Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

"Nothing, indeed, could have been more gracious than the
reception which the king gave those distinguished Irishmen; and
so marked was the royal courtesy to both, that it stirred the
bile of Sir John Harington, who speaks of it thus: 'I have
lived to see that damnable rebel, Tyrone, brought to England
honored and well-liked. 'Oh! what is there that does not prove
the inconstancy of worldly matters? How I did labor after that
knave's destruction! I adventured perils by sea and land, was
near starving, eat horse-flesh in Munster, and all to quell
that man, who now smileth in peace at those who did hazard
their lives to destroy him. And now doth Tyrone dare us, old
commanders, with his presence and protection!'"

Returning to Ireland, "restored in blood," O'Neill lived as he best could, in his new and strange character of an earl, infested by spies upon all his movements. "Notice is taken," says Attorney-General Davies, "of every person that is able to do either good or hurt. It is known not only how they live and what they do, but it is foreseen what they purpose or intend to do; insomuch, as Tyrone has been heard to complain that he had so many eyes over him, that he could not drink a full carouse of sack, but the state was advertised thereof a few hours thereafter." [Footnote 15]

[Footnote 15: Sir John Davies's Historical Tracts.]

The author has taken great pains to ascertain the real nature of those dark intrigues against O'Neill and O'Donnell, which resulted four or five years after in the timely escape of those two "earls" from the toils of their enemies--the only measure that could save them from the fate of Sir William Wallace and of Shane O'Neill. O'Neill found himself embroiled in endless law-suits; with Montgomery, Bishop of Derry; with Usher, Archbishop of Armagh, who each claimed a large slice of his estates; with the traitor O'Cahan, his own former Uriaght, or sub-chief, who entered into the conspiracy against him, seduced by the promises of Montgomery and the Lord-Deputy Chichester. The truth was, that the "undertaking" English of the north coveted his wide domains, and could not comprehend how a rebellious O'Neill could possibly be allowed to possess broad lands in fee, which they wanted for themselves. Fr. Meehan has cast more light upon these wicked machinations than any previous writer had the means and authorities for; and it now appears plain that the chief agent of these base plots was Christopher St. Laurence, the twenty-second baron of Howth, and one of the ancestors of the noble house of that title, now gloriously flourishing amongst the Irish nobility. {15} Fr. Meehan's researches have brought home to this noble caitiff the famous anonymous letter dropped in the Castle-Yard of Dublin, and also a detailed deposition, shamelessly setting forth his own long-continued espionage, and on the faith of conversations with several persons, charging Tyrone, Lord Mountgarrett, Sir Theobald Burke, and others, with a plot to bring in the Spaniards, and to take by surprise the Castle of Dublin. O'Neill knew nothing, at the time, of the conspiracy against him; but had a very shrewd suspicion that the Lord-Deputy Chichester and the northern Anglican bishops were resolved to have his blood, in order to get his estate confiscated. One of the McGuires, who was himself in danger from these machinations, escaped to the continent. The author says:

"Meanwhile, Cuconnaught Maguire, growing weary of his
impoverished condition, and longing to be rid of vexations he
could no longer bear, contrived, about the middle of May, 1607,
to make his escape from one of the northern ports to Ostend,
whence he lost no time in proceeding to Brussels, where Lord
Henry O'Neill was then quartered with his Irish regiment. The
latter presented him at the court of the archdukes, who
received him kindly, and evinced deep sympathy for their Irish
coreligionists, and especially the northern earls, with whose
wrongs they were thoroughly conversant, through Florence Conry,
fathers Cusack and Stanihurst. Father Conry, it would appear,
informed Maguire that King James would certainly arrest Tyrone,
if he went to London; and Maguire, on hearing this, despatched
a trusty messenger to the earls to put them on their guard, and
then set about providing means for carrying them off the Irish
shores. The influence of Lord Henry with the archdukes procured
him a donation of 7000 crowns, [Footnote 16] with which he
purchased, at Rouen, a vessel of fourscore tons, mounting
sixteen cast pieces of ordnance, manned by marines in disguise,
and freighted with a cargo of salt. From Rouen the vessel
proceeded to Dunkirk, under command of one John Bath, a
merchant of Drogheda, and lay there, waiting instructions from
Ireland."

[Footnote 16: The archdukes were greatly indebted to O'Neill,
who gave ample employment to the queen's troops in Ireland
during the war in the Netherlands, and thus prevented the
English from aiding, as they wished, the revolted provinces.]

This Bath, on his arrival in Ireland, at once sought both O'Neill and O'Donnell, and informed them, on sure information procured by Lord Henry O'Neill, Hugh's son, that they would both be certainly arrested, and at the same time placed at their service McGuire's ship, which he commanded. It needed great tact and coolness on the part of O'Neill to conceal from the Lord-Deputy his intention of departure. But at last--

"At midnight, on that ever-memorable 14th of September, 1607,
they spread all sail, and made for the open sea, intending,
however, to land on the island of Aran, off the coast of
Donegal, to provide themselves with more water and fuel.

"Those who were now sailing away from their ancient patrimonies
were, Hugh, Earl of Tyrone, with his countess, Catharina, and
their three sons, Hugh, John, and Bernard. With them also went
Art Oge, 'young Arthur,' son of Cormac, Tyrone's brother;
Fadorcha, son of Con, the earl's nephew; Hugh Oge, son of
Brian, brother of Tyrone, and many more of their faithful
clansmen. Those accompanying Earl Rory were Cathbar, or Caffar,
his brother; Nuala, his sister, wife of the traitor, Nial
Garve; Hugh, the earl's son, wanting three weeks of being one
year old; Rosa, daughter of Sir John O'Doherty, sister of Sir
Cahir, and wife of Cathbar, with her son, Hugh, aged two years
and three months; the son of his brother, Donel Oge; Naghtan,
son of Calvagh, or Charles O'Donel, with many others of their
trusted friends and followers. 'A distinguished crew,' observe
the four masters, 'was this for one ship; for it is certain
that the sea never carried, and that the winds never wafted,
from the Irish shores, individuals more illustrious or noble in
genealogy, or more renowned for deeds of valor, prowess, and
high achievements.' Ah! with what tearful eyes and torn hearts
did they gaze on the fast receding shores, from which they were
forced to fly for the sake of all they held dearest! 'The
entire number of souls on board this small vessel,' says
O'Keenan, in his narrative, 'was ninety-nine, having little
sea-store, and being otherwise miserably accommodated.' It was,
indeed, the first great exodus of the Irish nobles and gentry,
to be followed, alas! by many another, caused, in great
measure, by a similar system of cruel and exceptional
legislation."

{16}

There is a most interesting account of their stormy voyage in that small vessel; but after much hardship and danger, they made the port of Havre, and went up the River Seine to the ancient city of Rouen. The English ambassador at the court of Henry the Fourth of France, had the assurance to demand of the French government to arrest the refugees, but received a short answer: "Writing to Lord Shrewsbury, October 12th, 1607, Salisbury alludes to O'Neill's voyage thus: 'He was shrewdly tossed at sea, and met contrary winds for Spain. The English ambassador wishing Henry to stay them, had for his answer, _France is free_.'" (P. 123.)

From Normandy the party proceeded to Flanders, where they were received by the archdukes with the highest distinction ever shown to sovereign princes and their _suite_. At Brussels O'Neill met his son, the Lord Henry, then commanding a regiment of Irish for the archdukes, and also another young O'Neill, destined to do great things in his generation, namely, Hugh's nephew, Owen Roe. Our author thus introduces him:

"Even at the risk of interrupting O'Keenan's narrative, we may
observe that none of these Irish exiles could have foreseen
that a little boy, with auburn ringlets, then in their company,
would one day win renown by defending that same city of Arras
against two of the ablest marshals of France. Nevertheless,
such was the case; for, thirty-three years afterward, Owen Roe
O'Neill, son of Art, and nephew to the Earl of Tyrone, with his
regiment of Irish, maintained the place against Chatillon and
Meillarie, till he had to make a most honorable capitulation."
[Footnote 17]

[Footnote 17: August, 1640. See Hericourt's Sieges d'Arras.]

And the same Owen Roe, still later, in the Irish wars of King Charles's day, fought and won the bloody battle of Benburb against the Scottish Presbyterian army, and trampled their blue banner on the banks of that same Blackwater which had seen the glorious victories of the Red Hand. From Brussels the fugitives had an intention of proceeding to Spain, but were diverted from that purpose by the archdukes, and they finally set out for Rome. The narrative of their journey across the Alps is exceedingly interesting; and on their arrival at Milan, they were welcomed with high honors by the Spanish governor, the Conde de Fuentes, and by the nobility of the province; but it need hardly be said that, in all their movements, they were closely watched by British spies; and every attention shown to them was the subject of violent remonstrance on the part of English ambassadors. Father Meehan gives us the letter of Lord Cornwallis, then ambassador at Madrid, to the lords of the privy council, expressing his loyal disgust at the splendid hospitalities of the Governor of Milan:

"'_To the lords of the privy council_.

"'Having lately gathered, amongst the Irish here, that the
fugitive earls have been in Milan, and _there much
feasted_ by the Conde _de Fuentes_, I expostulated it
with the secretary of state, who answered that they had not yet
had any understanding of their being there; that the Conde de
Fuentes was not a man disposed to such largess as to entertain
strangers in any costly manner at his own charge; and that sure
he was he could not expect any allowance from hence where there
was intended no _receipt, countenance,_ or _comfort_
to any of that condition. I sent sithence by Cottington, my
secretary, concerning one _Mack Ogg_, lately come hither,
as I have been advised, to solicit for these people; which was,
that as I hoped they would have no participation with the
principals, whose crimes had now been made so notorious in
their own countries, being both, upon public trial, condemned,
and he of _Tyrone_, as I heard, _of thirteen several
murders_; so I likewise assured myself that, in their own
wisdoms, they would not hold it fit his majesty here should
give harbor or ear to any of their ministers, and especially to
that of Mack Ogg, who could not be supposed but to have had a
hand in their traitorous purposes; _having been the man and
the means, in person,_ to withdraw them by sea out of their
own countries, in such undutiful and suspicious manner. That
myself was, in a matter of that nature, solicitous only in
regard of my own earnest desire that nothing might escape this
state whereby their intentions might be held different from
their professions. That for these fugitives, being now out of
their retreats, _weak in purse_, and _people condemned
and contemned_ by those of their own nation, and such as
could not but daily expect the heavy hand of God's justice for
their so many unnatural and detestable crimes, both of late and
heretofore committed, for _my own particular I made no more
account of them than of so many fleas_; neither did the
king, my master, otherwise esteem them than as men reprobated
both of God and the world, for their _fa??norous actions_
toward others, and inexcusable ingratitude to himself."

[Transcriber's Note: The word "fa??norous" is illegible.]

{17}

The author gives a minute and graphic narrative of the journey of the "earls" through Italy, and their entrance into the Eternal City, where they were affectionately received by Pope Paul V., who assigned them a palace for their dwelling:

"The time at which the Irish princes entered Rome was one of
more than usual festivity; for, on the Thursday preceding
Trinity Sunday, the pope solemnly canonized Sa Francesca
Romana, in the basilica of St. Peter in the Vatican. Rome was
then crowded by distinguished strangers from all parts of the
known world, each vieing with the other to secure fitting
places to witness the grand ceremonial. But of them all, none
were so honored as O'Neill, O'Donel, their ladies and
followers; for the pope gave orders that tribunes, especially
reserved for them, should be erected right under the dome.
This, indeed, was a signal mark of his Holiness's respect for
his guests, greater than which he could not exhibit. Among the
spectators were many English; and we can readily conceive how
much they were piqued at seeing O'Neill [Footnote 18] and the
earl thus honored by the supreme head of the church."

[Footnote 18: Throughout his narrative, O'Keenan styles
O'Neill according to his Gaelic title, and calls O'Donel
_the earl_. O'Keenan was not sufficiently anglicized in
accent or otherwise to respect the law which forbade the
assumption of the old Irish designation peculiar to the
Prince of Tyrone.]

And now began the long series of negotiations with the King of Spain and the other Catholic powers, which were to enable the "earls" to make a descent upon Ireland, reconquer their heritage, and liberate their unfortunate people from the bondage and oppression they were now enduring at the hands of King James's "undertaking" planters. O'Neill had written a formal diplomatic letter to King James, recounting the various plots and treasons which had been practised against him by His Majesty's servants in Ireland, demanding back his ancient inheritance, and announcing that, in default of compliance, he would hold himself at liberty to go back to Ireland, with a sufficient force to free his country. This _ultimatum_ took no effect. The pope and the King of Spain, though they treated him with high respect, and awarded him a handsome pension, were slow to give the material aid that was needed; and in the year 1608, his comrade Rory (Rudraigh): O'Donnell, called Earl of Tyrconnell, died. Says Father Meehan:

"During his illness he was piously tended by Rosa, daughter of
O'Dogherty, his brother's wife, the Princess O'Neill, and
Florence Conry, who had performed the same kind offices for
Hugh Roe O'Donel in Simancas. On the 27th July, 1608, he
received the last sacraments, and on the morning following
surrendered his soul to God. 'Sorrowful it was,' say the
Donegal, annalists, 'to contemplate his early eclipse, for he
was a generous and hospitable lord, to whom the patrimony of
his ancestors seemed nothing for his feasting and spending.'"

Soon after died O'Neill's son Hugh, whom the English called Baron of Dungannon. O'Donnell's brother Caffar (Cathbar) died about the same time, and the old chieftain was now left nearly alone to carry on his almost hopeless negotiations. {18} The Irish exiles in Spain, when they heard of the death of the two O'Donnells and young O'Neill, wore mourning publicly, to the utter disgust of Lord Cornwallis, the English ambassador. He remonstrated with the King of Spain against suffering so indecent an exhibition, but received no satisfaction in that quarter; and he wrote thereon, says Father Meehan:

"'The agent of the Irish fugitives in this city has presumed to
walk its streets, followed by two pages, and four others of his
countrymen, in black weeds--a sign that they are no unwelcome
guests here.' This was bad enough; but the news he supplied in
another letter was still worse, for he says: 'The Spanish court
had become the staple of the fugitive ware, since it allows
Tyrone a pension of six hundred crowns a month; Tyrconnel's
brother's widow, one of two hundred crowns a month; and his
brother's wife, one of the same sum.'"

If the British government could only have got hold of those mourners in their "black weeds," within its own jurisdiction, they would undoubtedly have been prosecuted and punished, like the men who lately attended a funeral in Dublin. Nothing can be more provoking to a government, sometimes, than public mourning for its victims. Indeed, the Russian authorities in Warsaw have been several times so exasperated by the sight of the citizens all clothed in black, mourning for a crowd of innocent people, cut down and ridden over by the cavalry in the streets, as to feel compelled to issue instructions to the police to drag every vestige of black apparel from every man, and every woman, and child in the public thoroughfares, and to close up every shop or store which should dare to keep any black fabric for sale. But in cases where this kind of provocation is perpetrated in some foreign country, and under the protection of its laws, then your insulted government must only bear the affront as it best can.

The author next proceeds, with the aid of letters in the State Paper Office, to narrate the various projects and speculations of O'Neill and his friends, with a view to the invasion of their native country; with all which projects and speculations the British government was made fully acquainted by means of its spies and diplomatic agents. England and Spain were just then at peace, and one main hope of the exiles was that a breach might take place between them. Our author says:

"Withal, it would appear that England had not then a very firm
reliance on the good faith of Spain. Indeed, Turnbull's
despatches show this to have been the case; and as for O'Neill,
there is every reason to suppose that he calculated on some
such lucky rupture, and that Philip would then have an
opportunity of retrieving the disaster of Kinsale, by sending a
flotilla to the coast of Ulster, where the native population
would rally to the standard of their attainted chieftain, and
drive the new settlers back to England or Scotland--anywhere
from off the face of his ancient patrimony. Yielding to these
apprehensions, James instructed his minister at the court of
the archdukes to redouble his vigilance, and make frequent
reports of the movements of the Irish troops in their
Highnesses' pay, and, above all, to certify to him the names of
the Irish officers on whom the court of Spain bestowed special
marks of its consideration. In fact, from the middle of 1614
till the close of the following year, Turnbull's correspondence
is wholly devoted to these points, so much so, that the English
cabinet had not only intelligence of Tyrone's designs, but
ample information concerning all those who were suspected of
countenancing them. Nothing could surpass the minister's
susceptibility on this subject; for if we were to believe
himself, no Catholic functionary visited the court of Brussels
without impressing on their Highnesses the expediency, as well
as duty, of aiding the banished earl and his coreligionists in
Ireland."

{19}

At last, in January, 1615, O'Neill resolved to undertake the enterprise himself, some Catholic noblemen in Italy and Belgium engaging to furnish him with funds. He was to quit Rome by a certain day; but, like all his other projects, this was speedily communicated to Trumbull, who lost no time in making it known to the English cabinet. He did not leave Rome as he intended; but two months later:

"The Belgian agent sent another dispatch to the king, informing
him 'that O'Neill hath sent from Rome two of his instruments
into Ireland, called Crone and Conor, with order to stir up
factions and seditions in that kingdom, where, in Waterford
alone, there are no less than thirty-six Jesuits.'"

Next we find the same vigilant English minister apprising his government that O'Neill was about "to have some of his countrymen employed at sea in ships of war, _as pirates_, with commission to take all vessels," etc. In truth, it was for England a genuine "Fenian" alarm, this constantly menacing attitude of the veteran warrior of the Blackwater; a "Fenian" alarm, alas! of two hundred and fifty years ago. And how many there have been since! There was also the same eager impatience for action, the same maddening thought that the work must be done at once or Ireland was lost for ever. A certain physician, who attended O'Neill in this year, 1615, writes to a friend in London, giving him, as a sample of his patient's conversation and manner, the following anecdote:

"Though a man would think that he is an old man by sight--no,
he is lusty and strong, and well able to travel; for a month
ago, at evening, when his frere [Footnote 19] and his gentlemen
were all with him, they were talking of England and Ireland,
and he drew out his sword. 'His majesty,' said he, 'thinks that
I am not strong. I would he that hates me most in England were
with me to see whether I am strong or no.' Those that were by
said, 'We would we were with forty thousand pounds of money in
Ireland, to see what we should do.' Whereon Tyrone remarked,
'If I be not in Ireland within these two years, _I will never
desire more to look for it._'"

[Footnote 19: F. Chamberlaine, O.S.F.]

So thought Sarsfield when he fled with the "Wild-geese" almost a century later--if they could not return with a reenforcement of French within one year, within two years, there was an end of Ireland. So thought Wolfe Tone, after still another century, as he was gnawing his own heart in Paris at the fatal delay, and crying, "Hell! hell! If _that_ expedition did not sail at that moment, Ireland was subdued and lost for ever and ever." It is natural that the eager spirits of each generation of Irishmen should be in haste to see the great work done in their own day. But divine Providence is in no haste, and will not be hurried. Beyond all doubt, there is a destiny and a work in store for this Irish race, so wonderfully preserved through sore trials, and in spite of repeated persistent efforts to extirpate it utterly. It has a strong hold upon life, and a potent individual character. It will neither perish from the face of the earth nor forget a single tradition or aspiration, nor part with its ancient religious faith. It not only does not _attorn_ to the dominant English sentiment and character, but seems, on the contrary, to become more antagonistic, and to cherish that antagonism.

And it is very notable that this desperate mutual repulsion between England and Ireland does not date from the "Reformation," nor does it altogether depend upon religious differences. It is true that the acceptance of the new religion by England and its rejection by the Irish furnished the former with a new pretext and a convenient machinery for oppression and plunder. But two centuries before this, Hugh O'Neill's time--and when the English were as Catholic as the Irish--we find his ancestor, Donal O'Neill, in his famous letter to Pope John XXII., describing the relations of the two races in language which is still appropriate at this day: "All hope of peace between us is completely destroyed; for such is their pride, such is their excessive lust of dominion, such our ardent desire to shake off this insupportable yoke, and recover the inheritance which they have so unjustly usurped, that as there never was, so there never will be, any sincere coalition between them and us; nor is it possible there should in this life; for we entertain a certain natural enmity against each other, flowing from mutual malignity, descending by inheritance from father to son, and spreading from generation to generation."

{20}

The aged Prince of Ulster never saw his native land again. In the following year, 1616, he became blind and, some weeks after, having received the last rites of the church, he died at the Salviati palace at Rome.

His history from first to last is a striking and remarkable one. In the "religious" wars of the period, he was a conspicuous figure; and Henry the Fourth of France called him the third soldier of his age--he, Henry, being the first. But English historians of the past and present century have made it a rule to say nothing of him and of his great battles. They seem to desire that the name of the Yellow Ford should be blotted out of history. But once upon a time O'Neill occupied some attention in England. Spenser and Bacon wrote anxious treatises to suggest the best method of crushing him. Shakespeare delighted his audience at the "Globe" theatre by triumphant anticipations of the return of Lord Essex after destroying the abhorred O'Neill--

"Were now the general of our gracious empress (As, in good
time, he may) from Ireland coming, Bringing rebellion broached
on his sword. How many would the peaceful city quit. To welcome
him?"

Camden, in his _Queen Elizabeth_, has given to the Irish war at least its due rank in the events of the time; and Fynes Moryson tells us that "the general voyce was of Tyrone amongst the English after the defeat of Blackwater, as of Hannibal among the Romans after the defeat of Cannae." Mr. Hume, though he tells us nothing of O'Neill's splendid victories over the English, yet incidentally mentions that "in the year 1599 the queen spent six hundred thousand pounds in six months in the service of Ireland; and Sir Robert Cecil affirmed that in ten years Ireland cost her three million four hundred thousand pounds," which would be about sixty millions of pounds sterling in money of the present day. So well, however, has the memory of all this been suppressed, that even an educated Englishman at this time, if you mentioned to him the great battle of the Yellow Ford would not at all understand to what event you were alluding; so that one is not at all astonished to find that Mr. Motley, in his voluminous book expressly devoted to the religious wars of Europe in those days, and especially the reign of Elizabeth, not only ignores that transaction altogether, but does not so much as know O'Neill's name. When he does once undertake to name him, he calls him not Hugh O'Neill, but "Shanes MacNeil." (_History of United Netherlands_, vol. iv. p. 94.)

{21}

The Irish, however, still cherish his name and keep his memory green. The peasantry yet tell that strange legend of a troop of the great chiefs lancers all lying in tranced sleep in a cave under the royal hill of Aileagh, each holding his horse's bridle in his hand, and waiting for the spell to be removed that will set them free to strike a blow for their country; and when a man once penetrated into the cave, and saw the sleepers in their ancient mail, one of them lifted his head and asked. _Is the time come?_ To the educated and reflective Irish, also, that cardinal epoch of Irish history, in which O'Neill was the chief figure, has of late become a subject of more zealous study than it ever was before; and these will heartily thank the accomplished author of the present work for the clear light he has thrown upon one strange and painful episode in his country's annals.

--------

The Cross.

In all ages, and among all nations, important events have been commemorated and transmitted to future generations by significant symbols. These mute symbols have served to represent the great leading ideas and characteristics of nations, communities, societies, and schools of religion, philosophy, morals, and politics. Entire histories have been treasured up for ages in these simple and inanimate emblems. In thousands of instances they have served to call to mind the stirring events of a generation, the glories of a great nation, epochs in human progress, or the rise and fall of false religions, false philosophies, and false systems of all descriptions. Each symbol comprises a language and a history of its own, which can be comprehended at a glance by the most ignorant of those whom it addresses. As the ideas which they represent pertain, for the most part, to affairs of the highest magnitude, they have always been regarded with respect and veneration.

When the legions of the Caesars were achieving the conquest of a world, their emblem of nationality and glory, and their inspiration in battle, was the Roman flag emblazoned with the Roman eagles. In the midst of the fiercest contests, a simple glance at the national symbol would fire the heart of the soldier with patrotic ardor, and often turn the tide of battle in his favor. As he looked upon his flag, the Roman soldier beheld the greatness and glory of his country, with himself as a constituent element of all this greatness, and his heart and hand were nerved with Herculean strength to meet the foe. In the eagles which floated amid the din of battle, he read the history of the empire, with her conquests, her riches, her power, her grandeur, and her Caesar; and he cheerfully gave his life for the ideas thus evoked.

The Saracen, as he marched out to battle, beheld the crescent of his prophet, and was willing to die for his cause. As the crescent waves before him, his imagination pictures the prophet beckoning him on to battle, to conquest, to proselytism, and to the sensual joys of paradise, and his courage rises, his blood boils, and his cimeter leaps from its scabbard. No danger, no fatigue, no privation daunts or deters him so long as he beholds the emblem of his religion and his race. He loves and venerates the silent symbol for the associations it calls to mind.

{22}

Napoleon I., with his battalions, traversed the continent of Europe, dictating terms to kings and emperors; and finally marshalled his victorious forces around the pyramids of Egypt. During this triumphal march, his most potent auxiliaries were the eagles of France draped in their tri-colored plumage. At the bridge of Lodi, when the French hosts shrank back appalled from the carnage caused by the terrific fire of the Austrian, Napoleon raised aloft the emblem of France before the eyes of his panic-stricken veterans. In an instant every heart was nerved, and amidst storms of balls and the shrieks of the wounded and dying, the bridge was carried and the day was won. The eagles of the first Caesars seemed to have alighted upon the tri-colored flags of the modern Caesar. Whether in the midst of the deadly snows of Russia, or of the burning sands of Egypt, or of the towering summits of the Alps, the great talisman which led the way and gave inspiration to the soldier, was the national symbol. It spoke to them of home, of kindred, friends, and of the glory of France; and they were willing to risk all for the ideas thus inspired.

How often has the tide of battle been turned in favor of England, both on land and sea, by raising the symbol of England, and the war-cry of St. George and the Dragon, in the thickest of the fight! How often, in the midst of battle and slaughter, has the drooping spirit of the Celt been roused to fierce enthusiasm and determination by a sight of his loved national emblem, the shamrock!

What true American can regard his own national symbol without emotion, love, and veneration! Whether he beholds it unfurled upon the battle-field, upon the ocean, or in a foreign land, he reads in every star and every stripe a history of his native land--of her struggles, her glories, and her future destiny. Under its shadow the soldier is a braver man, the statesman a better patriot, the citizen a truer loyalist, and the American traveller in foreign lands more proud of his nationality.

We might cite instances _ad infinitum_; but we have adduced a sufficient number for illustration. What is the signification and the utility of these symbols? At the birth of nations, it has always been the custom to devise some common symbol around which the people could rally as a type of nationality. On all important occasions, both in peace and in war, this common emblem is always in the midst of the people, to remind them of the past, to inspire them in the present, and to render them hopeful in the future. It is associated with all their public events, their victories, their defeats, their joys, their sorrows, their glories, their progress, their power and greatness. Is it, then, strange that it should be regarded with love, respect, and veneration? Is it strange that a sight of their mute talisman in the midst of battle should stir the soul of the soldier to its very depths, or that the heart of the patriot should swell with emotion and stern resolve when the honor or welfare of his country is in danger, or that the citizen should have a higher appreciation of the dignity and destiny of man, or that the individual should always associate it with his love of country, his pride of the past, his aspirations of the present, his hopes of the future, in a word, with his nationality? {23} The man who has no love of father-land in his soul, who does not love and respect the emblem of his country's glory, is fit only for stratagems, conspiracies, and bloody tumults and disorders. Such a man can only be regarded as an enemy of his race; and will be frowned upon by the wise, the good, and the humane.

The emblems we have thus far alluded to refer to the worldly affairs of men, to matters of state, of government, and national prosperity. We now propose to refer briefly to the highest of all symbols--the symbol of symbols--the emblem of emblems--to one which relates to the temporal and eternal welfare of the entire human race, the holy cross. What is its signification and utility? What associations does it call to mind? It tells us of the Incarnate God sent to earth to give mankind a new law, to set them an example of a perfect life, to teach them those higher virtues and graces which fit them for happiness here and hereafter, and then to suffer and to die an ignominious death to atone for the sins of man. It calls up all the dread circumstances connected with the last days of our blessed Saviour when on earth. It brings to mind his betrayal by Judas, his arraignment before Pontius Pilate, his condemnation, his march to the place of execution with the cross upon his blessed shoulders, amidst the insults, the scoffs, the scourgings, the crowning with thorns, and other indignities of a Jewish and pagan rabble. It presents before us his ascent to the scaffold, his bloody transfixion between two thieves, his dreadful agony, his bloody sweat, his wounds, his slow and agonizing death. For whom, and for what, has the omnipotent Redeemer suffered these ignominies, these agonies, this cruel death? For all mankind, as an atonement of their sins. With his almighty power he could have summoned around him legions of destroying angels, who could have crushed to powder his persecutors; or with his mighty breath he could have consigned them to instant annihilation. But his love and tenderness for man was infinite; and he mercifully refrained from employing the power which he possessed to their injury. How vast this condescension, this love, this devotion to mortals under such provocations!

Since the date of the crucifixion, the cross, with the image of our blessed Lord attached thereto, has been universally recognized as the chief symbol of Christianity. In the days of the apostles and their immediate successors it was their ever-present memento, friend, solace, badge, and emblem of faith. Recent discoveries in the catacombs of Rome have brought to light the rude altars of the first Christians, always stamped with and designated by the sign of the cross. When these early Christians were hunted down like wild beasts, and driven by the sanguinary pagans into the most secret recesses of the earth to escape martyrdom, the holy cross ever accompanied them, ever symbolized their faith, ever served as a beacon of light, and a rallying-point for the persecuted followers of Jesus of Nazareth.

Whenever the missionaries of the church have abandoned country and friends, taken their lives in their hands, and penetrated into the remotest wilds of the savage, in order to "preach the Gospel to every creature," the holy cross, with its divine associations, has always led the way, beckoning them on in their great life-work of love, mercy, and Christianity. {24} Often have these devoted men met the martyr's fate; but they have died in holy triumph, with smiles and prayers on their lips, with their eyes fixed on the sacred cross, and their souls on heaven. If a nation's flag has been able to stir the soul of the soldier to deeds of noble daring amid the excitement of battle, the cross of Christ has been able, not less often, to fire the soul of the lone missionary with holy love and zeal in the midst of the savage wilderness. If, with flag in hand, the soldier has rushed to the cannon's mouth, and laid down his life to win a battle, no less frequently has the missionary, holding aloft the sacred cross, rushed to the desert places of the earth, where barbarism, pestilence, famine, cruelties, sufferings, and danger of martyrdom encompass him on every side. The soldier fights his battles under the eyes of his countrymen, cheered on by applauding comrades, by martial music, and by hopes of speedy preferment; but the Christian missionary fights alone, surrounded by wild foes, far from home and friends, with no hope of temporal reward, and where, if he is killed or dies a natural death, he may be devoured by wild beasts, or remain uncoffined, unburied, and unrecognized.

Statesmen, philosophers, warriors, and citizens of all ranks love and respect their national symbols because they call to mind the events and circumstances connected with their nationalities. These sentiments are commended by the whole world. The true Christian also loves and respects the symbol which calls up before him the facts and incidents connected with the passion and crucifixion of the Saviour. Let no one delude himself with the absurd idea that it is the _material_ of the flag, or of the cross, which calls forth these powerful emotions, and these high resolutions. Let no one suppose that _idolatry_ can spring from the contemplation and reverence of objects which place before the mind's eye in the form of symbols the important events of a nation, or the sufferings and death of a God. Let no one question the motives or the propriety of his fellow man who bows down in tears, in love, in gratitude and devotion before the recognized emblems and mementos of great nations, and of godlike achievements.

The cross of Christ! How vast and solemn the associations connected with it! How significant its mute appeals to the hearts of mortals! How eloquent its reference to a Redeemer's love for sinful man! How glorious its history, and how prolific of heavenly aspirations!

The cross of Christ! How beautiful, how sublime, how soul-inspiring the ideas which encompass thee as with a halo of light and glory! In ages past and gone, in all the lands of earth, as it has silently ministered to the souls and thoughts of men, and carried them back to Calvary, what an infinity of blessings it has conferred! As we gaze at the Lamb of God, nailed to the cross, how sad and tender the memories which pass before the mind! Every wound of the precious body, every expression of the godlike features, calls up some act of divine love and mercy! Silently, sadly, solemnly, the holy cross has borne its sacred burden to all nations, through long ages of culture and light, of darkness and ignorance, of civilization and barbarism--a pioneer and potent agent in all good works--a talisman and solace for the poor and oppressed, as well as for the rich and powerful, a beacon of heavenly light, and a rallying-point for all Christendom!

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In the dark ages, when Christianity and barbarism struggled for the mastery of Europe, the latter achieved a physical triumph; but spiritually the cross of Christ prevailed, and the barbarian conquerors became Christian converts. When nations, communities, or individuals have been bowed down with calamities and sorrows, rays of hope and comfort have always shone from the holy cross. However poor, unfortunate, wicked, degraded, and despised an individual may be, the cross of Christ still beams upon him with compassion and mercy.

Languages may be oral or printed, or pictorial or symbolical. By the two first, ideas are conveyed _seriatim_ and slowly; by the last _en masse_, and instantaneously. Through the first the mind gradually grasps historical events; through the last they are presented like a living tableaux, complete in all their details. In the latter category stands the holy cross. It speaks a language to the Christian which appeals instantly to every faculty of his mind and soul. It strikes those chords of memory which take him back to Calvary, to the jeering rabble of Pilate, to the mocking minions of Caiphas, to the spectacle of a scourged, tortured, and crucified Redeemer.

Who can look upon this blessed emblem unmoved? Who can regard this mute memento of the Son of God in behalf of fallen man without sentiments of love, respect, and veneration? May God in his mercy grant that every one may properly appreciate this great emblem of Christianity--the symbol of symbols. The likeness of a crucified Redeemer sanctifies and hallows it. Not only at the name, but at the semblance of Jesus, let every knee bend in adoration.

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The Story of a Conscript.

Translated From The French.

XIX.

In the midst of such thoughts, day broke. Nothing was stirring yet, and Zébédé said:

"What a chance for us, if the enemy should fear to attack us!"

The officers spoke of an armistice; but suddenly about nine o'clock, our couriers came galloping in, crying that the enemy was moving his whole line down upon us, and directly after we heard cannon on our right, along the Elster. We were already under arms, and set out across the fields toward the Partha to return to Schoenfeld. The battle had begun.

On the hills overlooking the river, two or three divisions, with batteries in the intervals, and cannon at the flanks, awaited the enemy's approach; beyond, over the points of their bayonets, we could see the Prussians, the Swedes, and the Russians, advancing on all sides in deep, never-ending masses. Shortly after, we took our place in line, between two hills, and then we saw five or six thousand Prussians crossing the river, and all together shouting, "_Vaterland! Vaterland!_" This caused a tremendous tumult, like that of clouds of rooks flying north.

At the same instant the musketry opened from both sides of the river. The valley through which the Partha flows was filled with smoke; the Prussians were already upon us--we could see their furious eyes and wild looks; they seemed like savage beasts rushing down on us. Then but one shout of "_Vive l'Empereur!_" smote the sky and we dashed forward. The shock was terrible; thousands of bayonets crossed; we drove them back, were ourselves driven back; muskets were clubbed; the opposing ranks were confounded and mingled in one mass; the fallen were trampled upon, while the thunder of artillery, the whistling of bullets, and the thick white smoke enclosing all, made the valley seem the pit of hell, peopled by contending demons.

Despair urged us, and the wish to revenge our deaths before yielding up our lives. The pride of boasting that they once defeated Napoleon incited the Prussians; for they are the proudest of men, and their victories at Gross-Beeren and Katzbach had made them fools. But the river swept away them and their pride! Three times they crossed and rushed at us. We were indeed forced back by the shock of their numbers, and how they shouted then! They seemed to wish to devour us. Their officers, waving their swords in the air, cried, "_Vorwärtz! Vorwärtz!_" and all advanced like a wall with the greatest courage--that we cannot deny. Our cannon opened huge gaps in their lines, still they pressed on; but at the top of the hill we charged again, and drove them to the river. We would have massacred them to a man, were it not for one of their batteries before Mockern, which enfiladed us and forced us to give up the pursuit.

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This lasted until two o'clock; half our officers were killed or wounded; the Colonel, Lorain, was among the first, and the Commandant, Gémeau, the latter; all along the river side were heaps of dead, or wounded men crawling away from the struggle. Some, furious, would rise to their knees to fire a last shot or deliver a final bayonet-thrust. The river was almost choked with dead, but no one thought of the bodies as they swept by in the current. The lines contending in the fight reached from Schoenfeld to Grossdorf.

At length the Swedes and Prussians ceased their attacks, and started farther up the river to turn our position, and masses of Russians came to occupy the places they had left.

The Russians formed in two columns, and descended to the valley, with shouldered arms, in admirable order. Twice they assailed us with the greatest bravery, but without uttering wild beasts' cries, like the Prussians. Their calvary attempted to carry the old bridge above Schoenfeld, and the cannonade increased. On all sides, as far as sight could reach, we saw only the enemy massing their forces, and when we had repulsed one of their columns, another of fresh men took its place. The fight had ever to be fought over again.

Between two and three o'clock, we learned that the Swedes and the Prussian cavalry had crossed the river above Grossdorf, and were about to take us in the rear, a mode which pleased them much better than fighting face to face. Marshal Ney immediately changed front, throwing his right wing to the rear. Our division still remained supported on Schoenfeld, but all the others retired from the Partha, to stretch along the plain, and the entire army formed but one line around Leipsic.

The Russians, behind the road to Mockern, prepared for a third attack toward three o'clock; our officers were making new dispositions to receive them; when a sort of shudder ran from one end of our lines to the other, and in a few moments all knew that the sixteen thousand Saxons and the Wurtemberg calvary, in our very centre, had passed over to the enemy, and that on their way they had the infamy to turn the forty guns they carried with them, on their old brothers-in-arms of Durutte's division.

This treason, instead of discouraging us, so added to our fury, that if we had been allowed, we would have crossed the river to massacre them. They say that they were defending their country. It is false! They had only to have left us on the Duben road; why did they not go then! They might have done like the Bavarians and quitted us before the battle; they might have remained neutral--might have refused to serve; but they deserted us only because fortune was against us. If they knew we were going to win, they would have continued our very good friends, so that they might have their share of the spoil or glory--as after Jena and Friedland. This is what every one thought, and it is why those Saxons are, and will ever remain, traitors; not only did they abandon their friends in distress, but they murdered them, to make a welcome with the enemy. God is just, and so great was their new allies' scorn of them, that they divided half Saxony between themselves after the battle. The French might well laugh at Prussian, Austrian, and Russian gratitude.

From the time of this desertion until evening, it was a war of vengeance that we carried on; the allies might crush us by numbers, but they should pay dearly for their victory!

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At nightfall, while two thousand pieces of artillery were thundering together, we were attacked for the seventh time in Schoenfeld. The Russians on one side and the Prussians on the other poured in upon us. We defended every house. In every lane the walls crumbled beneath the bullets, and roofs fell in on every side. There were now no shouts as at the beginning of the battle; all were cool and pale with rage. The officers had collected scattered muskets and cartridge-boxes, and now loaded and fired like the men. We defended the gardens, too, and the cemetery, where we had bivouacked, until there were more dead above than beneath the soil. Every inch of earth cost a life.

It was night when Marshal Ney brought up a reenforcement--whence I knew not. It was what remained of Ricard's division and Sonham's second. The _débris_ of our regiments united, and hurled the Russians to the other side of the old bridge, which no longer had a rail, that having been swept away by the shot. Six twelve-pounders were posted on the bridge, and maintained a fire for one hour longer. The remainder of the battalion, and of some others in our rear, supported the guns; and I remember how their flashes lit up the forms of men and horses, heaped beneath the dark arches. The sight lasted only a moment, but it was a horrible moment indeed.

At half-past seven, masses of cavalry advanced on our left, and we saw them whirling about two large squares, which slowly retired. Then we received orders to retreat. Not more than two or three thousand men remained at Schoenfeld with the six pieces of artillery. We reached Kohlgarten without being pursued, and were to bivouac around Rendnitz. Zébédé was yet living, and unwounded; and, as we marched on, listening to the cannonade, which continued, despite the darkness, along the Elster, he said suddenly:

"How is it that we are here, Joseph, when so many others that stood by our side are dead? It seems as if we bore charmed lives, and could not die."

I made no reply.

"Think you there was ever before such a battle?" he asked. "No, it cannot be. It is impossible."

It was indeed a battle of giants. From six in the morning until seven in the evening we had held our own against three hundred and sixty thousand men, without, at night, having lost an inch; and, nevertheless, we were but a hundred and thirty thousand. God keep me from speaking ill of the Germans. They were fighting for the independence of their country. But they might do better than celebrate the anniversary of the battle of Leipsic every year. There is not much to boast of in fighting an enemy three to one.

Approaching Rendnitz, we marched over heaps of dead. At every step we encountered dismounted cannon, broken caissons, and trees cut down by shot. There a division of the Young Guard and the _grenadiers-à-cheval_, led by Napoleon himself, had repulsed the Swedes who were advancing into the breach made by the treachery of the Saxons. Two or three burning houses lit up the scene. The _grenadiers-à-cheval_ were yet at Rendnitz, but crowds of disbanded troops were passing up and down the street. No rations had been distributed, and all were seeking something to eat and drink.

As we defiled by a large house, we saw behind the wall of a court two _cantinières_, who were giving the soldiers drink from their wagons. {29} There were there chasseurs, cuirassiers, lancers, hussars, infantry of the line and of the guard, all mingled together, with torn uniforms, broken shakos, and plumeless helmets, and all seemingly famished.

Two or three dragoons stood on the wall, near a pot of burning pitch, their arms crossed on their long white cloaks, covered from head to foot with blood.