Chapter XXIV: “celui-La Fait Le Crime a Qui Le Crime Sert.” (1)

Mr. Yorke was at the Seaton House when the Western mail-coach came in Saturday morning, but Father Rasle was not a passenger. The mail brought a letter from him to Edith, however, and her uncle took it home to her immediately. She read aloud to the family his thanks for their invitation, and his reasons for declining it. He would drive over in his own buggy, he wrote, and would probably reach Seaton before ten o’clock in the forenoon. Edith had better come to see him in the morning, as he would then be more at leisure.

“Why, he must be here now!” Edith exclaimed, and ran up-stairs to prepare herself for the visit.

If Mrs. Yorke and her daughters felt any sense of relief on learning 745 that they had escaped the danger which would have threatened them had the priest been their guest, they did not express that feeling. They were quite ready, in spite of the danger, to repeat the invitation. Mr. Yorke alone sincerely regretted Father Rasle’s decision. Even Edith, who knew nothing of the action of the town-meeting, perceived that the priest’s place was with his own people.

“I have seen the sheriff and Dr. Willis, this morning,” Mr. Yorke said, after his niece had left the room, “and they both agree in thinking that Father Rasle will not be molested for coming here to stay over one Sunday. They are probably right. The great objection is to his settling here. Besides, he comes so quietly, his being here will not be widely known. Half of his own people do not know that he is coming.”

The two gentlemen named by Mr. Yorke were among the few who secretly condemned the conduct of the town, but did not publicly avow their sentiments, possibly because they knew that such a proclamation would harm themselves without doing any good to Catholics. Aside from the risk of violence to person or property, the physician would be accused of bartering his principles for an increase of practice, the politician of intriguing for the Irish vote. That any one could speak a good word for the church or the Irish from a disinterested motive, was not for a moment admitted.

The day was overcast, threatening rain; but to Edith Yorke it was as though spring and sunshine were at the door; for Mother Church, long exiled, bent once more toward her bereaved children.

“What I do not tell him voluntarily, he will ask,” she said to herself, thinking of Father Rasle. “He will point out what has been wrong in me, and reprove me once for all, and have done with it; and the fault that is not mine, he will lift off my shoulders. It is very heavy!” she whispered tremulously, and for a little while could say no more.

Edith was not breaking under her burden, but she was bending wearily, and the constant weight of it had taken away all her elasticity, not of spirits alone, but of body. While making her last examen of conscience, she felt too weak to kneel, and sank into an arm-chair instead, dropping her head back against the cushion, and closing her eyes. So seen, the change in her face was startlingly evident. Her manner was always so fresh, and her eyes and teeth lighted up her smile so brilliantly, whether she spoke or listened, or only looked, that one could not see that she was pale and thin. But the face that lay against the chair-back was very pallid, and even the hands stretched out on the arms of the chair looked sick.

“There are six sins that I am sure of, besides all the doubtful ones,” she said presently, sitting up. “That takes all my right hand, and the forefinger of my left hand. And now it is time to go.”

The shortest way to the house where Father Rasle was to stop led through the wood-path that Edith and Dick had taken when he left her after his first visit to Seaton. She recollected that walk as she passed again through the forest, and murmured a tearful “Poor Dick! where are you now?”

The trees were not, as then, bright with a prodigal splendor of color, and steeped in mellow sunshine. The gold was tarnished, the reds looked dark and angry, and the lowering sky seemed to press on the branches. That silence which, in the glory of autumn, expresses 746 contentment with finished work and wishes fulfilled, seemed now to mean only suspense or endurance. No leaf came floating trustfully down to give its earth to earth, and free the imprisoned gold into its native air; no gray squirrel was discovered gathering its store of beech-nuts for the coming winter; no bird flitted about to take one more look at its summer haunts. All was silent and deserted.

“You poor old woods! I know just how to pity you,” Edith said, looking about. “But cheer up! These are the days in which Nature tells over the sorrowful mysteries in her long rosary. Your garments are rent away, and the thorns are on your head; but after all is ended, then comes the glorious mystery of the spring resurrection. There! now I have exhorted you, you may exhort me. If you have anything to say, please to say it!”

And then the woods answered: “Child, I know my rosary all by heart, for I have said it six thousand times--six thousand times, child, and yet man will not listen. I tell of resignation and hope, and still his ears are dull. I tell him that in obedience is wisdom, and in wisdom contentment, and he does not cease to rebel. That is a sorrowful mystery over which I grew sad many a time before the cross became the sign of salvation. My very birds are wiser than the children of men; my beasts less cruel. Do not blush, little one! It was your ignorance that spoke, and not presumption. No fairer flower has bloomed in my shadow than your loving thought. Cheer up! Hearts will find the way when heads cannot; for when true love is blind, then an angel leads it.”

“I thank you!” Edith said after having listened. “It is very true, our teachers have a hard time with us. There is you, Mother Nature, with your book full of pictures, to catch our eyes; and the church, speaking our own language, to catch our ears; and conscience, with its two words only, yes and no, to catch our thoughts, and we fight against you all. I am very, very blind! Will some good angel lead me?”

She came out into East Street, and stood a moment on the spot where she and Dick had stood to look at that exquisite bit of meadow. The violet mist that had hung over it, like a parting soul over its body, had long since dissolved, and the little incarnate song that had floated there, yellow-winged and feathered, had been loosed into the heavenly orchestra. Half-way down the hill, a footpath led off to the left of the street, passed a few back-doors of houses on High Street, and ended at the door of the house where Father Rasle was. She knew by the buggy standing in the yard that he had come. If it had not been there, the smiling face of the woman who stood in the door would have told the story.

The woman stepped out to make way, and Edith ran in through the narrow entry to the square room that was both kitchen and parlor.

“O father, father! A hundred thousand welcomes!” And then, between grief and gladness, her voice was stopped.

“Dear child!” he said affectionately. “So you needed me very much?”

Several women were in the room. Some of them had arrived before the priest came, nearly all of them had made their confession, but not one could persuade herself to go away while she was allowed to remain. They meant to stay till he should bid them go, and even then wait for a second telling. To see their beloved pastor, to hear him speak, to 747 repeat over and over their demonstrative welcome, was a happiness which they would fain prolong.

The host and hostess were in their best attire. They had given up all other occupation to the supreme one of entertaining their priest. Their faces shone with a proud delight, their poor house was scrupulously clean, and, though Father Rasle was known to be abstemious, they had gone to the extent of their means for his entertainment.

The priest talked jestingly to the women to cheer them. “What is it that you cry about? But you need not tell me, for I know. It is because you have had nothing but hard words and the absence of your priest to bear. You cry because you were not blown up in the schoolhouse, or did not have your heads broken in the church. Or perhaps you were in hopes that I should come, and find you all strung up to the branches of trees. That is the finest fruit that a tree can bear--a martyr. The Bread of Life grew on the tree of the cross. Courage! They have not done with you yet. Make a good communion to-morrow, and afterward keep yourselves free from sin, and then, when I come again. I may have the happiness of finding all your bodies hung to trees, and all your souls in Paradise.

“Now, you two who have not been to confession will confess at once. Then I want every one of you to go home. I have to talk to that little girl.”

“That little girl” seated herself in the midst of these poor women, who smilingly made room for her--they were not jealous of her--and all turned their faces away from Father Rasle, and sat silently looking into the fire while the confessions were finished. And at last Edith found herself free to tell all her story to the priest.

The Catholics of Seaton could not, if they would, have concealed from their enemies that Father Rasle had come. Their joyful faces would have betrayed the secret if their lips had remained silent. All who could do so laid their work aside, and gathered in knots in the lane, or visited each other’s houses, to talk the matter over. They smiled and nodded to each other in the street with a significance which every one understood. Poor souls! to the cruel eyes that watched them their pathetic and sacred delight was a crime; their silence, treachery.

Toward evening the scattering visitors who had taken their way during the day to the house under the hill became a steady stream. It looked as though every Catholic in Seaton was going to confession. It looked, too, as though every Protestant in Seaton was willing that they should, for no one molested them, and the town was perfectly quiet. Those who had been anxious ascribed this quietude to the weather, and congratulated themselves that the threatening rain prevented any gathering of their persecutors.

At nine o’clock the crowd around the house where the priest was began to thin off. The road by which they sought their homes that night was a _via sacra_; for, newly shriven, and moved to the depths of their hearts, they carried with them, every one, the memory of an earnest exhortation to humility and forgiveness, and resignation to the will of God. At half-past ten only three or four women were left in the house, and the rain was beginning to fall outside. The confessions were over, Mrs. Kent had set out a late supper for Father Rasle, since he would have to fast till noon of the next day, and he was standing 748 to say good-night to the last of his visitors, who even now seemed unwilling to leave him. While he spoke to them, some one was heard running toward the house, and the next minute a man burst into the room, breathless, and bespattered with mud.

“They are coming!” he gasped out. “Run for your life, father!”

In the midst of the outcry that rose from those present, Father Rasle stood fixed and silent. Perhaps he was startled at the sudden and unexpected announcement; perhaps his color had changed; but there was no other sign of excitement. He calmly questioned the man, and learned that a mob of fifty or more masked men were rapidly approaching the house.

“And they will kill you, father,” the messenger concluded. “They don’t put on masks and come at night to break windows. They can do that in broad daylight. For God’s sake, save yourself!”

“They shall take me where I am,” the priest said firmly. “It is the will of God. I will not resist, and I have nowhere to fly to.”

“Here is hot water. Put on more!” cried one of the women. We’ll scald them!” And instantly they took the boiling tea-kettle from the fire, and put cold water to heat.

“Run over to the lane, and rouse the people!” cried another. “They’ll kill everybody in the town in your defence, father, if you say the word.”

“My children, I command you to use no violence, and make no resistance,” the priest said with authority. “If the people rise, it will be to their own destruction. Pray! It is all that you can do.”

They fell on their knees, weeping loudly as they heard the muffled tramp of many feet outside. But one said, “The cellar! the cellar!” and Mr. Kent, catching the priest’s arm, almost forced him toward the cellar-door. It was a pitiful hiding-place; but Father Rasle had no time for any thought except that, if there were a chance of escape, it was his duty to take advantage of it.

Scarcely had he disappeared, before the outer door was thrust open, and the room was filled with men wearing crape masks. They came in silently and swiftly, and as swiftly their companions outside surrounded the house, and stationed themselves at each window to bar all egress.

It was not in the hearts of these poor people to utter no word of reproach to the perpetrators of such an outrage, even though the priest had commanded their silence. Mrs. Kent pointed to one man after another, calling him by name. “I know you under your mask!” she cried. “And the Almighty would find you if I didn’t.”

No one replied to her. The only one of the mob who spoke was he who seemed to be their leader. “Where is the priest?” he asked.

Of course no one told him.

The lower rooms and the attic were searched, and there remained but one place. The hearts of the Christians died within them as the leader of the mob took a candle from the table, and went toward the cellar-door. A girl who was near the door caught up a chair to defend the passage, but another took it from her, and pulled her down to her knees. The next moment Father Rasle was led out amid the sobs and prayers of his children. He was very pale, but perfectly calm, and, like his divine Master, he uttered not a word. But as the mob surrounded and led him away, he cast one glance on those who knelt and stretched their clasped hands toward him, and raised his hand in silent benediction. That he was being led to death, neither he nor 749 they doubted. And they had no reason to doubt it. What violence, short of murder, had these men any reason to fear to do in open daylight? And might they not well believe that even the murderer could escape if he had only the law against him? This was not true only of Seaton. Many a Catholic priest in the United States, at that time, owed the preservation of his life, not to a fear of the law, but to a fear of Catholic vengeance.

They did not take their victim through the lane which Edith had followed, but through a shorter one leading to High Street. The family living in the house at the corner of this street were well-bred people, and, though Protestants, friends to Father Rasle. He had been received in that house as a guest; and now, seeing a light in one of the rooms, the instinct of preservation rose, and forced a cry from him. “Save me!” he cried out, calling the man by name.

Those nearest immediately silenced him with threats. If he spoke again, they said, they would kill him on the spot.

His voice had not been heard, and the faint hope faded as quickly as it had risen.

They avoided the thickly-settled part of the town, and took their way down one of the back streets leading to the river. Half-way down they met a man on horseback, carrying a lantern. He held the light up, and asked whom they had there.

“No one,” they replied, making haste to conceal their prisoner. “We have no one with us.”

Not till too late did Father Rasle know that he had missed another chance of escape, and that it was the sheriff who had met them.

The mob, feeling now secure of their prey, could indulge in revilings. “So they persecuted Jesus of old,” said one, with a laugh.

“Will the Virgin save you?” asked another.

But enough. One does not repeat the talk of those through whose lips the arch-fiend speaks without disguise. They reviling, and he praying, disappeared in the darkness and the storm.

Edith Yorke had passed that evening in her own room. It had been her custom to keep the eve of her communions in retirement, and to-night she had more than ordinary food for reflection. It was almost eleven o’clock when she began to prepare herself for bed, but she still heard her aunt and Clara up downstairs. Mrs. Yorke had not been well, and, unwilling that her husband should lose his rest, had sent him upstairs to sleep, and kept Clara with her. Edith was just thinking that she had a mind to go down and see how her aunt was, when she heard the small gate of the avenue open, and shut again instantly, as if some one had run through.

Her window was partly raised. She threw it up, and stepped out on to the top of the portico. Her heart divined the danger at once. Already the messenger was half-way up the avenue, and, before she could see that it was a woman, she heard her panting breath and half-exhausted voice: “Help! They are killing Father Rasle!”

A faintness as of death swept over Edith. She would have spoken, but could only sink on her knees and lean over the railing. Mrs. Yorke, too, had heard the click of the gate, and had opened the sitting-room window, and Edith heard her voice and Clara’s. To them the woman told her story.

“Do not speak loudly,” Mrs. Yorke said. “Mr. Yorke and Edith must not 750 know. They can do no good, and would only make trouble. Clara, go and wake Patrick, and do it quietly. I tell you, my poor woman, my husband could do nothing, and I shall not allow him to be called.”

Edith grew strong the moment she knew the truth. The woman had left the house before Father Rasle did, and a rescue might still be possible. She opened her door noiselessly, stepped out, and closed it after her; then fled down the back-stairs, out through the back-door, and down the avenue to the upper gate. Reaching the road, she flew over it with winged feet. At North Street, instead of going down toward the centre of the town, she crossed to a lumber-road leading to the river. The bridge was far below, but one who dared could go over here on the boom that kept the logs. Edith dared, considering the peril not worth a thought. When some bugle-toned reveille of the soul wakes up our slumbering faith, then miracles become possible.

The bank was high on the eastern side, and the descent was by two immense timbers, or masts, chained together and chained to the shore at the upper end, and to the boom at the lower. The inclination was steep, and those who walked through the air on that slippery bridge stepped warily even by day, timing their steps to the heavy vibrations of the timber. But Edith ran fleetly down, and sprang on to the swaying boom ankle-deep in water. Lumber-mills above and below sent out their long lines of red light through the misty darkness, and the noise of their saws was like the grinding of teeth. The logs knocked against each other with a dull thump as the river flowed, and here and there little spaces of water glistened. To slip into one of those black holes was death. You miss the boom, and step on a log instead, and, unless you are a practised log-walker--possibly, too, if you are--the log rolls, you go under, and there is an end of you. You cannot scream when you are under water; you cannot rise to the surface, for the logs keep you down, or close together and crush you, and no one can see you.

The boom did not reach straight but zigzagged across the river, the lengths chained together, but not closely, and hidden under water. In those spaces, the logs, trying to get through, pushed their bobbing ends up, and tempted the foot. More than once Edith’s foot was in that trap, but she did not sink till just as she reached the western bank. Then, as she went down, she caught an overhanging sapling, and drew herself to land, wet to the waist.

Irish Lane did not reach so far up, by about a quarter of a mile, and there was no road, the way being pasture and ledge. As Edith reached the upper end of the lane, some one else came into it from the lower end, next the bridge, and she heard a woman’s voice lamenting. She did not stop for lamentation, but ran from house to house, bidding them come out and save Father Rasle.

They gathered immediately, asking questions all in confusion, knowing not which way to go, but ready to follow her lead. Had they no rifles nor pistols? No; why should they have them? An Irishman’s weapon was his fist and a cudgel, and whatever he could catch by the way.

An Irishman, indeed, usually goes into battle first, and arms himself afterward.

But the enthusiasm which Edith’s words had kindled the other messenger soon quenched. It was too late to save him, she said. He had been 751 carried away, they knew not whither. Of course he must be dead long before that time. And he had bid them farewell, and commanded them to use no violence--to do nothing but pray.

Edith heard no more. The hand that, in her earnestness, she had laid on some one’s arm, slipped off, and she dropped to the ground without a word.

It was more than half-past eleven o’clock, and raining quite hard, and the wind had begun to rise. Broken and dispirited, the Catholics went into their houses again, but not to sleep. In one of these houses Edith opened her eyes, and saw about twenty persons gathered, some bending over her, others praying, others walking about and wringing their hands. She got up. “I wish that you would all kneel down, and say the litany of our Lord Jesus,” she said. “I am going to find Father Rasle.”

It needed only that something should be proposed for them to do. The man of the house took his prayer-book, and they all knelt. Others came in and filled the room, frightened children cowering close to their elders, and watching the door, as if they expected to see a foe enter.

Edith went slowly out. One of the women had kindly put a shawl over her shoulders, but she was quite unconscious of the storm. The town clock was striking twelve, and as she stopped to count its strokes, the chorus of praying voices reached her through the open door:

“Jesus, King of Glory, have mercy on us!
Jesus, the Sun of Justice, have mercy on us!”

“O Sun of Justice!” she repeated, and lifted her clasped hands.

She went on, but heard again, in a pause of the storm:

“Jesus, most patient, have mercy on us!
Jesus, most obedient, have mercy on us!”

“Ah! yes, patience! It is not for us to invoke justice,” she thought.

“‘Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord! for in thy sight shall no man living be justified.’”

The road was heavy with mud, and in the darkness she scarcely could find her way. Only the occasional twinkle of a lighted window told where it did not lie. She went wearily, for the spirit that had sustained her while there was hope failed now, and the storm grew every minute worse. In another lull there came again, more faintly:

“Jesus, the good Shepherd, have mercy on us!
Jesus, the true Light, have mercy on us!”

At that tender petition the tears started forth, and she walked on weeping. They were indeed as sheep among wolves. The blast almost swept her off her feet, and in some sudden current snatched the sound of prayer, and brought it to her once more, clearly as if it had been cried in her very ears:

“Jesus, the Strength of martyrs, have mercy on us!”

The wind went sighing off to right and left, and opened a pathway of calm before her, in which she walked firmly, wiping her tears away, and taking courage again.

At the entrance to the lane, near the bridge, she paused and looked back. All was darkness there, but out of the dakness came faintly, “Lamb of God--” It was all she heard, and it was all! It meant patience, humility, immolation, and final triumph.

The cottage where Father Rasle had been was all alight when Edith came in sight of it, and as she approached the door a man came out and almost ran against her.

“Where is he?” she asked. 752

“Why, Miss Edith!” exclaimed Patrick Chester.

She only repeated her question.

“He has come back,” Patrick answered, “and Dr. Willis is with him.”

“Will he die?” she whispered.

“No, Miss Edith; but he has been vilely used. He was out two hours in this storm. He found his way back more dead than alive. He has been tarred and feathered.”

She cried out in disgust: “The brutes! They were, then, too base for murder!”

“You may say that,” Patrick answered. “But now come home. You can’t see him, you know.”

But she would not go till she had heard his voice, and Patrick was obliged to go back to the entry with her. The entry was filled with men and women, all listening for any news that might reach them. The door was ajar into the kitchen, where two or three men were admitted. The priest was with the doctor in an inner room.

“You had better drink this,” they heard Dr. Willis say; and Father Rasle’s voice replied: “No, doctor. It is after twelve o’clock, and I must say Mass to-morrow.”

“But, if you do not take it, you may be very sick,” the doctor persisted.

“I cannot take it,” Father Rasle said again. “My people must not be disappointed.”

“Thank God, it is really he!” Edith exclaimed. “Come, Patrick, we will go home now.”

Mrs. Yorke, fearing to alarm her husband, had put out the lights, and Edith, seeing the house all dark, took no precaution to conceal herself in approaching it. The first notice she had, therefore, that any of the family were awake, was her aunt’s frightened voice calling from the open window of the sitting-room, “Is it Edith? Has Edith been out?”

“Yes, but I am safe back, auntie,” she made haste to say; “and everything is right.”

Clara, Melicent, and Betsey were there. No one in the house slept but Mr. Yorke and the two Pattens, and, since the worst was probably over, it was not so much matter now if they waked. So a large fire was kindled, and Edith’s dripping garments taken off, while Patrick told his story. Then she also told where she had been, and smiled at their terror.

“But to cross the river on the logs and boom!” her aunt cried. “Why, child, your escape is a miracle! If you had fallen in, you would surely have been drowned.”

“I could not have drowned tonight,” Edith answered. “If I had fallen in, I should have set the river on fire.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

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THE DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY. 753

NO. II.

POLITICAL DUTIES.

In order to discuss clearly and profitably the various duties of the rich in Christian society, it is necessary to distinguish and divide them into distinct classes, and under the classes to separate particular duties from each other. We shall make our division on the principle of proceeding from the most general, or those which relate to society in its most extensive sense, to those which are less general, relating to society in its more specific and determinate sense, and finally to those which are the most particular, relating to separate portions and members of society, to the family and to the individual.

Society, in the most extensive sense with which we are concerned in these essays, is political society as organized in our own republic by federal, state, and municipal constitutions and laws. We venture to assume that it may be called a Christian society. It is so, however, in a wider, more general, and less determinate sense than the church, or than a purely Catholic state. We call it a Christian society, in this sense, that its fundamental moral principles have been derived from the Christian law; that its organic life is an outcome from Christian civilization. It does not, however, exclude from itself those who are not Christians, provided they conform to its moral principles and to the laws founded upon them. A Catholic citizen has duties to a state which is pagan. He has duties to a state which professes to be Christian, but adopts a schismatical or heretical perversion of Christianity as the religion of the state. But he has many more duties, because he stands in a much closer and more honorable relation to a state which is based on the moral principles of Christianity, and not identified with any ecclesiastical form which is hostile to his conscience. All Catholic citizens of our republic have political duties, modified, multiplied, and intensified by the extent and quality of the rights which they possess, and the greatness of the interests which they have at stake in the welfare of the commonwealth. The wealthy class have in common with their fellow-citizens all these duties, and additional ones peculiar to themselves.

The general reasons which prove this last proposition apply with equal force to all who belong to the wealthy class, even though they do not profess to be, in any sense of the term, Christians. The first of these reasons is, that the rich have succeeded in great measure to the advantages formerly possessed by the class of nobles. Even in those countries where the noble class still subsists, it is chiefly as a wealthy and educated class, and by the personal superiority of individuals belonging to it in the professions of arms and statesmanship, that it wields actual power. Moreover, the wealthy _bourgeoisie_ has gained ground upon it and invaded its formerly exclusive sphere, winning for itself, as in England, for instance, a 754 place in the real aristocracy. In our own country, where hereditary rank does not exist, it has a clear field. It has no special rights in the political order, and is not, therefore, strictly and completely the successor of the noble class in our ancestral British constitution. Yet, by the very fact of being a wealthy class, it does possess, and ought to possess, a certain pre-eminence, influence, and real though indirect power in public affairs. Men of superior intellectual ability, men of learning and letters, those who fill the higher professional positions, and office-holders, belong to the same class; partly because their position in many instances gives them at least a moderate share of wealth, but chiefly because they have power by their very position, and are able to influence and direct the disposition of wealth even when they do not personally possess it. By this very fact, they have duties to the commonwealth--they are not mere private persons, but public persons. They are important and distinguished members of the community, and, as such, have a greater responsibility to society and the state than others. This will not be disputed as a general statement. We do not intend to go into a minute and detailed exposition of all the particulars which it includes and comprehends. We confine ourselves, for the present, to certain specific duties of those who are rich in the literal and technical sense. And what we have to say of them is, that they ought to fulfil the duties which were annexed to the privileges of the class to which they succeeded, in so far as they have inherited those privileges.

However grossly feudal barons may have in a multitude of instances abused their privileges and their powers, the Christian idea of their state was always that their privileges and powers were entrusted to them for the common good. Sound political philosophy and common sense accord with the higher teaching of Christianity. It would be, therefore, a great change for the worse, a miserable regression in civilization, if a mere moneyed aristocracy, possessing privileges without corresponding duties, took the place of an aristocracy of birth, obliged by its nobility to render the most important services to the state. A mere _caste_ existing for itself, having no end but the selfish exaltation and enjoyment of its members, with no purpose except to live in fine houses, wear fine clothes, drink choice wines, drive about in sumptuous equipages, and finally get buried in great pomp under stately monuments, would be the most anti-Christian, the most despicable, the most odious of constitutions--and would be _succeeded by Communism_.

The rich have political duties: they are bound to be a bulwark and a tower of strength to the state, an ornament to the commonwealth not only bright, but useful; as a quaint epitaph of the seventeenth century designates a certain eminent citizen, “_of Hartford Town the Silver Ornament_.” We presuppose in those men of wealth of whom we speak, as a matter of course, honesty and probity. Swindlers, gamblers, dishonest speculators, bribe-takers, and the whole set of vampires swollen with the blood of the state and of individuals, are excluded. It is those who have inherited or acquired their wealth honestly who are able to serve the state. It is not necessary to go more into detail regarding the ways and methods in which they can do so. We are content merely to indicate their ability and obligation to do it in general terms, and pass on to other topics.

One of these other topics relates to a duty of Catholic citizens which 755 is properly classed under the head of political duties, but which we do not consider precisely as a duty to the state as such, but as one which Catholics owe to themselves, to their own personal rights of conscience, and to religion. We call it, nevertheless, a political duty, because it has to be performed by them as citizens, and in the exercise of their political rights. This is the duty of guarding and defending their liberty of conscience against any encroachment which may be attempted by any political party, or any legislation contrary to the letter or spirit of our fundamental law. This duty, which is one of all Catholic citizens indiscriminately, devolves especially on those whose wealth, education, intellectual power, or social and political position gives them a special opportunity and ability to fulfil it. Such persons are the natural chiefs and leaders of the Catholic laity; they are in the front rank; and they are bound to give the example, encouragement, and direction to the great body which they need and justly look for.

What can be more base and cowardly than for those who have a higher place in society than their fellows, and who have ordinarily risen from the ranks of the poor, laboring class of our Catholic people, to desert or regard with apathy that sacred cause for which their ancestors suffered and died, and for the sake of which they have sought an asylum in this free country, where they have found success and prosperity? Here they have found that inestimable boon, liberty of conscience, freedom to profess and practise their religion, and to provide for their posterity the means of doing the same. They are bound to use all the power and influence which God has given them to preserve and perpetuate these rights, and to protect the more helpless classes of their fellow-Catholics, the poor, the orphans, the sick, the outcasts of society, in the enjoyment of their religious rights. This includes a great deal. First and foremost at the present moment is liberty of education. Besides this, there are the rights of religious instruction and sacraments for those who are in the army and navy, in hospitals, asylums, and prisons, and in those institutions where children are justly or unjustly placed by the civil authority as vagrants. In short, everywhere, where the state takes hold of the individual, or exercises a right of control over any lesser corporation which takes hold of him, in such a way that there is a chance for tyranny over his conscience, and the violation or abridgment of his religious rights and liberty in the interest of sectarianism or secularism, it is the duty of the most eminent Catholic laymen to become, together with their bishops and priests, the champions of the oppressed.

Does any one say that there is no need of vigilance or action, because there is no danger that our rights will be disregarded or infringed? We think he is in error. “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.” And as one proof that Catholics in this republic have need to exercise this vigilance, we will cite an example of the disastrous consequences which have followed from the neglect of it in another republic.

The Confederation of the Swiss Cantons established and guaranteed in the most solemn and explicit manner the liberty of religion for Catholics and Protestants alike. Nevertheless, the liberty of the Catholic Church has been taken away in the most flagrant manner, even in the Catholic Cantons, by tyrannical federal and cantonal 756 legislation. Fifty religious establishments were suppressed at one blow. Since that time,--that is, since 1848--religious houses and schools have been forcibly suppressed at Ascona, Lugano, Mendrisio, and Bellinzona, and the diocesan seminaries at Pollegio and Aargau. Nearly all the Catholic schools in most of the mixed cantons have been changed into mixed schools, and in Thurgau they have been all suppressed. No priest can be admitted to the exercise of his functions who has studied at any Jesuit college. The catechism of the bishop in whose diocese Aargau is situated, the Bible History of Schuster, and the Moral Theologies of Gury and Kenrick, have been interdicted by the civil authority. Prohibitions have been issued against missions, retreats, the publication of the Jubilee, and the devotions of the Month of Mary. In Aargau, no youth can embrace the ecclesiastical state without the leave of the cantonal assembly, before which august and holy tribunal he must pass two examinations. In the Catholic canton of Ticino, the cantonal assembly arrogates to itself the right of changing the destination of religious foundations, fixing and regulating the election, installation in benefices, and official functions of beneficiaries, erecting new parishes and abolishing existing ones. The _placet_ of the civil authority is requisite for all ecclesiastical decrees of the bishops and the Pope under penalty of fines varying from five to five thousand francs. In several cantons civil marriage is obligatory. In short, the Catholics of Switzerland are in an enslaved and insupportable condition, as is proved by a memorial of the whole body of the Swiss Episcopate, in which these and many other particulars are given.[158]

The profession of liberalism affords no guarantee to Catholics against the most flagrant and cruel oppression. Neither is there any security in the mere fact that the form of government is democratic or republican. Everywhere, as well in countries called Catholic as in those which are not, under republican as well as under monarchical constitutions, the price of liberty is unceasing vigilance and activity. Catholics must rely entirely on themselves, and not delegate the office of protecting them to any party or ruling power. This is necessary in the United States as well as in Switzerland. We do not ascribe to the majority of the non-Catholic citizens of our federal republic or of any state a disposition to abridge our liberty. But it is not the majority which really governs. Principles, maxims, arguments, watch-words, measures, are initiated by a few persons. Majorities are carried along by leaders, orators, writers for the press, they know not why, how, or toward what end. There is danger, therefore, though not from the American people, from the masters of state-craft, but from restless, revolutionary spirits, from violent sectarian leaders, from ambitious demagogues, from parties which may start up and be violently impelled by sudden excitements.

The conclusion of all this is, that the _élite_ of the Catholic laity are bound to understand the sound Catholic principles of public law and right which are involved in the relation of liberty of conscience and religion to the sovereignty of the state, under our American republican institutions. They are bound to instruct those who are uneducated in their rights and obligations as citizens. They are bound to set before the public the grounds and reasons of Catholic rights, 757 as based on the natural and divine law, and the American constitution. And they are bound to exclude unprincipled, ignorant demagogues from the leadership of the Catholic people by taking it themselves, and in that position opposing with all their might every political scheme for giving the state a usurped power over conscience and religion. Those who are incapable of doing anything else in this direction can at least aid by their wealth the Catholic press in diffusing true and just ideas, and advocating Catholic rights.

[158] See _Dublin Review_ for October, 1871.

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TRAVELS IN THE AIR.

About ninety years ago, on the memorable 21st of November, 1783, the Parisian world had a sensation which can never be repeated. On that day, men for the first time dared to trust themselves in a balloon, which was to be freed entirely from the earth, and take, as we may say, its chance as to the time and manner in which it was to return to it. One can easily imagine the intense excitement and admiration which must have filled the hearts of the spectators, and the feelings of triumph, though mingled, it must needs have been, with some apprehension, on the part of the occupants of the car, the Marquis d’Arlandes and M. Pilâtre de Rozier, when they for the first time, trusting themselves to the care of their new machine, invented only a few months previously, were carried by it into the unknown region of the clouds. Fortunately, this first free ascent was a success; if it had not been, who knows how long further experiments in aeronautics might have been postponed by prohibitory laws or by the fears of men, both of which would certainly have been quite justifiable? As it was, this first excursion served as a stimulus to other attempts, and the number which have been made since then is beyond all estimate. It is certain, however, that the immense majority of them have been every way as successful as this first one was, and many, of course, very much more so. The danger of balloon ascents is really very trifling; accidents occur hardly once in a hundred times, and very seldom, when they do occur, involve the loss of life. It is hardly more dangerous to travel by balloon than by railway or steamer, and certainly very much more agreeable.

If our reader desires a most convincing proof of this last statement, we cannot do better than to refer him to a book bearing the title which stands at the head of this article, and imported by Lippincott & Co. We must confess to having become somewhat enthusiastic on the subject of balloons since reading this book, and hardly think any one else who even looks at it can fail to have something of the same feeling. By a mere glance at it one is introduced to quite a new world, and to read it is the next best thing to going up above the clouds one’s self. It is illustrated by six beautiful chromo-lithographs, and has a hundred and twenty other illustrations.

Mr. Glaisher, the editor, is a thoroughly scientific man, possessed of 758 remarkable steadiness and coolness, as his name would imply, and as the accounts of his voyages sufficiently demonstrate. He is one of the best meteorologists in the world, and it is in the interests of science that his ascents have been made. But, together with the accounts of his own excursions, he gives others by three French gentlemen, also accomplished aeronauts, and whose enthusiasm on the subject almost equals our own, and practically perhaps surpasses it, for we find that M. Tissandier seems to have had no objection to starting from Calais when the wind was blowing straight out toward the German Ocean. These gentlemen, MM. Flammarion, De Fonvielle, and Tissandier, just named, often made long journeys, landing at a point quite remote from that of starting--a thing almost out of the question for Mr. Glaisher, for, as he pathetically remarks, “whatever part of England we start from, in one hour we may be over the sea.” His endeavor rather was, in the short time allotted him, to rush for the upper regions of the atmosphere, in order that he might there, as well as on the way up and down, make observations on temperature, electricity, magnetism, sound, solar radiation, the spectrum, ozone, direction of wind (for this, as before remarked, his opportunity was limited), actinic effects of the sun, density of the clouds, etc., and he consequently went up quite beleaguered with instruments, as the illustration “Mr. Glaisher in the car” clearly shows. The effects of great elevation on the human constitution naturally did not escape his attention, nor that of his companion and aeronaut, Mr. Coxwell; he says that, on one occasion, “at the height of three miles and a half, Mr. Coxwell said my face was of a glowing purple, and higher still, both our faces were blue. Truly a pleasing state of things!”

But three miles and a half was a small elevation for Mr. Glaisher. In several of his ascents, he rose to the height of about five miles, on one occasion meeting with dense clouds all the way up. Certainly such clouds are not common, except in “our old home”; but such a day as that must have been even an Englishman could hardly have called “fine.” His third ascent, on September 5, 1862, was the most interesting of all; in this he rose to the astonishing height of _seven miles_, or 37,000 feet. Probably our readers have generally been accustomed to see in their atlases, by the side of the enormous congeries of mountains which usually forms the frontispiece, a small picture of a balloon, with “highest point ever reached by man,” or words to that effect, appended to it, at the elevation of 23,000 feet; with a reference to the name of Gay-Lussac. But this ascent, made on September 15, 1804, is entirely insignificant now, compared with this stupendous one, to a point a mile and a half above the summit of the Himalaya Mountains, into regions where only one-quarter of the atmosphere lay above the aeronauts, and where it was rarefied about in the same proportion. If their faces were blue at four miles, what were they now?

The account of this ascent is very exciting, and at the same time places Mr. Glaisher’s qualities as an observer in the most favorable light. In company with Mr. Coxwell, who was his pilot as usual, he left Wolverhampton at about one o’clock, and attained the height of five miles in about fifty minutes. Think of that, compared with the trouble of ascending an Alpine peak, where, after many hours of most 759 exhausting labor, one can only get three miles above the sea! And Mr. Glaisher, instead of having to strain every muscle in his body, was able to sit quiet, and calmly observe the barometer, thermometer, etc. The balloon was, however, revolving so rapidly that he failed in taking photographic views. Mr. Coxwell had more exhausting work in the management of the balloon, and was panting for breath when they were three miles high. For two miles more, however, Mr. Glaisher “took observations with comfort.” But, “about 1h. 52m., or later,” he made his last reading; after this he could not see the divisions of the instruments, and asked Mr. Coxwell to help read them. They probably were beginning to think it was time to see about coming down; but in order to do so, the valve-rope had to be pulled, and it was caught in the rigging above, owing to the rotatory motion of the balloon. The thermometer was about ten degrees below zero; Mr. Glaisher was fast becoming insensible, and Mr. Coxwell’s hands were almost useless from numbness. Still, something had to be done, for they were rising a thousand feet every minute; and accordingly, Mr. Coxwell climbed into the ring of the balloon, and pulled the rope with his teeth. He has the proud distinction of having been five or six feet higher above the earth than any other man, for of course they immediately began to descend. On coming back to the car, he found his companion quite insensible; after a few minutes, Mr. Glaisher came to himself, as they sank from that terrible elevation, to which it is probably impossible for man safely to ascend. But, like a thoroughly scientific man, as he is, he had observed his sensations to the last. First, his arms and legs gave out; and his neck became weak, so that his head fell over to one side; he shook himself, and noticed that he “had power over the muscles of his back, and considerably so over those of the neck.” This suddenly left him, however, and the sense of sight immediately afterward; as for hearing, he could not tell, as there was probably nothing to hear at that height. He fell back helpless, resting his shoulder on the edge of the car. The next words he heard were “temperature” and “observation”; it can hardly be supposed that these were the first words Mr. Coxwell employed to rouse him, though they were probably the best. Then “the instruments became dimly visible.” Immediately on recovering, he says: “I drew up my legs, which had been extended, and _took a pencil in my hand to begin observations_.” Is not this characteristic?

Perhaps it may not be clear how it can be proved that the height of seven miles was attained on this occasion. It is, of course, well known that the elevation of a balloon is determined, as that of a mountain-peak usually is, by the barometer; and this method is very accurate, though, if there be a rapid motion upward or downward, the barometer may lag a little. Still, it gives the absolute height, and also the rate of ascent or descent, with sufficient accuracy for all practical purposes. By this instrument Mr. Glaisher had found that, just before he became insensible, they were 29,000 feet high, and ascending at the rate of 1,000 feet a minute; when he recovered after the lapse of thirteen minutes, they were 26,000 feet high, and descending 2,000 feet a minute. These data are sufficient to determine the greatest height attained; but Mr. Coxwell also, on coming down from the ring, happened to glance at the aneroid barometer, and 760 afterward remembered pretty nearly the direction of its hand; its reading confirms the conclusion got by the other method. A minimum thermometer agreed in the same result. They landed safely at about twenty minutes to three, the whole excursion having taken only a little over an hour and a half. The illustration called “Mr. Glaisher insensible at the height of seven miles” is one of the most remarkable in the book, and most readers will probable turn to it repeatedly. It represents the supreme and critical moment; Mr. Coxwell is in the ring, and is just loosening the valve-rope. His hands, his companion tells us, were black when he came down; and Mr. Glaisher generally means what he says.