Chapter LX: Part IV: The Immolation (5)

“The Sardinian and Neapolitan navies greatly surpassed the
Italian. The men were better drilled, and the shipping in better
order. Such is the opinion recently expressed by the English naval
officers in port at Naples who were at the exposition of the
present year.”(256)

And yet the military forces are the only remaining bulwark of order in Italy—I mean material order, for moral order no longer exists anywhere. The so‐called conservative party, that is to say, the moderate revolutionists, rely on the army. But the ultra revolutionary element is also to be found there, and some day the advanced party will, for its own designs, entice away the officers that followed the hero of Caprera in his campaigns. It will not be sufficient to name Cialdini, Cadorna, or even La Marmora, to counteract the fatal consequences of Castelfidardo and the Porta Pia. By excluding religious influences from the army, and giving it a false idea of patriotism, the source of courage and energy is dried up. After all, revolution will never be friendly to the army, and the genuine soldier will always execrate revolution, whether instigated by princes, citizens, or the mob. A soldier who entered Rome through the breach, lately wrote to the _Libertà_: “The day the King of Italy is satisfied with mere volunteers, as the Pope was, we shall see whether it is the Pope or the king that is loved and esteemed the most by the Italian people.”

In opposing the system of territorial divisions on account of the army, which he considers unsuited to the Peninsula, General La Marmora’s opinion is founded on a proof that has the misfortune to prove too much. “If there were small territorial armies,” says he, “in addition to separate administrations in the various regions of Italy, the unity for which we have done so much, and Providence still more than we, would incur great danger.”(257) Why not boldly declare, general, that there are two Italys—the _Reale_ and the _Legale_, one of which has a tendency to revolt against the other? And, above all, why utter a blasphemy against the sovereign providence of God?(258) _Italia legale_ labors in vain; the revolutionary impulse given to it by Cavour is an accelerated movement; it will never reascend the declivity that leads _al fondo_. It will always have against it not only the betrayed interests and the revolted conscience of _Italia reale_, but, above all, Divine Providence, who will one day show that the favors and proofs of protection accorded to the “regenerators” were merely for them, as for Napoleon III., the snares of avenging justice. _In insidiis suis capientur iniqui._

“As to greatness and political importance, admitting even the
possibility of indefatigable and intelligent effort, Italy will
never equal the glorious traditions of its past history. Italian
glory is the glory of the different states of the Peninsula.... To
acquire fresh glory, there must be, besides unity, a strength of
organization it does not possess, and cannot, because it is a
mirage and not a reality.

“The North invades the South: this cannot be called community of
interests. It is an attempt at absorption on the part of the
North, and at the expense of the South.

“Once at Rome, the programme was to have ended. A new life was to
commence; fresh energy was to be the signal of an era of grandeur
and prosperity; interiorly, there was to be a more perfect
administration; exteriorly, a prudent _national_ policy, that is
to say, the Napoleonic idea of the Latin races that Italy was to
revive. Rome was to be the great centre of liberal influences....
All this had been announced and promised. As for me, I see no
choice between a blind alley and a _politique d’aventure_.

“It seems to me the union, at a critical moment, should find
protection in the wishes of the inhabitants. I can testify that if
the former sovereigns of Naples, Florence, Parma, and Modena could
return, the day would be hailed by a majority of the inhabitants
as one of deliverance. In Lombardy it is different, I acknowledge.
The _noblesse_ say, as I myself heard a personage of great note:
We are badly governed, but at least it is no longer by foreigners.
The middle classes are republicans, and in the country the
Austrian rule is regretted. The people of Venice either aspire to
a republic or regret the unfortunate Archduke Maximilian, whom
they would have liked as an independent sovereign. In the old
pontifical provinces called the Legations, they would not care to
return to the former condition of things as they were, but some
would be satisfied with the Pope and a local autonomy; the
remainder form a sufficiently numerous republican party.”

“In a word, THERE IS EVERYWHERE DISSATISFACTION AS WELL AS
DISAPPOINTMENT, AFTER TWELVE YEARS OF EXPERIENCE.”(259)

It is not astonishing, therefore, that at an audience on the 18th of last Nov., the Grand Duke Nicholas, nephew of the Emperor of Russia, said to Pius IX., with all a young man’s frankness: “Most holy Father, since I have been in Italy, everywhere I go, I hear nothing but evil of King Victor Emmanuel and his government.”(260)

We need only open our eyes to see the interior condition of united Italy as soon as there was any question, no longer of conspiring and declaiming, but of organizing and governing. And its exterior political relations compare quite as unfavorably with the programme of emancipation. By a kind of divine irony, Italy has become a mere humble vassal of Germany—of the Holy Protestant Empire of Berlin—and the future King of Rome was only acting his part when he proclaimed himself the King of Prussia’s hussar.(261) It is well known at the Quirinal that, though influenced for the moment by the dominant party, the authorities may some day return, even through interest, to traditional principles and the old political code which does not recognize the revolutionary schemes of nations or parties. Besides, the Italian princes, who represent the law, are still living. Francis II. may be found to be a genuine Neapolitan, Ferdinand IV. a very good Tuscan, Robert I. an excellent Parmesan, and Francis V. the best of Modenais. And, lastly, is not Pius IX. more of an Italian than the Savoyard who styles himself the King of Italy?... And if the French, whose connivance can no longer be expected, even under M. Thiers, should favor the restoration of the throne to a prince, “_qui a la justice dans le sang et dans l’âme_,” and would at need have it in his hand, the Italian framework, which merely stands through toleration, would be threatened with sudden and ignominious ruin. It is all this that recently induced the _prince‐héritier_ to mount like a Hungarian foot‐soldier behind the triumphal chariot of the German Cæsar.

Another evil: the Prussians are not the most scrupulous people in the world about other people’s property, and their investigations in the Peninsula have excited suspicions as to the object of their cupidity. Let M. de Bismarck, more audacious and grasping than the late M. de Cavour, once succeed in driving the Hapsburgs from Germany, will it not occur to him to take advantage of the title of the Lombardo‐Venetian kingdom for the benefit of the Cæsar of Berlin? For it is skilfully demonstrated in Germany that the Germanic race has the power, and, therefore, the right, to a powerful navy, and, for the benefit of this navy, an outlet on the Adriatic. And there is no other possible ally but Prussia to protect what calls itself the kingdom of Italy!

“Alliances are beneficial when the parties unite their influence
for a common end. (Allies, in our day, no longer seek to know each
other’s principles or origin.) But when they are not formed _inter
pares_, or nearly so, and especially when they are intended to
guarantee the very existence—the vital principle—of the weaker
ally, then the alliance loses its true character, and soon ends in
subjection on the ground of politics or economy, and sometimes
both.”(262)

Such are the glories of Italy _free from the Alps to the Adriatic_! If, in spite of her presumptuous _farà da se_, she was obliged to have recourse to a foreign hand in order to rise, and still needs a foreign arm to stand erect, she will, according to appearances, have need of no one to aid her in falling: she will topple over of herself. The so‐called free country is only an enslaved kingdom—a vassal, a satellite without strength and without prestige.

III.

Of all the Italian formulas that have served to mislead the liberal mind, there is not one more odiously false and deceptive than the too famous expression, _A free church in a free country_. History has already interpreted it, A persecuted church in an enslaved country. The revolutionary factions that have assumed the authority have imposed thereon the complete execution of their plan, and we know that the Masonic lodges, though they denounce Mazzinian deism, have fallen into the atheism of Renan, _al fondo_!

The sacrilegious frenzy of the Revolution, and the madness of those that encouraged it, have been stigmatized in forcible terms by the august prisoner of the Vatican:

“Unbelief assumes an air of authority, and proudly stalks
throughout the length and breadth of the earth, doubtless
imagining it is to triumph for ever.... Woe to those who are
linked with the impious, and dally with the Revolution under the
pretence of directing it! Sooner or later they will be drawn into
the abyss. The recent disasters at Naples may be adduced as an
example. A great number of curious people, heedless and devoid of
all prudence, hastened to get a nearer view of the devouring
flames issuing from the fearful mouth of Vesuvius, and many of
them became victims of mistaken curiosity. So it is with those who
covenant with the Revolution and the revolutionists, hoping to
overrule the former and keep down the latter. Rash people! they
will all become a prey to the flames that surround them on every
side.”(263)

The revolutionary lava floods the streets of Rome and covers the whole Peninsula. It began in the cities, spread into the country, and will end by swallowing up the army. The universities and common schools are invaded, the torrent engulfs the workshops and stalls, and undermines the walls of palaces. Princes even have opened their gates at its approach. In vain the Holy Father sounds the cry of alarm; in vain his prime minister publicly denounces the progress of the deadly current—party spirit seems to have paralyzed all in authority.

We will not describe the exploits of this new Islamism against the papal power. The history of its ambuscades and pillages is sufficiently well known. There never was a richer treasure of dishonor for revolution to endow a people with. “The title of liberators was all the same retained.” Yes, all the same!

Joseph de Maistre somewhere refers to an English functionary as saying that every man who spoke of taking an inch of land from the Pope ought to be hung. “As for me,” adds the witty writer, “I cheerfully consent, in order to avoid carnage, that _hung_ should be changed to _hissed_.”(264)

Let us wait. An avenging God will do both: _subsannabit_, _conquassabit_. Had the plots of the unionists merely aimed at the temporal power, perhaps divine justice would have been satisfied with a hiss at the hour of some Italian Sedan, but the gibbet—it is a law of history—is reserved for persecutors and apostates.

When the Sardinian government knocked at one of the gates of Rome, as it awaited a propitious moment for battering it down, it bound itself before all Europe to solve the problem of the separation of church and state which had puzzled all the doctors of liberalism, and of which it pretended to have found the key. It was said the Roman question and the Italian question were to cease to be antagonistic, or, at least, they were to resemble those rivers that, while mingling their waters, preserve their own colors, as we see in the Rhône and the Saône. It was promised a channel should be made wide enough for this double current of opinions. Hence the origin of the famous law of the Guarantees. This scheme of conciliation is properly appreciated in the _Etudes sur l’Italie Contemporaine_:

“How many times I have heard it said that the Papacy and the
Italian government, even though they never came to an agreement,
might at least be like two parallel lines indefinitely and
pacifically prolonged! This is a mistake arising from a judgment
founded on impressions—and when I say impressions, I mean
appearances.

“From the beginning, this law of Guarantees was a one‐sided and
fruitless attempt.... The government and the Chambers never had
any doubt as to the refusal of the Pope. This law was like an
olive branch presented at the point of the sword as a suitable
corrective to palliate the violent occupation of Rome.... I do not
think a single statesman could really have believed in the success
of this law, otherwise than as the decree of the conqueror.

“Besides the moral, juridical, and historic reasons to hinder an
understanding between the Pope and a sovereign master of Rome,
there was also the impossibility of coexisting with a power that
rests on an unstable foundation.

“Even from the point of view of modern but not subversive ideas, A
SEPARATION MORE IMPORTANT THAN THAT OF STATE AND CHURCH IS THE
SEPARATION OF STATE AND REVOLUTION.”(265)

These are golden words. But our diplomatic traveller is forced to acknowledge that the Italian government cannot break its iniquitous bonds, that it lacks honesty and force, and that all the factions seek their own good first and then the evil of others. Our author, though, unfortunately, too indifferent a spectator to Italian persecution, at least has the advantage of being an unexceptionable witness.

“Practically, it is not the state, it is society, that modern
Italy separates from the church.... One of the greatest mistakes
the unionists have made since the beginning of the Revolution has
been the war declared against the clergy and the church. It is at
once a political and historical error, and the greater for being
committed at Rome.

“Tolerance (practised from time to time according to orders) has
its reaction, and of the deepest die, in a recrudescence of
insults, sequestrations and confiscations imposed on the ministers
of the sanctuary and even the sanctuaries themselves.

“Anti‐Christianity has established itself with a bold front at
Rome—with its schools of free‐thinkers, speeches in which atheism
is proclaimed without the least reticence, burial without any
religious ceremony, and irreligious books sold at low prices.

“In everything relating to teaching, the choice generally falls on
the unbeliever.

“Materialism is taught _ex cathedra_ in all the universities.

“They have not yet touched on the most vital question—the
suppression of the convents (at Rome) and the incameration of the
property of the clergy. But they will come to that, and
speedily.... The attempt at what is called a conciliation must
sooner or later end in an outbreak.”(266)

They did come to it—to that shameful encroachment of the government on the religious corporations. The party demanded it, M. de Bismarck advised it, and the diplomatic corps tolerated it. What will not diplomacy tolerate? It was, however, clearly demonstrated to the representatives of different governments the urgent necessity there was of taking under their united protection the independence of the Sovereign Pontiff so poorly guaranteed by the usurper, of declaring the inviolability of church property, the possession of which—and it is a wholly legitimate one—is a _sine qua non_ condition of pontifical independence, without considering that most of these establishments have a double claim as to their origin and destination, to be regarded as international property.(267) Nothing was done. The tolerance of official Europe towards the Piedmontese filibustering has been unlimited, though unrestricted usurpation has been followed by open persecution. Pius IX. had good reason to severely allude to “the so‐called governments” that find amusement in the Revolution. Europe seems to have sent its diplomatists to the court of the usurper in the capital of the Christian world, that they might close their eyes to all the schemes of Freemasonry, and the numberless vexations and spoliations, that they might play the _rôle_ of stage‐dancers in the sacrilegious comedy! Such base complacency justifies the expression of a Catholic writer: “Europe is in a state of mortal sin!”

I am almost ashamed to be obliged to refer to the authority of a diplomatist who belongs neither to our nation nor our religion. I wish I could quote some official report of a minister from France! Might not M. Fournier have employed his time better than in figuring at banquets offered to a renegade, and in listening to heretical and atrocious speeches from the professors of the Romano‐Piedmontese university? I will console myself in transcribing a page from M. Dulaurier, the honorable member of the Institute, likewise an ocular witness, and a witness worthy of credit, even from a subscriber to the _Débats_:

“These grievances and many others are aggravated by the excesses to which the press—the illustrated press, above all—has given itself up, and by the incessant war it wages against religion. Ignoble caricatures are daily exposed for sale in the sight of the police, and to their knowledge, in all the Kiosques and newspaper shops, and on the walls, or are hawked around by miserable creatures in rags. The _Don Pirloncino_, a humorous paper, obsequious to the government, diffuses three times a week its abominations on the most august mysteries of the Christian faith and the ministers who dispense them. The cross itself—the cross before which Christians of all communions bow with respect—not only Catholics, but schismatics, Greeks, and Orientals, and even Protestants—is not safe from its insults. My heart swells with horror when I recall one of these pictures—a caricature of the Crucifixion. In the place of the God‐Man is Dr. Lanza, Minister of the Interior. The words put in his mouth, and on the lips of his murderers, are untranslatable. Under his feet, at the lower extremity of the tree of the cross, is fastened transversely an instrument that I dare not designate otherwise than by saying it is made a burlesque use of at the end of the first act of _M. de Pourceaugnac_. Our French revolutionists, in their senseless fury, have broken the cross in pieces, but it never occurred to them to defile it in such a manner. So revolting an idea could only spring from imaginations the country of Aretino alone is capable of producing.

“In the presence of these abominations echoed by the political press devoted to the advancement of free‐thinking, the Sovereign Pontiff, the clergy, and the Roman people who are fundamentally religious, can only veil their faces, resign themselves, and have recourse to prayer. And prayer rises unceasingly to heaven in expiation of so many horrors. It is the only consolation left to all these afflicted souls. There is a constant succession of triduos, announced by blank notices, headed _Invito sacro_, and signed by Mgr. Patrizi, the Cardinal Vicar. One of these notices, which I saw affixed to the columns at the entrance to his eminence’s palace near the Church of Sant’ Agostino, gives an idea, in the very first line, of the indignation that is fermenting in every Catholic breast: ‘The earth is full of the most horrible blasphemies. _La terra è piena della più orrende bestemmie._’ ”

IV.

We will not deny one benefit—and this time a real one!—that has sprung from the Italian Revolution: it has served to revive the fidelity and fervor of all true Italians. It can be rightly said of it, as M. Guizot says of the Reformation of the sixteenth century, It has awakened, even among its adversaries [we must correct this Protestant writer’s mistake—he should have said among its adversaries alone], religious faith and civil courage. Some natures that were formerly nonchalantes, timid, and delicate, are no longer satisfied with groaning over the evil, but take a bold stand against the inroads of impiety. Italy, somewhat inclined to the _far niente_, might of itself have yielded; sustained by the hand of a great Pope, she is roused to withstand the unloosed tempest. She no longer falters before the responsibility of a religious manifestation or an anti‐ revolutionary vote. No longer afraid of the threats of the poniard, or of conciliating, through culpable prudence, her temporary masters, she at last ventures to show herself openly, as she really is—the cherished and faithful daughter of the Church of Rome. Roused by provocations and blasphemies, her filial piety towards the Papacy has become more lively and aggressive. She protests solemnly against the schemes of the adventurers who have trampled under foot their faith, honesty, morality, and honor. At the sight of these sublime outbursts of a spirit at once Catholic and Roman, the church is consoled, and observant Christendom begins to hope the reaction will be the more salutary from the extreme violence of the crisis.

One of our co‐laborers has expressed all this much better than we can:

“If there is a country we have reason to conceive such consoling
hopes of, assuredly it is Italy, in spite of all the scandals and
all the infamy that now degrade it. All who have had a favorable
opportunity of observing the moral condition of the country agree
in declaring the greater part of the inhabitants faithful to their
belief. It is merely the froth and pestilential impurities that
are seething on the surface. Some day it will doubtless be with
this impure froth as with the stagnant waters for which Pius IX.
some years ago made an opening to the sea, giving fresh fecundity
to the old Italian soil. Purified by trials, as by a new baptism,
this nation, in many respects so highly gifted, will once more
have acquired a beneficial discipline of mind and character, the
advantages of a robust and manly training, the practice of
energetic individual action, and especially of great combined
efforts which she is beginning to give us the consoling spectacle
of in the recently formed Catholic associations.”(268)

In France we think lightly, or rather we have an incorrect idea, of what our brethren in Italy are effecting. The very people among us who only talk of harmony and compromise reproach the Catholics of the Peninsula for being inactive and inefficient. They even make them partly responsible for the national misfortunes and the decay of moral principle beyond the Alps. We protest against such superficial judgments. We know Italy too well not to have a right to speak in favor of those who are so unjustly accused. Catholics in Italy decline public offices, _ne eletti, ne elettori_; and they do well, because the Sardinian government imposes an oath after the style of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth. Tell us if it is proper for a Catholic to take a seat in a parliament established at Rome between the Vatican where the Pope is imprisoned, and the Quirinal where the Piedmontese has established himself by the aid of a false key. Does the military career offer much attraction when he might be ordered to assassinate the pontifical zouaves, open a breach in the walls of Rome, bombard Ancona or even the quarter of the Vatican? He might without any great difficulty present himself at the municipal and provincial ballot‐boxes. The faithful Neapolitans, at the invitation of their archbishop, formed a majority there, and this is not an isolated case. But do you, who are the safety of France, set the example of hastening to the polls?—No; good Christians in Italy are far from being inert, nor do the clergy inculcate inertness. Abstaining is quite a different thing from inaction. Is the public aware that the Catholic press is one of the glories of the Peninsula? There are a hundred journals and reviews on the other side of the Alps consecrated to the service of the truth, and some of these publications are of unequalled merit. It is sufficient to name the _Civiltà Cattolica_, the _Unità Cattolica_, and the _Voce della Verità_. We confess our admiration for the courageous journalists who keep their own course in spite of arrests, law‐suits, fines, imprisonment, and threats of _coltellate_. And the tone of these papers, with some insignificant exceptions, is healthier than with us, the union of sentiment stronger, and their adhesion to the apostolic constitutions more sincere and open. Associations have spread from one end of the Peninsula to the other, and everywhere produce the most beneficial results. I need only mention the Society of Catholic Youth at Bologna, celebrated on account of the generous filial stand it has taken from the first in favor of Pius IX., and the Roman Society for the promotion of Catholic interests, which, by its branches and parish committees, exercises so prodigious an influence over the city of Rome as to excite the anxiety of those in authority.

But let us once more listen to our unexceptionable witness, whom I think every one will feel indebted to us for quoting so much at length: _testimonium animæ naturaliter Christianæ_.

“The religious reaction is more and more decided, even in the
middle and lower classes, owing to the zealous associations that
have assumed the direction. This movement is worthy of study....
At Rome, and throughout Italy, this reaction has given rise to
societies composed for the most part of men still young, whose
object is to oppose all pernicious doctrines. These societies are
to be found at Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan, Naples, Turin,
Verona, Genoa, Lucca, Padua, Pisa, and Bologna.

“In January, 1871, the following statement was made in the
_Riforma_, the organ of Rattazzi: ‘The clerical party is being
more and more reinforced at Rome; the clerical press every day
acquires more strength, its organs increase in number and
boldness.’... The clerical press is really well sustained, and, in
spite of the persecutions and ill‐treatment of all kinds the
editors of these journals have to undergo, they do not cease their
energetic efforts.

“The administering of the oath has caused wholesale resignations
in all the _dicastères_ (at Rome). Many of these functionaries are
left without any means of subsistence.... As early as the year
1871, there were more than four thousand resignations.

“Thousands of Romans go to the Vatican to give their plebiscites,
and to the basilica of St. Peter to offer solemn prayers for
hastening THE DAY OF DELIVERANCE.”(269)

The day of deliverance will arrive, and, in spite of the sneers about our wailing over disappointed hopes, it will come soon! But how will this deliverance be effected? United Italy has against it the upper and nether fires—the Catholic reaction that will never stoop to parley, and the exertions of the demagogues, which are continually increasing. At present the nether fires seem like the prelude of the Internationale.

The intermediate party, which would like to consolidate _le fait accompli_, and which recruits adepts from the very opposers of the _mezzi morali_, is not sufficiently free from all alloy of party spirit to constitute a government capable of resistance and of exacting respect from the league of destruction.

Unhappy but beloved Italy! Great and holy city of Rome! shall we have the sorrow of seeing the enemy _flamber_ your palaces, your museums, your churches?

Not long since we were asked at Florence to read the prophecy of Joel, so applicable to the future of Italy: “Hear this, ... tell ye of this to your children, and let your children tell their children, and their children to another generation. That which the palmer worm hath left, the locust hath eaten; and that which the locust hath left, the bruchus hath eaten; and that which the bruchus hath left, the mildew hath destroyed. Awake, ye that are drunk, and weep, and mourn, all ye that take delight in drinking sweet wine; for it is cut off from your mouth.”—Joel. i. 2‐5.

It is true too large a part of the Italian nation have grown giddy from the intoxicating draught of liberalism, and it is to be feared they may be condemned to drink the bitter cup of expiation to the dregs. The international “locusts” will devour that which the Sub‐Alpine “palmerworm” hath left. To‐day, the taxes of Sella; to‐morrow, the communism of Castellani: yesterday, a political revolution; to‐morrow, a radical revolution: yesterday and to‐day, the hypocrisy of the tribune; to‐morrow, the bloody scenes of the national Comitia. After the physicians and lawyers, after the members of the Consorteria and the friends of Rattazzi, the lowest grade of society—the “bruchus” and the “mildew”—like a barbarous horde, will overturn, and destroy, and deluge with petroleum.

Italy, more than France or Spain, has abused the divine gift. She has “the light of Rome and the sun,” but has been ungrateful, proud, impious, shameless, and reckless. The whole land is now a mere haunt for banditti, traitors, and buffoons.

Alas! it is so: but Pius IX. still prays for his beloved Italy! Following the example of its lawful ruler, the nation—at least, the better portion of the nation—have multiplied their holy prayers, which daily grow more frequent from the delay of the benefit and the example of France. It has a clearer sense of equity and justice; it already feels disposed to renew its former covenant with God, return to the path of order, and take up its national traditions of glory. It is awakening from its dreams of moral and social primacy. It will be satisfied with, and glory in, being the _patrie environnante_ of the Vicar of Christ. Would that France, once more regenerated, might speedily aid her in breaking loose from the tyranny of lodges, and shaking off the Prussian suzerainty!

In 1860, the unhappy King of Sardinia said to M. de la Tour d’Auvergne, the French minister at Turin: “I do not wish you to leave me under false impressions. I feel sure you regard me as impious—as an infidel, as people persist in saying. You are wrong.—If I number kings among my ancestry, there are likewise saints. Here, look around.—Well, do you think that in yonder world all these sainted relatives of mine have any other occupation than to pray for me?”(270)

Our Saviour prayed for those who knew not what they did! _Pater dimitte illis._ May all the saints in heaven and on earth pray for poor Italy! It has need of it.

Sonnet.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIOVANNI BATTISTA ZAPPI, UPON THE MOSES OF MICHAEL ANGELO IN THE CHURCH OF SAN PIETRO IN VINCOLI, AT ROME.

Whose form there, sculptured in such mass of stone,
Sits like a giant, carrying art so far
Beyond all works most beautiful and known?
On those quick lips life’s very accents are!
That man is Moses: on the awful front
The double ray,(271) the glory of his beard,
Reveal as much: ’tis Moses from the Mount
When much of Deity in his face appeared!
So looked he once when he the vasty fount
Of sounding waters with his one word stayed.
Such was his aspect when the sea obeyed
And swallowed Egypt. O ye tribes that bent
Before the calf! had you an image made
Like this to worship, less were to repent.

Recollections Of Père Hermann.

France has a strange, magnetic power of attracting to herself, and absorbing into her mould, all the great talent of the world. How many men there are in Paris, who, from the ends of the earth, come together to lose their nationality in her appreciative bosom, and to gain there instead a reflected light of popularity ensured by her endorsement alone! All countries have adopted citizens, it is true, some by social, some by artistic, some by political adoption, but no country has a larger share of adopted intellect than France.

To all intents and purposes, the famous artist‐convert and artist‐monk, Père Hermann, was a Frenchman, though he was born a German Jew, in the free city of Hamburg. His biographers have told us all the striking incidents of his life; they have dwelt on his intoxicating success during youth, his mad extravagance of opinion, of expenditure, and of depravity, and, lastly, on his almost miraculous conversion and religious vocation. His death, which was a fitting crown to his life, and can be dignified by no lesser title than martyrdom, has endeared his memory still more to all those who knew him personally and had many secret reasons to admire his sanctity and feel grateful for his spiritual direction. His was a figure not easily forgotten, and perhaps a few touches of personal reminiscences will not be unacceptable to our readers, since all that links us to the saints, and brings the shadow of their sanctity nearer to our littleness, can hardly fail to be of interest.

The first time we were brought in contact with him was in the summer of 1862, when he came by special invitation to spend a few days with us in the country. The house itself had a monastic appearance and origin. It had been, so said tradition, a rural dependency, half farm, half infirmary, of a great Franciscan convent. It had been restored in 1849 and 1850, or thereabouts, and thanks to the good taste of the owner and the talent of the architects employed, had developed into a gem of Elizabethan Gothic and of domestic comfort. The little market‐town adjoining, once a centre of wealthy wool‐merchants and a great mediæval mart, contained several XIVth century buildings in a state of entire preservation, besides the later pile of the almshouses (XVIIth century), which, both as a building and an institution, was the pride of the surrounding country. Twelve old and destitute people, six men and six women, invariably widows or widowers, are generously supported on the fund left in perpetuity for this purpose by Joanna, Lady C——, wife of the great loyalist Baptist, Viscount C——, who burnt down his manor‐house (opposite the almshouses), rather than let it fall, with its treasures of plate and furniture, into the hands of Cromwell’s Roundheads.

It was the yearly custom to feast these good people at the manor, the restored Franciscan dependency, and thither they were conveyed one day during the summer in question, in a large covered cart provided with seats like a French _char‐à‐banc_. Père Hermann had been in the house since the previous evening, and had stipulated with his cordial host and hostess that he should wear his Carmelite habit while within the limits of the private grounds. The sight of this alone had in it something homely; it was a rest to the eye to see the cowled figure pacing the terrace in the early morning, Breviary in hand, and to lapse into beautiful day‐dreams of what might have been had England kept true to the faith. The Carmelite was delighted at the prospect of seeing this annual feast given to the almshouse people, and no sooner had they all assembled round the ample board spread for them on a shady part of the terrace at the back of the house, than he made his way towards them, and, saluting them, showed how much he sympathized in their enjoyment. His English was, of course, very imperfect; indeed, he never grew to any proficiency in speaking that language, but his interest in the scene was none the less vividly expressed. The old people still wear the costume appointed by the foundress of the institution: for the men, gaiters and a long coat of rough black cloth, with a silver badge or medal; for the women, a narrow, old‐fashioned dress of the same material, and a similar badge. These badges, we believe, have never been renewed since the original endowment, and are handed down from one bedesman to his successor, and so on; the clothes are renewed every two years. If we mistake not, Père Hermann said grace for these poor people, who, though all Protestants, seemed not at all shocked at the “popish” apparition. Indeed, he gained the hearts of all who ever saw him, his gentleness and recollection inspiring a respect for his person which was little short of veneration. He seemed as though he were walking with angels and listening to heavenly converse even while charitably lending his time and his bodily presence to earth. When he had enjoyed, with the simplicity of a child, the sight of the innocent sports and merriment of the old people, he left us for the chapel, where he spent a great part of his time. We cannot help adverting to a little occurrence which took place at one of these almshouse feasts (we believe this very one), and which was certainly very pathetic. A monk might well take pleasure in such unaffected simplicity and gentleness among those whose ancestors had been so intimately linked of old with monastic patrons. One of the old women, speaking to one of her host’s daughters of her little grandchild, a baby girl who was just dead, said, in the broad dialect of the county of Gloucester (which, however, we dare not imitate in print):

“When the child was born, my daughter made me notice how long the
little thing’s fingers were, and said, ’Bless its little heart!
they are long enough for the baby to be a waiting‐maid on the
queen.’ And we agreed, laughing‐like, that a waiting‐maid the
child would surely be. But when it died, I said to my daughter,
said I, ‘Jane, we were mistaken about the baby’s fingers, you see.
I tell you the Lord gave her those beautiful long fingers, not to
attend on any great lady or queen on earth, but to play on the
golden harps in his kingdom of heaven.’ ”

No truer nor more reverent poetry can be found anywhere than that simple utterance of an unlettered old woman who had not even that instinctive education which belongs to all those who learn the Catholic catechism. Such women and such poetry used to abound in the England of historic times, but error and materialism have but too well succeeded during the last three centuries in making the type rare and not easily discoverable, save in some forgotten nook of the rural districts.

Père Hermann that evening allowed us to enjoy _our_ treat, after giving him his among the bedesmen, by playing a little on a cottage piano‐forte in what we called the oak drawing‐room. The servants were all collected in the next room (the library), and this seemed to give him particular satisfaction, as he was ever most fastidiously thoughtful of the comforts and pleasures of those in inferior station. His playing, though not comparable to his triumphant successes as an artist nearly twenty years before, was still admirable, and, above all, so _sympathetic_. He played, among other things, the “Prayer of Moses” with great solemnity and expression, and also some of his own _Cantiques_, which for blending passion with religious earnestness are something unique. He never played anywhere save in private, and then only to small audiences in an informal manner, and never touched the organ save by obedience in his own church, or for the Forty Hours’ Exposition, saying that he wished to have his art ever sanctified by a religious inspiration. The fascination and temptation of artistic triumphs must still have been appreciable stumbling‐blocks in his spiritual career. Therefore, to hear him play at all was no slight favor, and, while on this visit, he repeated this favor more than once. On the last day, he said Mass in the domestic chapel, and distributed the Scapular to the household, enrolling nearly every member in the Confraternity. He gave a short address on the origin and meaning of this devotion, the distinctive one of his Order, and which was further made interesting on this occasion by the fact of the host’s having in former years rescued a picture of S. Simon Stock in the act of receiving the first miraculous Scapular. The figures were life‐size, and the painting after the manner of the later Italian school; the canvas was found riddled with holes, having been used as a target by ignorant or fanatical possessors. The restored picture was hung in the drawing‐room, where it became a great source of interest to the zealous convert Carmelite, our dear guest. During this visit was laid the foundation of a spiritual friendship between him and the writer—a friendship which proved a great benefit and guidance in our after‐life.

Meeting him again in London a few months later, we learnt a singular occurrence connected with his influence over souls. A young girl, not much over seventeen, and of a wilful and rebellious nature, who was under Père Hermann’s spiritual direction, happening to come up to town for a few days, experienced a strange phase of religious excitement. Careless as she was about all serious matters regarding the future state, she was nevertheless seized with a strong feeling of inadequacy in her religious efforts. She rose suddenly (it was a bright moonlight night), and went to the window, where the chastened beauty of the moon made even the monotonous landscape of London roofs and chimneys shine with a weird charm and take on suggestive shapes of startling vividness. Something—the grace of God, we ought no doubt reverently to say—seemed to take hold of her heart and shake her whole being. It was not the fear of punishment, the blank of unsated frivolity, that moved her; only one cry burst from her heart—“I have never loved God enough—I have never loved him at all.” If any but the saints ever feel perfect contrition, she did at that moment; for in that one sin she saw all others contained. Sobs came from the depths of her heart; she paced her room with naked feet, unmindful of discomfort, unheeding the autumn chill that is never long absent from London atmosphere, repeating again and again, like a dirge, those words, “I have never loved God enough—I have never loved him at all.” Then came a wondering feeling as to what this awakening meant; was it conversion, or the beginning of a vocation, or a sign that some special self‐devotedness would be required of her through life? She said to herself, “I will see Père Hermann, and tell him; I wonder if this will last!”

Strange to say, the blessed excitement passed away, and the next morning, though she tried to revive it, it was impossible. Not a trace of emotion was left, although the mind recalled distinctly what an ecstasy of sorrow it had been, and how it had shaken the soul to its very centre. The young girl, however, saw Père Hermann, and told him of it, and in the parlor of the nuns of the Assumption, Kensington Square, he gave her the advice of a father and a saint. She is still living, and none can tell if that prophetic call may not yet have unexpected fulfilment through the prayers of one who is now a saint in heaven. This occurrence led to a very interesting and intimate correspondence, which we have examined ourselves, and of which we would gladly give some extracts were the letters not unfortunately beyond our reach at the present moment.

Père Hermann was peculiarly fond of children, as indeed all saints are. Going one day to the Brompton Oratory, which the finest organ in London and a very perfect and numerous surpliced choir contribute to make one of the leading Catholic churches of the English capital, he was prevailed upon to play a voluntary after the Offertory. There sat a child in that choir, only a little chorus singer, but whose early dream it had ever been to become a musician and play upon an organ such as that majestic, imperial instrument which he listened to with vague awe every Sunday. He knew the story of the great artist who now sat at the organ in his Carmelite habit, and he drank in eagerly the grand strains he could but dimly understand, yet admired so intensively. Things which he never knew technically till many years after, yet seemed not unknown to his sympathetic ear, and, if he understood but little of the science that created those rolling chords and modulations, he could worship the beauty they expressed.

A few days later, the little chorister, with six or seven companions from the Oratory School, was taken to the temporary Carmelite chapel in Kensington. It was all very poor and unpretending, but the spirit of recollection and peace made an Eden of the temporary refuge of these “knights of poverty,” and the children were very much impressed. Père Hermann came to the parlor to see them, and inquired severally after each one from the Oratorian Father in whose special charge they were. Our little chorister was dumb with awe and delight, expecting the holy Carmelite to notice him particularly; but when the Oratorian was questioned about this boy, he answered laughingly:

“Oh! this fellow is going to be a tinker.”

Père Hermann looked amused but incredulous, and the child grew hot and uncomfortable under the laughing gaze of his companions. He had long made up his mind as to what he would like to be, and the tinker suggestion was peculiarly hateful to him, because systematically used by his wise instructor to “break his pride.” But the gentle monk saw the boy’s discomfiture, and came skilfully to the rescue.

“And will you really be a tinker, my little man?” he said, smiling.

“No, father,” readily answered the little one. “A musician.”

“You mean a tinker, Peter,” teasingly suggested the Oratorian, and the boy blushed with annoyance.

“No, no,” said Père Hermann; “he will be a musician, as he says, and a good one. And now,” he continued, “it is nearly time for Benediction, and I am going to play the harmonium; would you like to stay for that?”

The child was speechless with delight, and then the holy monk added:

“You shall pull out the stops for me, Peter,” which was done, and, though it seemed the acme of happiness to Peter, it probably did not improve the music.

After the service, the father called one of the lay brothers, and entrusted the children to his care, saying, with simple glee, and in the broken accent which all who knew him remember as a characteristic of his otherwise terse and appropriate language:

“Now, brother, go and feed these little ones, and mind you give them plenty of good things.”

The order was well obeyed, for the tradition of ample and eager hospitality has never been lost among religious orders, be they poor and struggling and even proscribed, or rich, powerful, and influential. Rich plum‐cake and good wine, with candies of every sort, were set before the little musician and his friends, but the child was even then thinking exultingly that Père Hermann had really said he should be an artist. In later years, when studying his art in Flanders, or earning his bread by it in England, this saying, that from such holy lips seemed a prophetic blessing and an earnest of success, often and often recurred to his mind, and encouraged him in the many dark days through which he had to pass.

To all those who learned to love Père Hermann from personal intercourse with him, every remembrance of his words, however trifling, is now doubly treasured; his death, uniting as it did in itself the heroism of philanthropy, of patriotism, and of divine charity, has already practically canonized him in the eyes of his friends and spiritual children; and as we lay this slender wreath of praise among the more important tributes that literature, art, and religion have heaped around his memory, we are fain to exclaim, with the wise man of Israel, “Blessed are they that saw thee, and were honored with thy friendship.”(272)

A Daughter Of S. Dominic.

Concluded.

It was a singular proof, not only of respect for her character, but of confidence in her judgment and discretion, on the part of the government, to have entrusted her with this right of mercy; knowing, as no one who knew anything about her could fail to know, her extraordinary tenderness of heart and compassion for suffering, especially in the case of the soldiers. It seemed a risk to invest her with a sort of judicial right to interfere in their behalf at the hands of law and justice; but they never had reason to regret it. She showed herself to the last worthy of the trust reposed in her. In the exercise of a privilege whose application was one of the keenest joys of her life, Amélie evinced a mind singularly well balanced, a judgment always clear, and a prudence ever on the alert to guide and control the impulses of her heart. But when her judgment approved the promptings of charity, no consideration could deter her from obeying them. She was by nature very timid, and of late years, owing to her having quite broken off intercourse with the world, properly speaking, this timidity had grown to a painful shyness. Whenever there was a necessity, however, she could brave it, and face a gay crowd or a doughty magnate with as much ease and cheerfulness as if the act demanded no effort or sacrifice of natural inclination. Such sacrifices were frequently required of her. Her name had a prestige that gained entrance through doors closed to persons of infinitely higher social position and importance; and when a community, or a hospital, or a family wanted a mediator in high quarters, they turned quite naturally to Amélie. On one occasion her courage and good‐nature were put to a rather severe test. It was in the case of a poor man who had been condemned to a long term of punishment for some fraudulent act. The circumstances of the case, the hitherto excellent character of the man, the fierce pressure of want under which the fraud was committed, and certain points which threw doubts on the extent to which he had been consciously guilty, along with the misery his condemnation must entail on a wife and young family, roused strong sympathy for him, and a general impulse seized the townspeople to appeal to the emperor for his pardon. But how to do it so as to make the appeal efficacious—who to entrust with the delicate mission? Every heart turned instinctively to Amélie. Her name rose to every tongue. The most influential of the petitioners went to her, and besought her to go to Paris and obtain an audience of the emperor, and implore of his clemency a free pardon for the convict. Her first impulse was to draw back in dismay at the mere contemplation of such a feat; but the petitioners brought out an array of arguments that it was not in Amélie’s nature to resist. She called up her courage, recommended the success of her mission to the prayers of the Marseillese and the protection of N. Dame de Garde, and started off to Paris. Thanks to her previous relations with the ministerial world, she was able to obtain, after some delay, an audience of the emperor. He received her with the most flattering marks of personal consideration, and granted her at once the pardon she sued for. Amélie telegraphed the good news to Marseilles on leaving his majesty’s presence, and was met on her arrival there the following day by her protégé and his family in tears of joy and gratitude.