer.

"Come, Maher," said the sergeant, "we'll pursue, however hopeless. Cotter, let you stop with the prisoner we have and the Young woman; and let Donovan stop with the wounded man, and stop the blood if he can."

Sergeant Driscol and Maher then started at the top of their speed, in the track of Jamesy Doyle, in full pursuit.

There were many turns and twists in the pass between the mountains. It was like a dozen large letter S's strung together.

Driscol stopped for a moment to listen. Jamesy was beyond their ken, round one or two of the turns, and they could not hear the horse galloping now.

"All's lost," said the sergeant; "he's clean gone. Let us hasten on until we meet the boy; perhaps he knows which road he took."

Jamesy had been stooping now and then, and peering into the coming lights to keep well in view the man whom he pursued. Ay, there he was, sure enough; he saw him, almost plainly, galloping at the top of his speed. Suddenly he' heard a crash, and horse and rider rolled upon the ground.

"He's down, thank God!" cried Jamesy, still rushing forward with some hope, and peering into the distance. Presently he saw the horse trot on with his head and tail in the air, without his rider, while a dark mass lay in the centre of the road.

"You couldn't have betther luck, you bloodthirsty ruffian, you!" said Jamesy, who thought that it was heaven's lightning that, in justice, had struck down Tom Murdock; and he maintained the same opinion ever afterward. At present, however, he had not time to philosophize upon the thought, but rushed on.

Soon he came to the dark mass upon the road. It was Tom Murdock who lay there stunned and insensible, but not seriously hurt by the fall. There was nothing of heaven's lightning in the matter at all. It was the common come-down of a stumbling horse upon a bad mountain road; but the result was the same.

Jamesy was proceeding to thank God again, and to tie his legs, when Tom came to.

Jamesy was sorry the man's _thrance_ did not last a little longer, that he might have tied him, legs and arms. With his own handkerchief and suspenders. But he was late now, and not quite sure that Tom Murdock would not murder him also, and "make off afoot."

Here Jamesy thought he heard the hurried step of the police coming round the last turn toward him, and as Tom was struggling to his feet, a bright thought struck him. He "whipt" out a penknife he had in his pocket, and, before Tom had sufficiently recovered to know what he was about, he had cut his suspenders, and given the waist-band of his trousers a _slip_ of the knife, opening it more than a foot down the back.

Tom had now sufficiently recovered to understand what had happened, and to know the strait he was in. He had a short time before seen a man named Wolff play Richard III. in a barn in C.O.S.; and if he did not roar lustily, "A horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" he thought it. But his horse was nearly half a mile away, where a green spot upon the roadside tempted him to delay a little his journey home.

Tom was not yet aware of the approach of the police. He made a desperate swipe of his whip, which he still held in his hand, at the boy, and sprung to his feet. But Jamesy avoided the blow by a side jump, and kept roaring, "Police, police!" at the top of his voice. Tom now found that he had been outwitted by this young boy. He was so hampered by his loose trousers about his heels that he could make no run for it, and soon became the prisoner of Sergeant Driscol and his companion. Well done, Jamesy!

TO BE CONTINUED.

{115}

Translated from Le Monde Catholique.

FREDERICK HURTER.

Frederick Hurter, the illustrious historian of Pope Innocent III., died on the 27th of August, 1865, in Gratz, Austria, in the sevens-eighth year of his age. Of all the great Catholic characters which we have lost during the past year, there were undoubtedly very few who have shed a greater brilliancy on our era, and still our loss has, comparatively, passed unnoticed. Germany has certainly paid some homage to the memory of that great Christian; but outside that country almost general silence has enshrouded his tomb. In France, for example, not more than three or four religious newspapers have devoted to him even a few lines, and these all derived from a common source, and we should not be surprised if many of our own readers should now learn for the first time, from this notice, the death of a man so justly celebrated.

To what, then, have we to ascribe this forgetfulness or indifference? Perhaps a simple comparison of dates will account for it. Hurter died, as we have stated, in the latter part of August, and La Moricière in the early part of the following month. It is therefore natural to conjecture that the memory of the great historian was almost forgotten, or for the time absorbed, in the midst of the extraordinary manifestations and triumphal funeral ceremonies which have honored the remains of the immortal vanquished of Castelfidardo. It must be admitted, however, that such was not just; it would have been better to allow to each his legitimate share of respect, and, without derogating from the glory of La Moricière, render also to Hurter the honor to which he was so justly entitled. Beside, their names were destined to be associated, for both have fought under the same flag, although in a different manner. Both have been the champions of the Papal See, one with his brave sword and the other with his not less brave pen; and both have left magnificent footprints in the religious annals of the nineteenth century.

Another explanation of this apparent neglect, more natural and perhaps more truthful, might be found in the character of Frederick Hurter itself, and in that of his last writings. A long time previous to his death he had achieved the zenith of his fame; the latter part of his long life being devoted to learned studies of undoubted merit and immense advantage, but which have not had the same general attraction as his earlier productions, particularly with the French people. We freely acknowledge that this fact does but little credit to the Catholic mind of France, but it is nevertheless undeniable. A kind of comparative obscurity has covered with us the latter portion of Hurter's life, and this, in our opinion, is the principal reason that the news of his death has not created a deeper sensation in this country.

In order to repair, as far as it lies in our power, this injustice which the Catholics of Germany might well consider unfair or ungrateful, we would like to render, in these few pages, at least a feeble homage to the illustrious dead. We desire to gather together a few of the glorious remembrances which are associated with his name, and, above all, to point out that insatiable love of truth and justice which {116} was the distinguishing feature of his character and which seems to have pervaded his whole being under all circumstances and at all times.

Frederick Emmanuel Hurter was born of Protestant parents on the 19th of May, 1787, in Schaffhausen, Switzerland. His father was prefect of Lugano; his mother remarkable for her intellect as well as for her decision of character, having sprung from the noble family of the Zieglers. When scarcely six years old, the child was deeply moved at hearing an account of the execution of Louis the Sixteenth, and before he had attained the age of twelve years he had conceived such a distaste for the excesses of the revolutionary spirit then prevailing that it seems never to have forsaken him. At this early age he was an eager student of the "History of the Seven Years' War," and declared himself in favor of Maria Theresa and against the King of Prussia. Two years afterward a discussion having arisen between himself, his school-fellows, and his teacher, on the relative merits of Pompey and Caesar, he promptly and energetically took the part of the former, believing that in the character of the latter was to be seen the personification of the revolutionary spirit. These were the first germs of that admirable sense of right which distinguished him on all occasions. There could even then be foreseen in that child the future man destined at some day to be the defender of the most august power in the world.

From his youth upward, and doubtless from the same feeling of being right, he applied himself with marked attention to ascertain the true history of that most misrepresented epoch, the middle ages, its monastic institutions, and its great pontiffs. Of the latter St. Gregory VII. seemed to have most attracted him, and his youthful mind seems to have delighted in comparing him with the great men of ancient Rome.

Having finished his preliminary studies in his native town, Hurter studied in the different classes of theology at the University of Göttingen, whence he obtained his diploma, and, having been first appointed pastor of an obscure village, was soon removed to Schaffhausen.

In 1824 he was appointed chancellor of the consistory; but neither his theological studies nor the duties of his office as pastor, a calling he had embraced through deference for his father rather than from personal inclination, diverted him from the object of his early predilections. Thus, while at Göttingen he found leisure to write a "History of Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths." It was his first essay as historian, being at the time only twenty years old.

Later he wrote a book on the following subject, proposed by the National Institute of France: "The Civil State during the Government of the Goths, and the Fundamental Principles of the Legislation of Theodoric and his Successors." But this work remained among his manuscripts unpublished. It was at Schaffhausen that he resumed his favorite studies on the middle ages, and completed them. His great attraction was not, as might be expected, Gregory VII., but Innocent III., probably on account of a collection of letters written by that great pontiff, published by Baluze, and which he had formerly bought at public sale at Göttingen. He certainly had not then the remotest idea that that book would at some future day form the foundation of his fame, and the means of a radical change in his Christian and social life. He commenced his book on Innocent III. in 1818, but it was not until 1833 that the first volume appeared. The second was published the year following. In 1835 he became president of the consistory, an office which placed him at the head of the clergy of his district, and which he resigned after fulfilling its duties for six years. He published the third volume of his "History of Pope Innocent" in the meantime, and in {117} 1842 the fourth and last volume was given to the press.

This "History" was not only a great literary success, it was more. It produced a decided revolution in historical science. The effect of it in Switzerland, Germany, and in fact the whole of Europe, was immense. The extraordinary part enacted by that great Pope was seen for the first time in its proper light. By the irresistible logic of facts, Hurler demonstrated how the august institutions of the papacy accomplished its mission with a success which, up to his time, had never been conjectured. Every one became convinced that it was the papacy alone that had mastered and tempered the overwhelming forces of the half-civilized nations of Europe, in order to more eternal and spiritual ends. "Since then," says Hurter himself, in his preface to the third German edition of his first volume, page 21, "a great number of inveterate errors were corrected, many traditional prejudices dissipated, many doubts removed; certain minds drew light therefrom, others found a guide in it, and others attained _conviction_ from its pages. Comparing the present with the past, people became more circumspect in their judgments and less inconsistent in their conclusions, and at last an answer was found to the famous question of the Roman governor, "What is truth?" (_Quid est veritas?_) "Truth is what is based on the indisputable proofs of history and agrees with the nature of all things." Sebastian Brunner, a distinguished German writer, after reading the "History of Innocent III.," gave the following opinion of its author: "I hold Mr. Hurter to be the greatest of historians; no one previous to him embraces a whole century in so admirable a picture. Hurter is the apostolic historian of the nineteenth century." This apostleship of Frederick Hurter was the more efficient, being exercised by a Protestant, and, what was more, by the president of a consistory. And beside, who would not yield to the testimony of a man whose loyalty and integrity were above all suspicion, and who had made it the rule of his life to observe the most rigid impartiality in all his own views; to seek nothing but the truth, and to honor virtue and merit wherever met, without excepting those who differed from him, so as to neglect nothing in the accomplishment of his task in the most perfect possible manner? His indeed were admirable qualities, particularly when we consider how history was written in those times by writers looked upon as models and masters. But let us not enlarge on this topic; the "History of Innocent" is found in every library; let us rather show how that book earned for its author a reward far greater than mere worldly reputation.

His literary success, and, what was more, the undeniable services he had rendered to the Catholic cause, could not but excite the jealousy and dislike of his fellow Protestants. His "Excursion to Vienna and Presburg," which was published soon after he visited Austria, in 1839, excited their anger to the highest degree. Blinded by their passions, they resolved to put him on trial, so as to find him guilty and so depose him. In his "Exposé of the Motives of his Conversion" he states that they put him the unfair question, "Are you a Protestant at heart?" "This question," he continues, "had no relation whatever with the alleged facts bearing on my public office, but only with my 'History of Innocent III.' and with a visit to Vienna. I refused to answer, because they wanted rather to discover what I disbelieved than what I believed." This refusal excited a violent storm of indignation against him. After trying many times to avert it, and after suffering the most unworthy attacks with patience and fortitude, he seized his pen and fulminated his defense under the following title, "President Hurter and his Pretended Colleagues."

More painful trials still awaited him. Two of his daughters, one immediately after the other, became afflicted with {118} a malady which was soon to deprive him of them, and, while prayers for their recovery were being offered up in all the Catholic convents of Switzerland, his puritanical opponents exhibited the most uncharitable joy, thrusting the dagger of grief still further into a parent's heart. A less energetic character would doubtless have succumbed to such cruel wounds, but Hurter remained true to the maxim of the poet:

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum
Non civium ardor, prava jubentium,
Non vultus instantis _tyranni_
Mente quatit solida. . ."

"The race of those tyrants is not yet extinct," he somewhere says. "I find still men who desire every one to bow before them, and that everything they do against those who dare discard such a miserable servitude should be commended." [Footnote 21] Hurter did better than to imitate the ancient philosopher; he accepted his trials with truly Christian resignation, perceiving in them the call of God to newer and higher duties. "I discovered in them," he writes, "the means of my salvation and my sanctification. I look upon the storm which has burst over me as a signal on the road I have to follow. At the same time I received the deep conviction that no peace was to be expected with such people. My choice was therefore made. I threw off titles, offices, and incomes, and went back to private life because I was disgusted with a sect which, through rationalism, upset all Christian dogmas, and, through pietism, tramples morals under foot." [Footnote 22] What hearty frankness, what Noble feelings, and what a true sense of justice!

[Footnote 21: Third ed., 1st vol. (Pref. P. V.)]

[Footnote 22: "Life of Fr. Hurter," by A. de Saint Cheron, p. 120.
Some of the details of this article are extracted from this work, as
well as from an article published in "Le Catholique" of Mayence, of
September, 1865.]

Justice he demanded as well for others as for himself; therefore he did not fear to defend the Catholic cause in his books. In his work on the "Convents of Argovia and their Accusers" (1841), and on the "Persecutions of the Catholic Church in Switzerland" (1843), he denounces the tyranny of his Protestant compatriots in unmeasured terms. For this reason, also, he went to Paris in 1843 to plead, although in vain, the cause of the Catholics in Switzerland.

Having, as we have seen, resigned his position, he had ample leisure to devote himself to the more profound study of the Catholic doctrine, the dogmas of which he had already inwardly admitted. The "Symbolism" of Moehler he found of great utility, and the "Exposition of the Holy Mass," by Innocent III., served greatly to strengthen his religious convictions.

Hurter, however, was not precipitate. He desired that in taking so important a step conviction should be preceded by mature deliberation. About this time he writes: "He would certainly be mistaken who should think that I entered the _interior_ of the Catholic Church because I was solely led away by its external forms. I was neither a wanderer nor hair-brained. Undoubtedly the exterior impressed me; but I was not, however, therefore relieved from examining its fundamental principles with due care, or from studying the interior with proper caution. I entered it first through curiosity, a mere visitor, as it were, and I examined everything that I saw like one who, wanting to purchase a house, first looks closely at every part of it before closing the bargain. In that way I think I acquired, on many points, truer and more complete ideas than the frequenters of the house, and those who have spent their lives in it. I have too long postponed my free decision not to have earned the right to be able to decide whether the house suits me or not, or if any changes be required."

It is interesting to see, in his "Exposition of Motives," the narration of all the doubts under which he labored previous to making a final decision; how his mind gradually approached to a knowledge of the truth as he progressed in his investigation; how a thousand external circumstances, designed by Providence, powerfully {119} contributed to shake his will, and finally how his conversion was less his own work than the effect of that divine favor solicited by Catholic charity, of which he speaks so feelingly in his "Geburt und Wiedergebart."

The struggle was at last over. On the 16th of June, the feast of St. Francis Regis, he formally made his abjuration before Cardinal Ostini, formerly nuncio in Switzerland, at the Roman college, and five days afterward, on the feast of St. Louis de Gonzaga, he received the blessed sacrament in the presence of an immense congregation of the faithful. The prophetic words of Gregory XVI. were then confirmed: "_Spero che lei sera mio figlio_" (I hope that one day you will be my son). The church and her head numbered one child more. God had thus rewarded by his grace the perfect sincerity which the humble penitent had ever made the rule of his life. We may also be allowed to believe that the sweet protection of the Mother of God had efficaciously operated in his favor, for even while a Protestant he had many times pleaded her cause with his brethren.

The news of his conversion created quite different feelings. If the great Catholic family rejoiced, and with unanimous voice thanked God for having favorably heard their prayers, Protestantism felt wounded to the very heart. The reason is easily understood. The edifying example of humility exhibited by a man like Hurter was necessary to win over a great number of souls until then irresolute and wavering, as some planets attract their satellites in space.

As to him, full of gratitude toward God, his soul replete with light and peace, his head high and serene, he went back to his native town to resume his literary labors in retirement, as well as to undergo a series of new persecutions, the last consecration of the Christian. "I am not so narrow-minded," he wrote some time afterward, "that I did not expect wicked judgments, base calumnies, and every kind of insult. Facts have, however, far exceeded my anticipations, and I must confess that I did not think those men capable of going so far in their wickedness." Finally it became impossible for Hurter to remain longer at Schaffhausen, and, beside, a new and better career was soon opened for him. He received from Vienna an invitation to become the historiographer of the empire. He accepted the appointment and entered upon the fulfilment of its duties. Safe from the interruptions caused by the troubles of 1848, he soon after accepted the position, of privy councillor and the patent of nobility which were tendered him.

The last portion of his life was devoted to the practice of Christian virtues and to the completion of his great work on Ferdinand II. To this book he devoted twenty years' arduous labor, and was fortunate enough to complete it one year previous to his death.

In commencing this work Hurter collected all his powerful faculties, intending to display in its composition all that remarkable mental energy with which he had been gifted by nature. With incredible patience he examined one after another thousands of documents of all kinds long buried in the archives of the empire, and most of which were utterly unknown even to the learned. He could not understand to be history that which was not supported by undeniable documents. _Quod non est in actis, non est in mundo_, was his maxim--a maxim, alas! which is too often neglected by the generality of our modern historians. Nothing excelled his perseverance, I might almost say his rapture, when he desired to throw light on an obscure fact, to fill a hiatus, or to discover any historical truth. Never, perhaps, were scruples of accuracy, and at the same time independence of thought and courage in expression, carried to greater limits. Let us add, that when composing the "History of Ferdinand II." he was filled with a strong sympathy for his subject, and {120} in his admiration for that great man he could, like Tacitus, console himself with the sight of like grievances, and say with the Roman historian: _Ego hoc quoque laboris praemium petam, ut me a conspectu malorum, quae nostra tot per annos vidit aetas, tantisper, aum prisca illa tota mente repeto, avertam, omnis expers curae quae scribentis animum, etsi non flectere a vero, sollicitum tamen efficere possit._

This work of Hurter's consists of eleven volumes. The first seven comprise the history of events from the reign of Archduke Charles, father of Ferdinand II., to the coronation of the latter prince; the remaining four being exclusively devoted to the reign of Ferdinand. In this comprehensive review of the events of that epoch the illustrious author has shown, by the light of true history, the great emperor and all the principal personages by whom he was surrounded, or in any way connected; particularly portraying the Archduke Charles, the Archduchess Maria, that splendid model of a Christian mother, Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, Tilly, and Wallenstein. Hurter studied the character of the latter with particular zeal, first in his sketch of the "Material to be used for the History of Wallenstein" (1855), and then in the more elaborate monography, "The last Four Years of Wallenstein" (1862), and finally in the "History of Ferdinand" itself. He arrives at the conclusion that the Duke of Friedland had really been guilty of treason, and that his tragic end is in no way to be attributed to Ferdinand. At the same time he does full justice to the great qualities of Wallenstein, acknowledging in him great capacity for organization, wonderful activity, and almost regal liberality; nor does he hesitate to class him among not only the greatest men of his age, but of all time.

But, as may be well understood, his great central figure was Ferdinand, whom he considers a most admirable and accomplished type of all the virtues surrounding royalty, notwithstanding his memory has been burthened with such foul calumnies by Protestant historians and their copyists. To relieve his name from these unjust aspersions was a task worthy of the genius of the historian of Innocent III. Having shown in the life of that pontiff the true embodiment of the Christian principles of the supreme priesthood, should he not also point out a temporal prince as the personification of genuine Catholic royalty?

We would desire to reproduce here the incomparable portrait of Ferdinand as it has been drawn by Hurter in his last volume, but, unfortunately, the limits of this article do not permit it. What compensates us, in some measure, for being able to give only so feeble an idea of that great work is, that we hope soon to see the _studies_ undertaken to speak of it more fully. We hope also that a competent translator will be soon found to give to France that work which, with the "History of Innocent III.," will immortalize the name of Hurter.

Yes, the great historian shall live in his writings, in which he has shown a soul so strong, so firm, so just, so humble, and yet so proud; so earnestly devoted to truth and so deeply adverse to falsehood, meanness, and hypocrisy. He will live in those countless works of charity of which he was the ever efficient author. He will live in the remembrance of so many hearts he has edified by his pious example, strengthened by his advice, and brought back to the true path by his admonitions. He will live, also, in the perpetual and grateful regard of a company, always so dear to him, to which he has given one of his sons, and whose motto he was proud to quote on the frontispiece of his great work. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam_.

We will end this sketch by repeating the words which an apostolic missionary, now a cardinal, once applied to the great historian; they cannot be {121} better or more happily chosen to sum up his whole life. Twenty years ago, after being a witness to his conversion, the Abbé de Bonnechose, writing from Rome, says of him: "_Justum deduxit Dominus per vias rectas et ostendit illi regnum Dei, et dedit illi scientiam sanctorum; honestavit illum in laboribus et complevit labores illius_" (Sap. x.) Yes, Hurter's mind was right, and God led him by the hand. He has shown him his kingdom on earth, the church of Christ, and the chair of Peter, where his authority sits enthroned, where he speaks and governs in the person of his vicar. It was he who endowed him with a knowledge of the science and philosophy of his doctrine and of the divine mysteries of the faith, and inspired in him those noble ideas the end and aim of which ought always to be the worship and exaltation of the true church, and the defence of the pontificate when calumniated. He has blessed the labors which have been conducted with such success, filling them with spirit and energy, to the end that they may bear the fruits of immortality! _Honestavit illum in laboribus et complevit labores illius._

J. MARTINOF.

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WORDS OF WISDOM.

TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY DR. BOWRING.