Chapter V: Electioneering (4)

The study of dogmatic theology is then impossible if it does not depend upon an exact and profound study of metaphysics. There is not a single one of those general notions which the science of metaphysics tries in its crucible that does not show itself again in the different treatises of theology, and present itself before us under all its forms. He who has not beforehand penetrated into the depths of these notions will walk in darkness; he will hesitate and be in constant doubt, and will have no means of protecting himself from the grossest blunders save by imposing on himself the rigorous task of studying philosophy in proportion as he advances in the study of theology.

The same connection which exists between speculative philosophy and dogmatic theology exists between practical philosophy, moral theology, and canon law. Perhaps this latter connection is still more intimate than the former; for in moral questions there is much less of revealed truth than in dogmatic. The moral theologian, then, will apply most often to reason for the principles which ought to guide him. It is therefore by the aid of this torch that he will solve the difficulties which present themselves in the application of those principles. The greatest part of the duties which man has to fulfil, whether towards God, towards his fellows, or himself, pertain to the essential order, and are therefore under the domain of philosophy. To it, in fine, belong those fundamental theories on human actions and conscience which form as it were the pivot of moral theology.

As for canon law, its study presupposes general notions on law and on the conditions of social authority no less than the study of civil jurisprudence. Natural right is the necessary preamble of both; it establishes the base whereon is founded the legislation of the church as well as of the state; it lays down the general formulas which the positive laws apply to particular cases; it is then to positive right, whether canonical or civil, what algebra is to geometry. He who is possessed of it will have no difficulty in generalizing particular data, and enlarging by simplifying them, as he who ignores it will only acquire a far more imperfect knowledge at the cost of a far greater amount of labor.

These considerations will aid us in comprehending the importance which the church has attached from all time to the teachings of philosophy in her universities, and the efforts she has made to lift it up when she has seen it threatened by a disastrous decline. If we have caught the straight line which connects this teaching with that of sacred science, we shall no longer be astonished at seeing a great Pope publish a bull in order to give to philosophy the favor which the emoluments attached to the study of jurisprudence tended to snatch from it. The church knew that philosophy could not fall without theology falling with it. Would that we could understand it thus, and apply to the restoration of philosophy all the zeal which we ought to have for the resurrection of the high ecclesiastical studies!

It is here--let us understand it well--that we must commence. If you take St. Augustine or St. Thomas as the type of a great theologian, you cannot fail to set upon his brow the aureola of philosophy. A theology which, to the exposition of dogma, did not unite its philosophic analysis, would be nothing more than a catechism; it would have nothing in common with that magnificent science, the materials of which the holy fathers have furnished, and whose majestic edifice the scholastic doctors have built up. Never will the priest be able to fulfil, in all its extent, the function of doctor, unaided by a profound study of philosophy; never, above all, will he be able to defend revealed truth against the attacks of its enemies; for I ask, against what points are these attacks directed to-day above all? Is it not against those truths which belong at once to the natural and supernatural order--to philosophy and theology? And of what arms do our enemies avail themselves to effect a breach in these fundamental dogmas? Are they not almost exclusively those with which a false philosophy supplies them? What shall we do then, we, the defenders of truth? What is our sacred, indispensable duty in the face of these attacks, which day by day tear away one or other of the sheep from the flock of the church? Are we to content ourselves with groaning over the abuse of reason? Shall we give pretext to the ignorant to conclude from our invectives that there is a contradiction between our faith and true philosophy? No; we will mount the breach boldly; we will capture the weapon which our enemy uses in his attack. Our fathers in the faith have taught us how to wield it. Let us demonstrate that true philosophy is on our side, and that our adversaries can only attack our faith by denying their own reason. Thus the ignorant will be enlightened; the wavering minds strengthened; come what may, we shall have done our duty in rendering to the Word of God the testimony which the necessities of the time in which we live demand of us.

I trust I have said enough to disabuse those of their dangerous error who believe that they glorify theology by vilifying with all their power philosophy. Undoubtedly the philosophy which they pursue with their invective is the philosophy which is separate from faith, the philosophy of doubt, of revolt, that is to say, the very opposite of true philosophy. But to hear them speak, one would say, sometimes, that they recognized no other philosophy than that, and conceded to their adversaries the absurd and insolent pretension which they assume of being the representatives of reason. Thank God, this pretension was never less defensible than in our days; never has revolted reason done better the work of faith by its monstrous excesses, and made more advantageous the ground of the champions of the cause of God. Never was it more manifest that there are no true defenders of human dignity except the defenders of divine authority. Let us know how to profit by our advantages. All of us who love the church and the doctrine of heaven, whose depository is the church--we who groan under the darkness which gathers round intelligence, and seems to thicken day by day, let us unite our efforts, and employ every influence we possess toward that restoration of true philosophy which is so desirable. Thereby we render a service equally signal to society and to the church: to society, which is being lost, because the love of truth is extinguished in the hearts of men; to the church, the mistress of truth, which has no longer a hold upon souls to whom truth is nothing. Nay, more; to the divine Word himself we render the greatest service he can expect from his creatures, by re-establishing in their integrity the two channels whereby he pours his light into our intelligence--the science of natural and supernatural truths.

We must, in fact, lift ourselves up to the divine Word in order to form an idea of the destination of philosophy, and to appreciate exactly its dignity and importance. Is not he indeed the common source of natural and supernatural truth? Different in their mode of manifesting themselves to us, are they not identical in their beginning? Whence comes it that, in perceiving the essential properties of my soul, the laws of numbers and of figures, I am absolutely certain that all minds which judge rightly must perceive them in the same manner, and that never, at any moment of time or eternity, can they perceive them otherwise? This necessity, this immensity, this eternity, which our intelligence embraces, proves to us manifestly that these essential laws which we perceive in contingent beings are but the reproduction of a necessary and infinite type. It is then the splendor of God, it is his Word, who reveals himself to our reason, by the medium of his creatures, before revealing himself to us by himself. Philosophy is, then, truly a way which God has opened up for us of journeying to him, and should we disdain to enter thereon? Should not we traverse it with the same reverence with which Moses approached the burning bush? And when, guided by Augustine and Thomas, we behold appear before our eyes the great light of the idea of the infinite; when that name Jehovah, He who is, graven in our soul by the hand of God himself, and involved in the idea of being in all our intellectual acts, shall unfold itself little by little and grow in splendor, like the flame of the aurora, and reveal to us at last in their infinite simplicity the multiplicity of the divine attributes and the laws of all creation, shall we not bow ourselves down before him with the prophet and intone a canticle of acts of praise? And should we permit one to speak with contempt of a science whereby God is manifested to us? Let one say all the evil he wishes of that proud philosophy which seeks in the natural light of reason a means of obscuring the supernatural light of faith. Nothing, I acknowledge, is so revolting, nothing so satanic, as this transformation of light into darkness which a systematic incredulity effects in a rebellious intelligence. But, in like manner, nothing is so beautiful, nothing so divine, as the fusion of natural with supernatural light, of philosophy with faith, which is effected in the intellect of a Christian. Read the _Summa_ of St. Thomas, the _Confessions_ and the other works of St. Augustine, the _Itinerarium of the Soul to God_ of St. Bonaventure, and try, if you can, to separate one from another the thoughts and the sentiments which these great doctors have borrowed from faith, from those which they have borrowed from philosophy. This separation you will find impossible--the rays of these two torches are so intersected, united, and mingled in these splendid intellects. Starting from the same focus, after traversing diverse routes, they find themselves reunited in acting together on souls as eager for science as they are docile to the teachings of faith; and together they have worked in the soul to fulfil their common mission, in producing in them the created image of the uncreated Word. This union with the light of faith in the intellect of the Christian is the end to which philosophy aspires, in the same way as faith, penetrating into this intellect, seeks to unite itself therein with science. “Faith seeking understanding.” Oh! how ill do those understand the interests of philosophy who are ever prating of its independence, and who by independence understand an absolute separation between its teachings and those of revelation! How can light tend to separate itself from light? No, not in this separation does the dignity of philosophy consist; it consists, on the contrary, in producing here below in the soul of its true disciples a reflection and an outline of that splendor which the clear vision of the divine essence produces in the intelligence of the blessed, to make them comprehend what they believe in order to make them love it the more.

VII.

But it is time to pause. However incomplete may have been the development of the thesis I undertook to prove, I have said enough, I think, to make obvious the capital importance of philosophy, its necessity for the formation of the man and the Christian, of the influential citizen and the defender of the church. Hence I have a right to conclude that the far too narrow corner allotted by us to this study in the framework of a liberal education is a very great misfortune, and constitutes one of the gravest dangers of the actual state of things. A society which neglects to form the intellect of the new generation is evidently a society condemned to an inevitable decay.

Independently of this common peril, very capable it seems of awakening our solicitude, I have demonstrated that for the unfortunate youth launched into the midst of the _mêlée_ of errors without having been prepared by a deep study of truth, there was a danger of disaster, from which he could only escape by miracle. On whom, I ask, falls the responsibility of this disaster, save on those who, with the power and obligation of giving this youth the preparation whose necessity has been pointed out to them, shall have neglected to acquit themselves of this duty?

It is not for me to say more. I know all the excuses that one may justly allege to throw off this terrible responsibility. The masters are hindered by the parents, the parents themselves are hindered by social necessities. The anti-rational spirit of this age of rationalism is like an impetuous wind which whirls away youth far from serious reflection, and which neutralizes the best directed teaching.

These excuses may quiet our consciences for the past, but they can in no wise lessen our fears for the future. The evil exists in all its gravity, and it is necessary at any cost to remedy it.

The first thing to do is clearly to use all our means of persuasion, in order to make parents and youth themselves comprehend the essential importance of philosophy. It is necessary to accustom them from the earliest period of life to regard this study as the indispensable completion of their education; the most solid guarantee for their future success, the act of emancipation of their manhood, the taking complete possession of their dignity as men, and the most powerful instrument which they are called upon to hold of influencing their fellows. If from the moment of entering upon this laborious career of education, we do not accustom them to consider the science of things as the reward most to be desired of all the labors they undertake in acquiring the science of words, we cannot expect that at the moment when custom authorizes them to reclaim their liberty, they will submit themselves willingly to bear two years longer the yoke of dependence.

Here we have the first thing necessary to do in order to ward off the immense danger with which the decline of philosophy threatens us.

But there is a remedy still more efficacious and still more necessary against this evil. If we wish philosophy to be esteemed and studied, let us render it worthy of the esteem we claim for it, and of the sacrifices at the cost of which it must be acquired. Let us lift it up from its fall; let us prove, not by _a priori_ arguments, but by the very reality, that it is worthy of its name. Let it appear in our books and in our hearts no longer as we find it satirically represented in certain ancient pictures, as the combat between a lizard and a scorpion, but like that bee of which the church speaks to us in the beautiful Office of St. Cecilia, which, reserving for the enemies of truth its piercing sting, goes to place in the bottom of the chalice the most odorous essence of all the flowers to compose for it its honey, _quasi apis argumentosa_. Let us acknowledge, then, if philosophy is too neglected and so profoundly despised in our days, it is above all to those who have abused it that it ought to impute its disgrace. Christianity had made philosophy divine, as it made divine everything that it touched. It was a virgin as beautiful as she was pure whose earthly form was surrounded by a halo of heaven. Impure lovers of her human beauty have endeavored to force her to apostasy, in order to be able to make her the toy of their swollen pride. Alas! they have only been too successful. With its divine beauty its very human form has passed away, and nothing is left in their hands save a disfigured corpse. But God has made sciences curable as well as nations. He only waits for us to lift up philosophy from where she lies, and restore her to life and dignity.

Let us put an end to this senseless and fatal contest which during two centuries reason has waged against faith; let us cease from using against God the most noble gift with which he has endowed our nature; let us cease to oppose light to light, natural to supernatural truth; let us desist from converting the ray which illumines our soul into a veil to hide us from the sun, and taking the waters of the stream made turbid by our pride to trouble the source. Let us, in a word, understand the true conditions of the liberty and greatness of the creature: nothing of itself, it can rise even to the infinite, to the condition of union with it, and of leaning upon its strength.

Let reason understand this law which is so rational, and philosophy by that same law take back the glorious place which God marked out for it; it will remount the throne whence its revolt hurled it, and acquire anew the right of dictating to the other sciences the eternal principles and immutable laws on which the natural order depends.

FOOTNOTE:

[202] Mrs. Beecher Stowe, _Minister’s Wooing_.

ON THE MISTY MOUNTAIN.

CONCLUDED.

ROUTE III.

One does not feel particularly festive starting out in the rain and the dim uncertain light of the hour before day. The best thing to be done under these circumstances is to go to sleep, if you can sleep staging. The “front boot” affords a very comfortable berth, of which the lieutenant took possession. I concluded to go inside, and endeavor to snatch the shaky sleep of a coach. I felt as though I could not keep awake if the road were picketed by hostile redskins. The ladies--bless their kind souls!--sat close to make room. I sank into a corner, and was soon jolted into a sleep.

I was aroused by a sudden stoppage. The day had dawned. I looked out of the stage, and saw a wagon overturned in the road. Seeing the conductor and the lieutenant alight, I alighted. The body of a man lay by the upturned wagon.

“It’s poor Tommy!” said the lieutenant.

“I thought the thievin’, cowardly devils would git him at last,” said the conductor. “Poor old Tommy! It will be an awful blow for his wife and her six poor orphans.”

Yes! there lay poor Tommy in the early sunlight--dead, stripped, and scalped. His clothes had been torn from his body, which was gashed in every limb. Every gash, the lieutenant told me, was the sign of a different tribe. The number on poor Tommy’s body showed that representatives of seven tribes assisted at his murder. His throat was cut across--the sign of the “Cut-throats.” His arms and his thighs were crossed by deep transverse gashes. His abdomen was scored by two long gashes meeting in a point. The lieutenant told me the names of the tribes whose devilish signs-manual were written in the blood and on the flesh of poor “Tommy John,” but I have memory only of one in the horrid sight then before me.

The oxen lay with their throats cut and large pieces hacked out of their still quivering flanks. The Indians had taken everything they could use. What they did not take, with savage malignity they had broken into atoms or torn into shreds. A baby’s crib and a child’s chair which the poor fond father was taking to his little ones on the “Sandy” were broken into very chips.

We remained for some time gazing on this horrid sight. No one spoke. At length the lieutenant and sergeant decently covered the mangled body with a blanket. As we were already behind time, the conductor said he could not take back to the station the body of the murdered man. We concluded to remain by it until the arrival of the stage from the West, which was already due at that point.

It was a sad vigil--fortunately not a prolonged one. The stage from the West arrived. It had no passengers. We wrapped poor Tommy in an additional blanket, and the coach drove off, taking him away for ever on this earth from his “old lady and his half-dozen babies over on the Sandy.”

After having examined the “signs” about the place of the murder, the lieutenant and the conductor estimated the number of Indians engaged in the bloody deed at about fifty. Matters became critical. I could not stay inside the stage any longer. I mounted the roof once more, feeling that if I were to be killed by Indians--a fate to which I did not in the least aspire--I wanted to see whence my death-bolt came, and have plenty of room to die in.

The party on top of the stage seemed quite cool, but by no means conversationally inclined. I could see their keen eyes continually making the circuit of the horizon, which traced around us a perfect circle unbroken by mound or shrub.

We reached the Lone Hollow Station, a “swing,” twenty-eight miles from Artesian Wells, without seeing any more signs of Indians. Here we found yesterday’s Western-bound stage. It had started at the usual time, but when within a mile or so of Cypress Spring, an abandoned intermediate or “swing” station, the driver saw the buildings in flames. With a glass he could discern Indians about the burning structures. He had wisely concluded to turn back to the station he had left, and there we found him. He had no passengers.

Lone Hollow Station was kept by a solitary stock-tender--an old fellow who received “$75 per month and found,” for offering himself as a perpetual candidate for immolation by his red brethren.

When we arrived at the Lone Hollow, I felt an unaccountable buoyancy and a rather humiliating craving for food--animal or vegetable. Fortunately, the old stock-trader had some biscuit and a large panful of dried apples. Tea was soon made, and I ate an immense meal. I was not alone in this, however; the lieutenant, the conductor, in short everybody, ate voraciously, except the women, who still clung to the coach, and could not be prevailed upon to change their position for a moment. The men were all in high spirits, and there seemed to be no more trace of Tommy John’s memory than if he had never been.

“How do you find it here now?” asked the lieutenant of the old stock-tender. “Pretty lonely?”

“Well,” answered John, “rather. Before they sent away the hosses and tuk to mules, things wuz more sociable-like. I got fond of them hosses, and them hosses got fond of me. But a mule ain’t got no feelin’ for nobody. You can’t trust ’em. They’re too tricky. I didn’t feel near so lonesome last year. I had a big yellow dog that was the best companion I ever had. But he got pisoned, by eatin’ wolf-bait most likely; and now I ain’t got nothin’ but two small pups, and they ain’t no society for a man.”

“I should think not,” said the lieutenant.

With an abominable want of _savoir-faire_, I must strike in at this point with the following:

“Being alone here, are you not afraid of Indians?”

The question was one which evidently disturbed the old fellow. I saw it was a sore subject with him, and regretted having touched upon it. It was plain he wished to keep it out of his thoughts.

“The Injuns won’t bother me,” he said nervously and impatiently, as if hastily thrusting the skeleton out of sight.

The “dug-out” has its skeleton-closet as well as the palace.

“What do you do to pass the time, John?” asked the conductor.

“Well,” replied John, “I cook--look after the mules--_promenade_ up to the crest of the ridge. When all my work is done, and I want something to keep my mind occupied, I mend old clothes.”

Our colloquy was cut short, by the warning cry of “All aboard!”

Both coaches were ready to start. The conductors had concluded to unite their forces. This arrangement gave more room. We divided our party; the lieutenant and I mounted the empty coach, which now took the lead, followed at about fifty yards by the other.

The flash of good spirits which blazed momentarily at the station soon died out. Everybody seemed disposed to silence. We were all busy, straining our eyes, watching for Indians.

Ten miles passed thus without other conversation than monosyllabic remarks. From the top of a “divide,” we now looked upon the charred and smouldering relics of Cypress Station. We stopped and reconnoitred carefully before descending. There were no Indians to be seen. Having descended the Hollow in which the station had stood, we found the tracks very fresh. The lieutenant, the sergeant, and the conductor, attended by the writer (through curiosity rather than bravery), alighted and examined the ground. The Indians had destroyed everything they could lay hands on outside of the redoubts or “dug-outs.” These they had not dared to enter. The rough “bunks” of undressed timber used by the guards were untouched. In one was found a water-keg, and in the other a woollen blanket, left in the hurry of departure, but which no Indian could have seen and not appropriated to his own use and benefit.

“The Indians are afraid of those ‘dug-outs’ even when unoccupied,” said the lieutenant. “They do not like to go near them--much less enter them. They fear a trap of some kind. An Indian always strives to keep his lines of retreat open; he wants a good chance to run away. Indians have been known to watch about abandoned stations for days before daring to go within rifle-range of the ‘dug-outs.’”

Within four miles of Sandy Station, a spur sweeping semicircularly from a high bluff to the north nearly touches the road on that side, while the great bend of the Big Dryasdust cuts into it on the south. The lowland to the west of the spur is entirely concealed from the view of the traveller. This was a favorite place for Indian ambuscades, and we approached it with great caution. After crossing the bridge the driver said to the conductor:

“Ain’t that Mac’s pony out yonder?”

“Let’s see!” said the conductor, taking the field-glass and adjusting it. “Pull up a minute, Joe! I can’t see with this outfit while the coach is moving. Now, then! By the law, sir, that there’s Mac’s pony! He acts mighty strange, too. He is either lamed or hobbled. No! by gracious! he’s not hobbled. He’s saddled, too! He’s wounded, sir! You may bet your bottom dollar!”

“Drive over to him and see,” said the lieutenant.

The coaches were driven to where the pony was on the prairie, about a mile from the road. The lieutenant jumped out.

“Gentlemen!” said he, “this is more Indian work.”

And so it was. The pony had one bullet-hole through the near foreshoulder. A second ball had struck it on the lower jaw, and turned a portion of it with the teeth over on the tongue, which was held as in a vice. The poor animal seemed to suffer intensely. It was proposed to shoot it to end its suffering, but the proposition was not agreed to.

“Let’s try and prise back his teeth so that he can eat, and he’ll find his way back to the station.”

With a “king-bolt” for a lever, by the united efforts of four men the teeth with the portion of the lower jaw containing them were turned back, and resumed their natural position with a snap like that of a spring-lock. The poor animal, relieved, at once began grazing.

“Come, gentlemen,” said the driver, “get aboard, and let’s make for the station. There’s been trouble, sure.”

When we reached the road again the conductor of our coach said he heard a shot in the direction of the station. The lieutenant said he thought he had heard it, but it might be imagination, our thoughts being occupied by such anticipations. All doubts were soon at an end, however, for we all heard the next shot, and then another and another.

You get within half a mile of Sandy Station before you see it. As soon as we reached the point from which it is visible, we could see that a pretty lively fight was going on between the men at the station and a mounted party on the opposite bank of the stream. The attacking party were about fifty in number, all mounted, some having remounts which they led. They rode at full speed in single file, at intervals of some paces, in a circle whose circumference at the point opposite to the station nearly reached the stream. Each horseman fired as he reached this point. The party at the station were well covered by the roof of a “dug-out” stable cut in the bank. The attacking party looked more like Mexicans than Indians. They wore wide-brimmed straw hats, and their body-covering was of a dark color.

The conductor, however, pronounced them Indians.

“They have,” said he, “the broad-brimmed straw hats, uniform coats, and six-shooters given them by the Peace Commissioners last spring.”

The drivers now dashed on with all the speed of their animals, “to have a little piece of the fight,” they said; but, no doubt, also to escape being cut off by a party who were evidently preparing to cross the creek for that purpose. Fortunately, though there was very little water in the stream, it was very wide, and full of soft, wet, treacherous sand. Half a dozen Indians galloped to the bank when they saw us, and rode up and down seeking for a crossing. One of them dashed in, and his pony soon went down to its flanks. Two snap-shots from our stage as we dashed by grazed him pretty closely. A third wounded him and caused him to abandon his pony. He was helped up the bank by the others, put on a spare pony, and, supported by an Indian on either side, was carried at full speed out of range. Luckily for the other Indians, they succeeded in doing this while we were getting out of the stage, which we did as quickly as possible after getting the ladies’ coach under the lee of the stable.

We were all anxious, of course, “to get a shot in the fight.” I was in a state of intense excitement. I received a pretty lively shock from the unexpected discharge of my gun while I was in the act of cocking it. Its position was fortunately, however, a vertical one. My friends, hearing the fire in the rear, swore, started, turned round, as if each and every one of them had received a bullet. Seeing the source of the firing, and finding nobody hurt, they laughed, but insisted I should henceforth move in advance, as they could not stand such firing as mine. After this little episode, I “got in” a couple of shots; I cannot say with what success, as for the life of me I could not tell where my bullets struck.

There were now on our side ten men and a non-commissioned officer of regular infantry, two or three station men, and our reinforcement of two drivers, two conductors, the lieutenant, the sergeant, and myself. One or two good volleys from our party soon put an end to the circus performances of the “friendly Indians.” They scattered and disappeared as if by magic. They sent us their P.P.C. compliments in some stray shots, the flash and smoke revealing whence they came, not an Indian being in sight.

“Now, gentlemen!” said Mr. Bunter, the station-keeper, “I think we can take a bite o’ dinner.”

The worthy landlady, Mrs. Bunter, furnished a notable instance of the susceptibility and indifference to externals of the lovers of the plains. She was known, I was informed, as the “widow,” though her husband, a tall, broad-chested, intelligent-looking man of about thirty-three or thirty-four, was “alive,” and probably capable of a good deal of vigorous “kicking.” The _sobriquet_ had clung to the lady from her very general appearance in the character indicated by it. Her present husband was the fourth or fifth occupant of the position. Notwithstanding the number of her husbands, her terms of wedded bliss were very brief. Widowhood was the rule, connubial felicity the exception. Hence was it that, though married, she was still universally spoken of as “the widow,” and some not very intimate acquaintances already knew her as the Widow Bunter. The stalwart husband did not appear to see any unpleasant significance in the title given his fair spouse. He was jovial, and seemed contented.

“The widow” did the service of the table, and very well served and supplied it was. A good antelope stew, with cabbage and potatoes (luxuries in the then uncultivated world of the plains), good bread and butter, pies, and an excellent cup of tea, made us all feel, as our driver expressed it, “mighty good.” Mrs. Bunter evidently made pretensions to personal attractiveness. She was a woman of thirty--perhaps past that proverbially captivating age--very tall, lank, concave-chested, with great projecting teeth and bony, clawlike fingers. Her long, thin visage was thickly coated with rice powder (or flour), which stood out in bold ridges on her high cheek-bones, while pools of rouge shone in the cavities of her hollow cheeks. She had a clear, cold, steady eye, however, which showed that, if she was devoid of heart, as was commonly supposed, she was not without a will of her own. In her time, she had created quite a flutter among the gentlemen of the stage-driving and stock-tending professions. The dread of relicts which embittered the maturer years of the elder Weller had no place in the bold bosoms of the “whips” of the desert. More than one man (not including her four dear departed) had died “for her sake.” The shooting of one suitor only had the effect which hanging a British admiral formerly was supposed to have--that of “encouraging the others.”

Swift and ample justice was done to the “squarest meal,” as the driver termed it, we had upon the road. A very few minutes sufficed us to make a hearty dinner, and we were seated in the porch, pipes were being filled and lighted, preparatory to a discussion of the various incidents of the fight, when the wounded pony we had seen upon the road limped into the station. His master had not been dead more than a few hours, but he was completely forgotten until the arrival of his wounded horse brought him to mind again. So ordinary an event was the killing of a man by Indians, at that time, on the Misty Mountain.

“Where’s Mac?” asked the driver.

“In yonder,” answered our host, nodding toward the granary.

“Hurt?”

“Killed.”

“How?”

“The fust we knew there wuz Injuns around wuz when Mac was attacked. He rode down to the Butte to bring in a horse from the herd. We heard shootin’ down that way. Jim and I and the blacksmith took our arms and rode toward the firin’. When we got near the Butte, we seen three our four Injuns circlin’ round Mac, whose pony was wounded, firin’ at him from all directions. I think he wuz already dead when we first seen him. We made all the haste we could, and druv them from the body, but we wuz too late to stop ‘em from playin’ some o’ their usual tricks. We got the body on to one of the horses, and started back for the station at an easy pace, drivin’ in the loose stock afore us. When we’d come within about three-quarters of a mile of the station, we seen the soldiers runnin’ towards us with their muskets in their hands and makin’ signs to us. I looked back and seen the durned Injuns with twenty or thirty more comin’ for us. I hollered to Jim and the smith to light out for the station. We separated, to give the soldiers a chance to git in their fire on ’em, which they did. This staggered ’em somewhat and saved us. They got two of our animals, though!”

Some one proposed going to the granary to look at poor Mac’s remains. The body lay among corn-sacks and miscellaneous stores. Mac was a tall, well-shaped young fellow of twenty-three or twenty-four. He had evidently made the best fight he could. When he left the station, his revolver had but two loads. He fired them both at his savage foes. Bunter said, had it not been for the wounding of his pony, “the Indians would not have got him.”

The Indians had raised Mac’s entire scalp, slitting it through the centre and turning it down over his face. This sight was not beheld unmoved by even the most hardened frontierman in the party. Had one of those worthy and humane gentlemen, the Peace Commissioners, unfortunately dropped in at that moment, I fear he might have been the recipient of much personal indignity, if not of serious bodily harm. The presence of a regular officer with the station-guard would have saved him from falling a martyr to his humanitarian convictions. Without the soldiers he might even attain the crown of martyrdom.

“As we’re here, boys,” said the driver, with a view to economy of time, “let’s fix him out like a Christian.”

Rough in speech, yet tender in action, they set to work to make ready poor Mac’s remains for the grave. His scalp was returned to its proper place and sewed together, his hair combed, and his blood-stained face cleansed of its gory marks. He was shrouded in a pair of soldier’s drawers and an under-shirt. Several empty chests in the room were measured, but proved too short for a coffin. A large arms-chest was furnished by the soldiers, which, with a slight addition to its length, supplied the improvised bier on which we laid “poor Mac.” Scarcely had these sad offices been performed when the sentinel without shouted:

“Indians in sight!”

There was a rush for the outside. Every man picked up his gun. With the glass the Indians could be seen crossing the stream near where they had murdered MacSorley. The party was increased to a hundred and fifty or two hundred. They moved to the top of the bluff, and remained there for some time, apparently holding a council as to their future movements. The lieutenant, after instructing the commander of the station-guard to wake him as soon as the Indians showed a disposition to move, spread out his blankets, lay down, and fell asleep over a novel. The driver and conductor followed his example; and the latter was soon in the arms of Morpheus. But I could not sleep. I was too much excited by the unusual events I had witnessed during the past twenty-four hours. So I fraternized with the soldiers of the guard, and listened to their opinions on Indian matters, and their tales of Indian adventure.

About sunset the Indians began to move. Unanimity of action was not the result of their council; they separated into two parties, one of which went due east, the other to the northwest, passing in rear of the station, but at the respectful distance of three or four miles from it.

Night fell at last. Sentinels having been properly posted, all who were not on guard, except the lieutenant and the writer, went to bed, or, rather, to a blanket on the floor. I sat up to write some letters by a dirty, sputtering candle on a lame, old table, the only furniture in the room, except a greasy, rickety chair. The lieutenant read his novel by the better light of a civilized candle which, knowing the customs of the region, he had had the good sense to bring with him.

The savage stillness of night on the plains fell upon the place. No sound was heard save the occasional wailing of the hungry wolves, that thronged around the barn where the dead man lay.

“Confound that horrible noise!” said the lieutenant, at last jumping up and shutting his novel with a bang. “It sets my teeth on edge, and rasps every nerve in my body. Let us go out and smoke in the open air before turning in!”

We lighted our pipes and went forth, turning our steps toward the barn. Half a dozen wolves sat around the building, looking like professional mourners, and moaning their hunger-melancholy moans. We were close to them before they would move. One of them was so hunger-bold that he stood at bay for a moment, and the lieutenant thought it necessary to draw his pistol and cock it. The click was enough for the wolf, who dashed off at once, growling with head still turned towards us, and teeth shining in a parting snarl. After smoking we proceeded upstairs, to a cold, cheerless, unfurnished room, and betook us to our blankets. The wind howled dismally through the unglazed sashes. We sought positions the least exposed to cross-draughts. Spreading our blankets on the floor, unswept except by the wind, we lay down to such rest as excitement, fatigue, and youth can bring.

We did not rise so early next morning as might be supposed from a calm consideration of our sleeping accommodations. We were up in time for breakfast, however. It was a good one, and we enjoyed it. After its conclusion arrangements were made for the burial of MacSorley. It was decided that he should be buried on the top of a high mound within about a thousand yards of the station.

The funeral _cortége_ was neither large nor imposing. It consisted of Mr. Bunter, two or three stage drivers and stock-tenders, the lieutenant, the sergeant, and the writer. The guards, excepting those necessary to protect the station, were out, posted around on commanding eminences to prevent a surprise.

The grave was already dug. The rough substitute for a coffin, drawn to the place of interment on a hayrack, was covered with its earthy bed as tenderly as possible.

Bunter had asked the lieutenant to read prayers at the grave; and the latter had consented. But there was no prayer-book to be found at the station. Bunter requested the lieutenant to improvise a prayer for the dead, when one of the men began shovelling the earth into the grave.

“Hold on, Jack!” said Bunter, “the lieutenant’s goin’ to say a prayer.”

Jack “held on,” looking rather astonished at this unusual delay.

The lieutenant threw earth upon the coffin, repeating, with a voice full of emotion, such devotional passages, appropriate to the occasion, as occurred to him, ending with the simple but all-including words of the church: “May God have mercy on his soul!”

Jack, supposing it unnecessary to “hold on” any longer, commenced pitching in the clay with the rather out-of-place energy usually displayed in the performance of that last duty.

“Hold on, Jack!” cried Mr. Bunter a second time, “the lieutenant ain’t through yet.” And Jack unwillingly ceased his labors for awhile.

“I have finished,” said the lieutenant. “I am but a poor hand at public praying; but if I spoke for an hour it would amount to no more than what I have said.”

“We don’t know whose turn it may be next,” said a young driver, feeling it proper to indulge in the hackneyed morality of such occasions--words given forth, perhaps, as mere conversational small change; but their truth was made terribly manifest shortly after. It was the young driver’s turn next. A month had not elapsed before he was killed and scalped within a mile of the station. When I passed there at a later period, they recalled what he had said, and showed me his grave by the side of MacSorley’s.

ROUTE IV.

The Big Sandy Station soon became terribly dull. I felt I would rather risk being scalped than stay there any longer. Learning that some emigrants with their families, two wagons, etc., were about to push westward, and that the lieutenant had determined to go to the next station with them, though they set out against his advice, I concluded to go on with him.

We made an early start next morning. We had two government wagons and some half a dozen men besides the emigrant contingent. When we had reached a point about a mile and a half from Big Sandy Station, the sergeant said to the lieutenant in a low tone:

“Lieutenant, there are Indians on that hill in front of us.”

The hill was about fifteen hundred yards distant. The lieutenant called a halt, and examined the redskins through a field-glass.

“They are Indians,” he said, “and in pretty strong force,” at the same time handing me the glass.

The hillside literally swarmed with mounted Indians, moving incessantly, like ants crawling up and down an ant-hill. The dust of two parties--each about fifty strong, judging by that indication--could be seen rising from a ravine which ran along the base of the hill and across the road over which lay our route. It was also noticed that the dust aforesaid ceased at the road.

The move was evident. They lay in ambuscade to capture us. We got out our arms, but eight or nine weapons in all, the emigrants being unarmed, and began withdrawing slowly to Big Sandy.

The children wept and screamed. The women howled that they _would_ be taken by the Indians. They scolded and lamented by turns. The men said nothing. They were not in a talking mood, nor was anybody just then--except the ladies. We effected our retreat in good order, the unarmed men driving the teams, the armed protecting “the movement.” Some Indians followed us, just out of range, and one whom I shall always see in my mind’s eye, on a white pony, followed on at the same distance until we reached Big Sandy Station once more.

The next day we again got tired of smoking, talking, and reading novels. The lieutenant succeeded in getting a coach, and he and I with three men and the sergeant, all armed this time, started once more for Welcome Spring Station--the next on our route West.

We had a good driver and a splendid team of mules. Arrived at about six miles west of Big Sandy, we saw some Indians, twelve or fifteen, coming toward us from a distance. A judicious use of mule power soon put them out of sight. We had no further trouble until we came within five or six miles of Welcome Station. There, after we had almost entirely dismissed Indian dangers from our minds, we suddenly discovered three parties in uncomfortably close proximity. They were coming towards us at a good round pace. Two of the parties numbered about fifty each, the third about half that number. The last mentioned was evidently trying to cut us off from the station, while the other two were closing in upon us from the right and left.

The curtains were thrown up. The coach bristled with needle-guns on every side.

“NOW GO IT,” said the lieutenant.

_And we went it!_

“If the wheels don’t take fire,” said the driver tremulously, “we may make it!”

On we went!--good Springfield breech-loaders, loaded and cocked, thrust out behind, before, and on each side of the coach. On came the Indians! Rather chary, however, of the breech-loaders, but looking for something to turn up. Their sudden dash had failed. There was now the chance of our being cut off by the third party. The driver plied whip and voice. The mules almost flew to gain the turning-point.

We passed the important point without breaking anything. Then our mules were brought down to a less expeditious, though by no means contemptible pace. The Indians slackened their speed and gave up the job. They still followed us, however, at a respectful distance, until we came in sight of the station.

Welcome Spring Station was a welcome station to us. I felt so happy that I jumped out through the coach window, disdaining the commonplace convenience of a door. What appetites we had! What a dinner we ate! And what a glorious sleep we had on some corn-sacks in the stable!

Our route henceforth lay through a more settled country. No further danger from Indians was to be feared. We enjoyed the ride. The sight of mountains in the distance and soon, of tall pines all around us had a cheering influence on me. The lieutenant, who was in the very best humor, said he was so much accustomed to life on the plains that he had acquired a dislike to wooded countries. Even when on leave of absence in the East, where there was not the ghost of an Indian to be feared, he experienced a feeling of insecurity when in woodland. He wanted to have plenty of elbow room, he said, and to see all around him for miles.

We reached Sierra City without further incident next morning. The lieutenant and I parted, with many kind wishes on both sides and hope of meeting again.

I have not since met my military friend. I have even forgotten his name. My memory never was much better than a waste, and names were the very last things that would take root in it. I hope yet to meet my old Misty Mountain companion. When I do, may he be, at least, a major!

I returned over the same route. All was then quiet on the Misty Mountain. The only change I saw was that two more graves had been made by the side of MacSorley’s, on the high mound near the Big Sandy--“killed by Indians.”

Before I made my Misty Mountain trip, I had a boy’s usual desire for a soldier’s life. That trip was the turning-point in my desires. I have “seen Indians” since, and in my summer vacations have occasionally accompanied scouting parties against the hostile tribes. My further experience completed the change in my tastes. The life of a soldier on the frontier has no charms for me. Fighting Indians is far harder work than fighting a civilized foe. It is continued privation, suffering, and danger. Even success, so difficult of achievement in this species of warfare, is generally repaid, not by glory, but by misrepresentation and ingratitude.

I am content with my old desk in the dingy old office in the leathery old Swamp. The smell of the leather is more grateful to me than the purest of prairie breezes, which, when it plays with your locks, is unpleasantly suggestive, to those acquainted with the usages of Indian warfare.

ORLÉANS AND ITS CLERGY.

In the outskirts of Orléans, between the roads leading to Paris and Chartres, stands an antique chapel under the invocation of Notre Dame des Aydes--the remains of a former hospital. Thousands of pilgrims have been here to pray, from age to age: among them the last of the Valois, the indolent Henry III. A small statue of Our Lady of Aid on one of the gables seems to welcome and bless the traveller. To this sacred spot, that for ages had known no other sound but the voice of prayer and praise, and no other smoke but that of holy incense, came the din of war and the smoke of cannon. Around this asylum of peace took place one of the most thrilling scenes of the late war. The battalion of foreign legions held the place for a time under a frightful cannonading on the part of the Prussian forces. M. Arago, the commander, perished gloriously on the field of battle. The thirteen hundred men under him were of all races and climes. The Austrian mingled with the Italian; the negro of the desert with the Polish exile; the Chinese with the Servian prince. Of these, six hundred were killed or wounded; three hundred made prisoners; the remainder escaped to recommence the combat elsewhere. The Germans pressed on, leaving behind them the flaming houses of the faubourgs to record their triumph. They pushed into the very heart of the city--to the statue of Joan of Arc, which must have wept out its very heart of stone at its powerlessness to drive out this new invader--to the steps of the church where the holy maid once worshipped, or, if not the same, to one on the same spot, for the ancient church of Ste. Croix was destroyed by those _Brise-Moutiers_, the Calvinists, and rebuilt by Henry IV.