Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

The late “Evangelical Alliance” publicly endorsed the cry of a national church. The Rev. W. H. Fremantle, M.A., of London, an ecclesiastical functionary of the national church of England, in “a manner,” as the report in the _Tribune_ has it, “quick and energetic, and, as he warmed to his subject, eloquent to a degree which _elicited great applause_,” on October 9, 1873, at a meeting of the “Alliance,” urged on his hearers the advantages and necessity of having a national church, “the true ruling elders” of which should be “our statesmen, our judges, and our officers who bear the supreme mandate of the whole Christian community.” With laconic pith, he said: “The Christian nation is a church.” The applause elicited by his remarks was no doubt due to the fact that his auditors remembered how admirably the Christian “statesmen” in Congress and our late Vice‐President, some of our “judges,” our “Evangelical” bankers and merchants, represented the interests of the Alliance in their respective avocations! The Rev. W. J. Menzies, of Edinburgh, emissary of the national church of Scotland, seconded and approved the doctrines of his Episcopalian brother. In vain did a sturdy American, the Hon. J. L. M. Curry, LL.D., of Richmond, try to defend the American system and the principles of our Constitution against these well‐fed and well‐paid gentlemen. The rubicund foreigners of the church establishments of Denmark, Sweden, and Germany came to the rescue of their English and Scottish brethren. They had preached to the “Alliance” in favor of the tithes, taxes, and intolerance of their own establishments, and were not willing to allow Mr. Curry to oppose them. The very president of the “Alliance,” himself an American, was obliged to coerce the honorable gentleman into silence. His voice was drowned in an “evangelical” chorus of national churchmen. We are no longer, then, astonished to read that the Rev. Dr. Stoughton, of England, was greeted in a Protestant Sunday‐school in this city with the anthem of “God save the Queen.” It was not a religious hymn, mark it well, but an anthem in praise of the head of a church establishment, who is more than pope, for she is _impeccable_ as well as infallible, according to the axiom of English law that “the king can do no wrong.” No longer are we surprised to learn that the head of another national church, the would‐be pope‐Emperor of Germany, gave the “Evangelical Council” his blessing; that several of our highest magistrates, unless they are belied, have been secretly leagued against the Catholic Church in favor of a state Protestantism. Newspapers of reputed rank have been continually striving to create a Protestant public spirit in the state, and thus, as it were, to prepare the way for an absolute union of church and state on a Protestant basis. Indeed, we have a national, or at least a state, church already; although it has so far been administered to us only in homœopathic doses. Have we not a state school system with a Protestant Bible on its rostrum? Have we not “Juvenile Asylums,” “Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Homes,” state charitable institutions all controlled on the Protestant system, conducted to a great extent by Protestant clergymen? Are not the Bibles used in them Protestant? Are not the school‐books essentially sectarian in which such expressions as “gor‐bellied monks,” the “glorious Reformation,” the “great and saintly Martin Luther,” are frequent? Have we not a Protestant Indian policy and a Protestant “Freedman’s Bureau”?

It is true you cannot call the colorless Protestantism of these institutions peculiarly Methodist, or peculiarly Episcopalian, or peculiarly Baptist; but it is nevertheless Protestantism. We have a name for it. The late “Evangelical Alliance” gives it to us. The word “Evangelicalism” will express the Protestantism of our incipient national and state churches. We defy any impartial visitor to the so‐called “non‐ sectarian” state institutions to deny that their chief male officers, superintendents, guardians, and teachers have been chosen on account of their “Evangelicalism.” Every one that knows the inner working of our state institutions for charitable purposes is aware that they are mere pastures in which Evangelical ministers are retired on salaries of thousands a year taken from the state pocket.

The desire for having a state or national church is growing stronger. German imperialism, or pagan Roman Cæsarism revived, has given an impetus to it in Europe, in order to create a foreign public opinion to sanction its own persecutions of the Catholic Church at home. Switzerland has been moved by the pull of the German wire. Perhaps the same influence is at work in our republic. Or is it that a certain class of the Protestant clergy, dreading starvation if left depending on the bounty of flocks that are losing their Christianity and its generous impulses, envious of the portly frames and plethoric purses of the foreigners of the European establishments who lately visited our shores and banqueted at our expense, long to draw nutriment from the bosom of an established mother, rather than risk death from marasmus at the breasts of a dry and barren voluntary system? If this be the cause of the growing “Evangelicalism” of the sects, of their effort to combine for the purpose of giving us a national church, let us devoutly pray that the next delegates from abroad will be as spare in person and purse as our own country parsons. For the sake of our republican institutions, may his divine and imperial majesty of Germany and her gracious ecclesiastical majesty of England send hither no more of their rotund and jocund functionaries, to make the hearts of our Evangelical clergymen yearn after the flesh‐pots of Egypt!

Or can it be that the venerable heads of our “Evangelical” mayors, governors, and their compeers, returning in their senility, as is not uncommon with decaying brains, to their early loves, are striving to restore the state establishments of the old Puritan colonies? The recollection that all the original colonies except Catholic Maryland had a state church has not yet died out among these “Evangelical” ancients. They remember that so late even as 1793 an attempt was made even in New York to saddle an Episcopalian establishment on the back of our state, and this, too, at a time when the members of the Holland Reformed Churches were in the proportion of fifteen to one Church‐of‐Englander! Perhaps Governor Dix has an agreeable recollection of this beauteous trait in the character of his sect. Perhaps he remembers how well she had battened on the flesh and blood of the Irish people for centuries, though her votaries were not one‐ twentieth part of the Irish population. In 1643, the “orthodox” Episcopalian colony of Virginia expelled two New England Puritan ministers; while the New England Puritans, by way of “Evangelical” retaliation, sent back to Old England two professors of Anglicanism. The poor Quakers were driven out by all the colonies except Catholic Maryland. Indeed, even our modern “Evangelicals” had not the courtesy to invite them to their “Alliance.” In Virginia, the man who refused to have his child baptized was fined two thousand pounds of tobacco. In the colonies of Massachusetts and New Haven, for a time only church members could exercise the full powers of citizenship. The legislatures of the New England colonies convoked even the church synods. These were truly “Evangelical” times, and after these do the “Evangelicals” hanker. So late even as 1779 tithes were collected by law in some of the colonies. In fact, it was only in 1818 that the separation of church and state was effected in Connecticut. But in those days the Catholics were few, and nobody feared them. If they had been as numerous and formidable then as they are now, the disestablishment would never have been accomplished. These were the halcyon days when, in the words of Rev. Mr. Fremantle, already quoted, “the Christian nation was a church,” “the true ruling elders of which were statesmen, judges, and officers who bore the supreme mandate of the whole Christian community.” What a yearning there is for the return of those good times when none but “Evangelicals” may hold office to defraud the revenue, invest in Crédit Mobilier stock, or manage banking houses for the purpose of swindling credulous “Evangelical” depositors!

It is timely to warn all good citizens against the Protestant effort to restore the state‐church system of the early colonies. The Rev. W. H. Campbell, D.D., of New Brunswick, at one session of the “Alliance” said: “Revolution has everywhere borrowed the force of its political ideas from the Protestants of the XVIth century.” Never was language more correct. Rebellion against lawful authority, the overthrow of legitimate governments, the subversion of civil society, the destruction of law and order in modern times, are all traceable to Protestant principles. Nor can you ever tell where they will stop. As there is no fixity or certainty or unalterable code of doctrine or morals in Protestantism, a statesman can never tell when its councils will be impelled by whim, fanaticism, or prejudice. There is no telling but that the Protestant assembly which to‐ day favors the state to‐morrow will be in revolt against it. It has been on the side of unbridled license, of the extreme of liberty; and, again, it has been the creature, the slave, the blind instrument of despotism. A statesman always knows what to expect from the Catholic Church and her assemblies. Her principles are patent, her system plain, her doctrines unchanging, her secondary discipline modifiable according to law or necessity, but only by the spiritual power. She is always conservative, never revolutionary. She gives to Cæsar what belongs to him, but no more. She makes a reserve in her allegiance to the state: she reserves the rights of God, the rights of conscience. She must obey God rather than men when men try to alter or subvert God’s revelation. If the state wishes to persecute her, it may begin at once. She has nothing to hide from the state; and she will alter nothing of her doctrines. If the state dislikes her, at any rate she is an open foe. But Protestantism is a fickle subject. Like the ancient pagans, she admits the supremacy of the state over her; admits that the church is only a voluntary corporation subordinate to the state; yet practically she is never to be depended on. Fickle by nature, the state can never tell when a fit of madness may seize on her; when her imagination may be possessed by some idea subversive alike of good order and even of morality. We all know the history of the Anabaptists and Antinomians in Germany; the deeds of violence of the Independents in England. Protestantism, like a wanton filly, carries the state as a rider, but always at the risk of its neck. Let our statesmen, then, beware of the attempt which is being made to give us, if not a national, at least a state church. The threat has been made that when slavery was abolished, the next thing to undertake would be the destruction of the Catholic Church by the establishment of a state church.

It is easy to show that a national church is essentially opposed to our American principles, and that consequently all attempts to establish one are anti‐American. On this point many rationalists and infidels agree with Catholics, as they logically must when they argue from sound principles of pure reason or of pure politics. The Catholic religion recognizes the competency of reason in its own sphere, and admits its logical inerrancy. All the principles of the natural, political, metaphysical, or moral order known with certainty even by those who do not believe in revelation at all, are the common property of the Catholic Church; for although she insists on the subordination of reason to faith, she asserts emphatically the autonomy of reason, and condemns those who would abridge its powers. Hence true statesmen who judge our Federal or State constitutions from the viewing‐point of reason alone agree with Catholics in opposition to the so‐called “Evangelicals,” the chief of whom believe in “total depravity,” the loss of free will, and unmerited damnation. The ablest lawyers in the country teach that the fundamental idea of our civil government is that there shall be no interference of the state in church affairs. Absolute independence of the church; no interference of the state in religious matters—such is the AMERICAN IDEA. It is expressly laid down in the first amendment to the Constitution of the United States that Congress shall have no power to legislate on religious questions. The ablest commentary perhaps ever written on the Constitution is the _Federalist_; some of the best articles in which were written by Alexander Hamilton, whose son has recently published them. The teaching of this great man is that the framers of the Constitution were especially anxious to eschew church establishments or state religions in the policy of our republic. Indeed, some of the leading authors of the Constitution were rationalists, and more afraid of Protestant sectarian interference in state affairs than they were of the Catholic Church, which in their days was not strong enough to be feared. “Our theory is,” writes Gerrit Smith, “that the people shall enjoy absolute freedom in politics and religion.” Of course this freedom could not exist if we had a state church. Mr. Smith, whose intelligence and Americanism no one can dispute, in his celebrated letter on the school question,(24) from which the above phrase is taken, adds: “A lawyer than whom there is no abler in the land, and who is as eminent for integrity as for ability, writes me: ‘I am against the government’s being permitted to do anything which can be entrusted to individuals under the equal regulation of general laws.’ ” How few of the “Evangelicals” would be willing to act on this correct interpretation of our Constitution? How could they so easily give up the government pap that nourishes the Methodist preachers of the “Freedman’s Bureau” and the “Indian Bureau,” not to speak of the other countless branches of our homœopathic national church?

The attempt to establish a state church is also opposed to most of our State constitutions, and notably to that of New York. The first constitution of this State was so essentially hostile to a church establishment that it contained an article incapacitating any minister of the Gospel from holding any office, civil or military. Tradition has it that some Episcopalian minister, playing the political marplot in the preliminary convention, had so annoyed Mr. Jay that he had the article inserted. In 1846, this article was expunged; and ever since our State legislature, our public offices, and even our judiciary, have been afflicted by ambitious, incompetent, sometimes even illiterate, and always bigoted, political preachers. They are always striving to inflict on us more and more of their bigotry, while their acts show that one of their chief aims is to gratify the “Evangelical” appetite for power. We must especially guard our State constitution from the treacherous assaults of the sects. Even now their express provisions are violated or evaded.(25) They are easily modified.(26) Some of them are not inconsistent with a church establishment, and may at any moment become the prey of “Evangelical” bigotry or fanaticism.

Catholics are by conviction opposed to a change in the character of our Federal and State—we speak of New York—constitutions. They do not conflict with the CATHOLIC IDEA. There is nothing in or out of the _Syllabus_ that is opposed to our system of government. This we shall now proceed to show. Pius IX., on December 17, 1860, in an allocution condemned a proposition which begins with these words: “_National churches may be established_.” It is number 37 in the _Syllabus_. We know that it will be objected to us that the Pope also condemns the attempt to separate church and state in countries in which they are by law united, and the abstract principle that they ought to be separate. It is true that where church and state have been united, not by force, but by the nature of things and the sanction of laws, it is condemnable to attack their union as iniquitous or improper; but it is also true that it is not always obligatory or expedient on the part of the state, as such, to establish a church, build its institutions, and salary its clergy out of a common fund. The Roman pontiffs, in the height of their temporal power, never compelled the Jews to build with their money Catholic churches and pay the salaries of Catholic priests. Let us historically examine the character of the union of church and state in the Catholic countries of Europe, and we shall find how just, fair, and honorable such an union becomes. What was the title to most of the Catholic church property in Europe? None better. The barbarian baron or king, grateful to the priest, the monk, or the bishop who had civilized him and taught him to save his soul, generously built a church or a monastery and endowed it. Legacies, donations, free gifts—these were the means by which the bishopric and monasteries grew rich. No title to property is better than this, which a thousand years had sanctioned. Of course every new donation increased the power of the church. The temporalities of the church had natural influence in the state. The abbots and bishops were peers of the realm. The church lived on her own resources—neither asked nor received anything from the state except protection and liberty. Before the Reformation, this was the character of the close union between the church and state. After the Reformation, when the church had lost her power chiefly through the corrupting influence of the kings and barons on the bishops and abbots, despite the protests and the efforts of the popes, the politicians confiscated the church property. This confiscation was simply robbery, for the church corporations, as well as individuals, had rights which the state was bound to respect. But it happened, as it often happens, that wicked kings or mercenary and unprincipled politicians used the political machinery of the state legally to rob the church. They abused the right of eminent domain. Gov. Dix himself, in his annual message for 1874, limits the exercise of this right. “The right,” says he, “of every individual to be secured in the undisturbed enjoyment of his property lies at the foundation of all responsible government. It is, indeed, one of the primary objects for which governments are instituted. To this fundamental rule there is but one proper exception. If private property is needed for public use, it may be taken by making just compensation to the owner; but the use must be one _which is common to all_, or _which is indispensable to the accomplishment of some object of public necessity_. This right of eminent domain, as it is denominated, is an incident of sovereignty, and it is one of the most arbitrary of all the powers of government.”(27) It is unquestionably the “most arbitrary of all the powers of government,” if we consider how many are the demagogues, political traders, and mercenary corruptionists who help to make the laws in parliaments, congresses, or State legislatures to regulate the property of respectable people; and how often the executive power in the state, be it imperial, regal, presidential, or gubernatorial, is wielded by despotic and corrupt hands. Imagine a parliament of Communists using the right of eminent domain of the state against the lands and tenements owned by the Trinity Church corporation of New York; or an assembly of “Evangelicals” legislating in regard to Catholic church property! The state in France, for instance, during the Revolution stripped the church of her lawful possessions; Napoleon endeavored to bring order back to the Republic by re‐establishing the church. But it is plain that the salary allowed by his concordat in A.D. 1801 to the clergy, and the revenue allowed by the state for the maintenance of church edifices, was not a tithe of the interest accruing from the property stolen by the state from the church. The sum now allowed to support the Catholic clergy of France is, therefore, only a fraction of restitution money due to them by the state. So it is in other countries in which the state, after confiscating the church property, salaries the clergy. The church in those countries does not get her due. She asks no favor from them; she does not even get her rights. The propositions in the _Syllabus_ referring to the union of church and state must be explained in the light of these facts. The Catholic Church does not go to China or to Turkey, and say to the governments of those countries: “You must establish me here; you must build my temples and schools and asylums.” No, she claims no right of eminent domain over the pockets of infidels; and even when she converts them, she only asks their voluntary aid. All she asks is liberty to work and protection in her legitimate duties. She and her converts will do the rest. This was all she asked of the Roman emperors; this she asked of the mediæval kings. If they gave her liberty and protection, she thanked them, blessed them, worked for them, and civilized them. If they refused, still she blessed them and worked in spite of them; for she must “obey God rather than men.” She might with justice ask more than this in Prussia or England or Sweden; for there she might ask back her stolen property. But in this country she only asks a fair field and no favor. Contrast her conduct with that of Protestantism. Protestantism goes to the state begging on her knees; admitting the state’s supremacy over her; confessing that she is the humble servant of the king; and asks his gracious bounty. She will gladly sit on the foot of his throne as his slave, though a dangerous and treacherous one, if he will only smile on her, clothe and feed her. She will even stoop to become the receiver of stolen goods. Is it not so? Where is there a national Protestant church really established that is not living on property stolen by the state from the Catholic Church? Look to England and Scotland. Are not the Protestant establishments in those lands the possessors of ill‐gotten goods—of lands and churches iniquitously stolen from the Catholic Church? Surely the orthodox Catholic laity of the middle ages who gave these demesnes to the monasteries and churches never intended that the king should turn them over to a heretical establishment. The Prussian establishment is a theft from beginning to end; for every one knows that the apostate head of the Catholic religious order which ruled the duchy of Brandenburg, and laid the foundation of the Prussian power, had no right to transfer the property of his order to a Protestant clergy. Who could defend such a proceeding? Would our “Evangelical” brethren approve the conduct of a Protestant board of trustees or vestrymen who, on being converted, or a majority of them being converted, to the Catholic faith, should by a trick transfer the property of their congregation, their church, or college to the Catholic authorities to be used for Catholic purposes? How, then, can they approve the conduct of the English, German, and Scandinavian clergy who have received the lands and buildings taken from the Catholics by violence and regal usurpation? There is truly a very great difference between the Protestant and Catholic church establishments of Europe—a difference in origin, as well as in the manner of their continuance—and this difference is by no means flattering to the honesty or manliness of the sects. Correctly, therefore, did we say that Catholic principles as well as true American principles are opposed to a state church establishment in this country, and that nothing in the _Syllabus_ condemns our system of government.

It is time, therefore, for all true American citizens to unite under the Catholic standard of opposition to national or state church establishments. The rights of conscience, the rights of religion, are the rights of God. They are not national, but universal; that is, catholic. We are not willing to come back to the pagan _régime_ of Roman Cæsarism, and admit the ruler of the state or the state itself as supreme master of religion as well as of politics. The “Evangelical” semi‐paganized Protestants of Germany may bow the knee to the modern Cæsar, and admit him to be supreme pontiff; but they must keep their despotism at home. The Swiss “Evangelicals” may revive the ancient Spartan worship of the state, and assert its supremacy in spiritual matters; but they must keep their statolatry from our shores. The true American, like the true Catholic, will bow the knee to no idol, not even to the state, much as he may love it. He adores only his God. The state shall not interfere with his conscience, or dare to come between him and his God, no matter how much these foreign “Evangelical” emissaries may wish it. He is Catholic, even when he least suspects it. He hates despotisms, as the Catholic Church does; he suspects that German “Evangelicalism” is only a livery stolen to cover unbelief, as the Catholic Church knows it to be. He suspects the sincerity of those foreign “Evangelical” emissaries and their native hypocritical associates who preach in favor of state‐church establishments; he suspects them as traitors to American liberty or as seekers for notoriety or a full purse. When his suspicions have been clearly proven correct, he will turn from the sects in disgust, to love the grand old church which can be controlled by no national or state limits, and which has been battling all her lifetime against emperors and kings for the very principles of liberty that constitute the glory and the greatness of our republic.

The Captive Bird.

From the French of Marie Jenna.

He is all yours—’tis true—for life or death,
The hollow of your hand contains his fate,
You have the power to still his dulcet breath
And make the grove he dwelt in desolate.

You hold him!—He is weak and you are strong,
But pity may his liberty restore.
Let him to shade and summer still belong,
It is so sweet to live—with wings to soar!

The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil.

From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

XIX.

Now, to quiet your mind—for you must be as shocked as I am at all these horrors—we will speak, if you please, of our friend Jean‐Louis. On the afternoon of the day which proved the last for the innocent Barbette, Jeannet, knowing that the wood‐cutters would be dismissed, and that consequently he would have some leisure time, went off to the Luguets’ to have a little consoling conversation with good Solange. He kept no secrets from her, and expected great relief in recounting faithfully all that had happened; but, on entering, he instantly perceived something new had occurred in the house. The men were out at work; Mme. Luguet was seated by the fire, weeping bitterly; and Solange, sitting on a stool at her feet, was speaking to her in an angelic voice of her desire to enter a convent. Jeannet discreetly wished to withdraw.

“Don’t go,” said Solange to him; “isn’t it so, mother? Jeannet will not disturb us?”

“No, dear; on the contrary, my child, I am happy to see you, Jean‐Louis. Is it true that you will be free to accompany Solange to Paris?”

“Alas! Mme. Luguet,” replied Jeannet, “why should I not be free, having neither family nor friends, save only you and yours? The only roof that sheltered me from infancy is henceforward forbidden to me, without counting that, before many hours, the only thing that I can call my own—on condition that God leaves it to me—and that is my life, may be taken also.”

“What has happened?” asked Solange. “You speak in a quiet, serious tone that frightens me.”

“I have done my duty, dear Solange, and often in this world, after performing an act of conscience and justice, any consequence may be expected.”

And he related that, having discovered the criminal dealings of Isidore with the brigands of _La Martine_, he had been obliged to threaten the future husband of Jeannette, and give him warning that he must leave the country.

“But,” cried Solange, “that is just what I hoped; this fortunate event divine Providence has allowed, that Jeannette might be saved. Rejoice, then, Jeannet, instead of indulging in such gloomy ideas.”

“You are very kind to think so,” replied Jean‐Louis sadly; “but I, Solange, see things differently. Jeannette, already so irritated, will not pardon me for saving her at the expense of Isidore, who is not the man to let himself be crushed like a wolf caught in a snare. Much will be said against me; I will be rashly judged, and less than ever will I have the right to present myself at Muiceron. No, no; from that dear spot I am for ever separated. I have been already accused of jealousy; shall I expose myself to Jeannette’s reproaches that I have denounced Isidore to prevent her marriage?”

“I acknowledge,” said Solange, “that your reflections are just. The truth will one day be known, but it will take time; I see it as well as you.”

“I must expect the vengeance of the Perdreaux,” continued Jean‐Louis, “as well as of their friends, whose violent passions I know, and who will not leave me in peaceable possession of their secrets. Michou has discharged the workmen; apparently, they went off contented. But Isidore, meanwhile, received my letter; no doubt before this he has communicated it to his cut‐throat companions, and the easiest thing for all of them will be to get rid of me at the shortest notice.”

“My God!” said Solange, “why didn’t you think of all that before writing the letter? At least, you need not have signed it.”

“I thought of all that,” replied Jeannet, smiling; “but even if I had been sure of risking my life in saving Jeannette, I would not have stopped. Her father and mother preserved my existence, Solange, and therefore it belongs to them. And as for not signing such a letter, thank God! you think so because you are a woman, that you love me, and that you feel I am in danger; but if you were in my place, you would think as I do.”

“My children,” said Mme. Luguet, “you are both right. But my advice is that just now you had better plan for the future than discuss the past.”

“Tell us what shall be done, mother,” said Solange. “In the first place, Jean‐Louis must not return to the wood to‐night; isn’t that so?”

“Don’t think of such a thing,” cried Jeannet, as he rose hastily from his chair. “Did I come here to hide?”

“Be still,” said Solange with authority; “don’t be so proud. We all know you are brave, who, then, can accuse you of flying from danger? But courage does not consist in throwing yourself headlong in the midst of it, but in providing against it.”

“I will return,” said Jeannet, “Michou expects me.”

“You will not return, my child,” said Mme. Luguet. “I will direct you for one day; my age and friendship permit me. I order you to remain with us to‐night.”

“But,” said Jean‐Louis, “tomorrow the danger will be still greater; and, my good mother, you surely cannot count on keeping me a prisoner?”

“When you came in,” said the good woman, “Solange was asking my permission to leave home. It was very painful for me to decide, and I sought to gain time from the good God—a little time only, to become more courageous; for never will I be so bold as to refuse to give my child to the Lord. Well, what you have just related makes me think the good God has directed all with his own voice. My dear children, you will leave tomorrow.”

Solange threw herself on her knees, and laid her head on her mother’s hands, which she kissed, weeping. Jean‐Louis turned pale. His courage, which prompted him to face the danger, and his desire to oblige his friends, struggled violently in his heart.

“Listen to me,” said he. “I gave my word to Solange that I would accompany her; but circumstances have changed since then. Cannot Pierre take my place? They have gossiped about Solange and me, dear Mme. Luguet; what will they say when they hear we have gone off together?”

“Pierre!” cried Solange; “but he knows nothing, nor my father either. My mother alone has my secret; otherwise, it would be impossible for me to leave.”

“It is true,” said Mme. Luguet; “my men are good Christians, but not pious enough to understand Solange’s wishes. However, with the blessing of God, I will manage them. It is decided that I will tell the father she has only gone for a fortnight, to see how she likes it; there will be a fuss at first, and then we will go to see her; and if, as I believe, the good God will take her entirely to himself, then the sight of her happiness will satisfy all our hearts.”

Thus spoke that good Christian woman; and to the shame of many great ladies of the city, who show themselves so unreasonable under similar circumstances, I must say, with truth, she was not the only one in our village you might have heard speak in the same manner.

Jean‐Louis could urge no further objection. The public stage, which would carry them to the nearest railway station, passed the Luguets’ house every morning at six o’clock. At that time of year, it was still dark, and the men, who rose at four, that they might go to the barn and comb the hemp, went to bed very early in the evening. Pierre and his father entered and supped, without anything being said before them, and Solange and her mother found themselves again alone with Jeannet as the village clock struck eight.

It was then that Jeannet wrote the short note to Jacques Michou which we have already read; he ran and placed it in the box in the suburbs of the village, and quickly returned, as Solange had told him she would be half dead with fear during his absence, and that she would pass the time on her knees, saying her rosary.

You see it was very evident the Lord and his angels watched over these good people. At this very hour, when it would have been so easy to have attacked Jean‐Louis, he came and went through the wood, without incurring any risk, while the unfortunate Isidore uselessly committed a great crime.

Good Mme. Luguet and her daughter remained up until late in the night, busy making up Solange’s little bundle, in praying, and often embracing each other, mingling their tender and holy kisses and tears. Jeannet aided them to the best of his ability, admiring the courage of heart, which was worth more than that of the head and arms. Then the two women retired for a little rest, and he, in his turn, ended by falling asleep in his chair.

At five o’clock, Solange came herself to awaken him, and told him, in a low voice, that she had made her poor mother promise the night before not to get up, and so she had just kissed her softly for the last time without disturbing her sleep. At that instant could be seen the heroism of that holy soul in thus wishing to bear alone the weight of the sacrifice. Her face, without ceasing to be calm, was bathed in tears, and from time to time she kissed a little crucifix suspended from her neck, in order to sustain her brave heart.

“Come,” said she at last, “it is time, Jeannet; let us say the Our Father together, and then we will leave.”

“Courage, Solange,” said Jean‐Louis, much moved; “the good God will bless you.”

They repeated the prayer, and went out noiselessly, and just then was heard the jingling of the bells on the horses of the country stage.

Solange was well wrapped up in her black cloth cloak, with the hood drawn down over her face. Jean‐Louis carried her little bundle, in which she had slipped two of Pierre’s shirts; for the good Jeannet carried all his baggage on his back—to wit, a woollen vest, a blouse, and his plaid scarf. But, as we have already seen, it was not his habit to think of himself.

They arrived safely at Paris that very day, rather late in the evening, to be sure; and little did they dream of the great rumpus going on at that very time in our poor neighborhood. All along the route the strong family resemblance between Solange and Jeannet made every one think them brother and sister; and by good luck, owing to the severity of the weather, none of the travellers in the coach belonged to the village or its environs, so that they reached the station without the risk of being recognized.

The Sister‐Superior of the Sisters of Charity had been notified several days before of the coming of Solange by our _curé_, who was the good child’s confessor; but they had left home so suddenly, Jeannet was obliged to find a refuge for his companion the first night. Happily, in Paris all is at your service—people and things—where there is money, and our children were rich with Solange’s savings; therefore, there was no difficulty in finding respectable lodgings, where they passed the night in two beautiful rooms, well furnished, the like of which they had never thought existed, at least for their use.

The next day their first action was to go and hear Mass, after which, having inquired the way to the Convent of S. Vincent de Paul, which is situated in a very pious quarter of the city, they went there with hearts rather saddened; and one hour later Jeannet found himself alone in the vast city.

But no one is alone in this world when he carries in his heart faith in the Lord. All the children of God belong to one family, and feel in their souls a fraternal tenderness for each other. Jeannet, on taking Solange to the convent, found a mother in the good superioress, who received them both. She made him relate his story to her in a few words, and, learning that he was alone in the world and desirous of some engagement, she gave him the address of a good priest who passed his life in aiding young working‐men who, owing to unfortunate circumstances or lack of employment, ran the risk of becoming dissipated from the want of a helping hand.

He was called Abbé Lucas; and as he is now dead, and enjoying, I trust, the celestial happiness well merited by his great devotion, I do not think it indelicate to tell his name.

He received Jeannet with great kindness, and the good boy soon won his heart with his frankness and amiability. The abbé tried his hand, and seeing that he wrote well, and turned off a very good letter under dictation, advised him not to think of joining a regiment, as the conscription would be after him soon enough without his running to seek it. Therefore, he took him in his own house, and employed him with his correspondence, of which there was never any deficiency, owing to the great number of men who daily claimed his charitable assistance.

The arrangement was perfectly to Jeannet’s taste, who applied himself to his new occupation with joy and confidence; and you can well imagine that Solange was very happy, and redoubled her prayers that her dear school‐ fellow might come as triumphantly out of his heart‐troubles as he had been preserved from the dangers that threatened his life.

She immediately wrote home, informing M. le Curé of all these little events, but left it to his great wisdom to decide whether he should tell more or less of everything to the Ragaud family, Michou, and M. le Marquis. This should make us thoroughly understand the true virtue of this good child; for she had not been ignorant of the base insinuations made in relation to her and Jean‐Louis, and what ugly conjectures would be based upon their departure, Pierre joining with the rest, at least at the first news. These things go straight to the heart of a good, honest girl, and Solange, being of a quick, nervous temperament, had suffered martyrdom from all this gossip without speaking of it, except to God. It was to him, then, that she remitted the care of her full justification, as she knew many persons would not have believed anything she might have said. This beautiful tranquillity of soul is not an ordinary thing, and our _curé_ judged rightly that it proceeded from great holiness, as in the end he did not fail to speak of it, with profit to his hearers, in his Sunday sermons.

This excellent pastor, who had been careful to keep clear of the whole affair before the downfall of the Perdreaux, contenting himself with praying and awaiting the good pleasure of the Lord, reappeared like an angel of consolation when nothing was left but tears to wipe away, hatreds to calm, simpletons to make hold their tongues, and truths to make known. It was wonderful to see how he forgot his great age and infirmities to fulfil his task, which was not the easiest in the world.

With the château it was quickly done. In a conversation of two hours with M. le Marquis, who was a man of great good sense—except in what touched his political hopes—he made the scales fall from his eyes, and decided his departure; and as, after all the villany of the Perdreaux, our master’s fortune had not suffered as much as might have been expected—as it was very great, and could have stood a much larger rent—our good pastor reserved his pity and real work for a corner of the country where it was infinitely more needed.

You can guess that I wish to speak of Muiceron. There truly sorrow, shame, and unhappiness were at their height.

So many blows at once had crushed the Ragauds, who no longer dared go out, and remained at home, devoured with grief. The old farmer, struck on the tender side of his pet sin, which was vanity, thought really that heaven and earth had fallen upon his shoulders, and that he should only leave his home for the cemetery. Pierrette, long accustomed to receive implicitly her husband’s opinions, thought also nothing wiser could be done; and as for Jeannette, overwhelmed with grief to see herself abandoned by all her friends at the same time, although apparently the strongest, it looked as though she would go the first to the grave, so plainly did her pallor and hollow eyes show the ravages of internal grief.

All the joy and life of rural labor had disappeared from around this house, formerly so happy. The door was closed, the shutters also, save one or two in the back rooms, where these poor people kept themselves hidden, afraid to speak, as they knew one subject of conversation was alone possible, and just then no one would approach it. The passers‐by, seeing the house shut up, and not supposing all the inhabitants were dead, ended by feeling uneasy as they passed the buildings, but not one ventured to inquire about them, not even Ragaud’s most intimate acquaintances. It is only truth to add that these, understanding well the sorrow that reigned within those silent walls, acted thus from respect, and not from indifference.

Big Marion went twice a week to the market in Val‐Saint, to buy provisions needed for immediate use, and returned at a gallop, to shut herself up with her master’s family.

Since Muiceron had belonged to the Ragauds, it was certainly the first time any food had been cooked but the beef and poultry raised and killed on the place. Poor Pierrette, like all good housekeepers, had always prided herself upon supplying the table with the fruit of her labors; for with us, a farmer’s wife who buys even a pound of butter or loaf of bread passes, with good reason, for a spendthrift; but, alas! self‐love was no longer thought of, and La Ragaude cared little what was said of her management, after she knew tongues could wag about affairs of much greater importance. Poor woman! she must have been fearfully depressed. Judge how the chickens ran wild, scratching up the gravel during the day, and perching on the trees, stiff with snow, during the night, at the risk of freezing. The pig, so fat it could no longer stand on its legs—as for a fortnight its true place would have been in the salt‐tub—continued uselessly to eat his allowance. The hens that recommenced to lay deposited their eggs at random, without any one taking the trouble to go after them, notwithstanding the little _coricoco_ of warning, which showed that they never failed to cluck at the right time most faithfully. But Marion could not see after everything; and besides, as she had always been very stupid during the time that all were well and happy at Muiceron, she became more and more stupid and bewildered after affairs went so badly.

Such was the miserable condition in which our _curé_ found his old friends on the first visit which he made them, about two weeks after Barbette’s funeral, with the sole object of raising them from the deep despondency into which they had fallen since the terrible shock.

Pierrette received him in the big parlor, which was very dark, as the shutters were closed, and for a quarter of an hour he could get nothing out of her but sobs; then Ragaud came in, looking thin and miserable, as much from want of air and exercise as from shame; and finally Jeannette, who, with a remnant of her old pride, tried to keep from weeping, but was nearly suffocated in the effort.

“My children,” said the dear, good man, “God tries those whom he loves, and I certainly do not approve of your shutting yourselves up in this manner, so as to avoid the society of your neighbors and friends, on account of a sentiment which doubtless you think good, but which I call honor ill placed—that is to say, wicked pride, to speak frankly.”

“Alas!” said Pierrette, “who wishes to speak to us now?”

“Whom have you offended?” replied the _curé_. “And why has the esteem in which you have long been held diminished?”

“Monsieur,” said Ragaud, “my daughter was on the point of marrying a revolutionist and an assassin. That is enough to kill a family like ours.”

“I acknowledge,” said the _curé_ quietly, “you could have made a better choice; but, in reality, since all has ended without your playing any other part in this unfortunate affair than that of victims, I do not see why you should hide yourselves from the eyes of the world as though you were criminals.”

“As for me,” said Ragaud, “I can never reappear again in public, and support the looks and words of the people around, who certainly despise us.”

“Ragaud,” replied the _curé_, “when a man’s shoe hurts him, he usually sits down by the roadside, and looks to see whether it is a thorn or a flint that causes the pain; then he takes it out, and all is over. But if, instead of that, he continues walking, his foot would swell, the wound would inflame, and the cure would no longer be easy. Do you understand me?”

“Not at all,” said Ragaud.

“Nor I either,” added Pierrette, still continuing to weep.

“Well,” said M. le Curé, “it means that a wise man like you who fears anything of that kind should seek after the cause, to see if by chance it would not be as easy to drive such an idea out of his head as to take a thorn out of a shoe. And, between ourselves, it is precisely your case. Far from despising you, each and every one in the neighborhood only feels for you compassion, sympathy, and kindness, which they would willingly show in words and actions. I am constantly asked about you, and all desire you to return to the common life. They do not come to disturb you, through pure discretion; but for which, your house would be well filled. But as long as you live like wolves in their den, the pain increases in your heart, and soon it will be with you as with the man, wounded in the foot, who will continue to walk—you cannot be cured.”

“M. le Curé is right,” said Jeanne; “we must reappear, dear father.”

“Without counting,” resumed the pastor, “that you are not acting as Christians when you show so much pride. A Sunday has passed, and you were not seen at Mass, and nevertheless it is an obligation. Do you, then, intend to neglect your religious duties?”

“I would go to church if no one were there,” said Ragaud.

“Is it you, my friend, whom I hear speak thus?” replied the _curé_ sadly. “So you prefer the esteem of men to the blessing of God? And you, Pierrette, whom I have always known as such a good parishioner, have you the same miserable ideas?”

The Ragauds lowered their heads without replying. They felt they were wrong, especially for the bad example given their daughter. Little Jeanne, on her side, came to a resolute decision.

“Father and mother,” said she, “M. le Curé makes me understand all my sins; for it is on my account you are thus borne down with grief. I, then, must be the first to trample pride under foot. Well, then, I will go to Val‐Saint on Sunday, and assist at Mass and Vespers in our usual place.”

“You shall not go alone, my poor child,” said Pierrette.

“That is right,” said the _curé_; “I expected as much. As for you, my dear Ragaud, as I know you to be truly honorable, you will not, I suppose, allow these two women to bravely fulfil their duty, and leave you behind?”

“I will see; I can’t promise any thing,” answered Ragaud.

“I count upon you,” said the _curé_, pretending to take these words as an engagement, “and I beg that you will come after Mass and dine with me; Germaine will have a nice dish of larks, which will not be much expense, as in this snowy weather they only cost five cents a dozen.”

“Monsieur,” said Ragaud, who felt greatly relieved by this pleasant conversation, which he very much needed, “commence by taking supper with me this evening; it will be a charitable deed to stay with people who are so unhappy.”

“Willingly,” replied the _curé_; “but with these closed shutters and cold rooms, that make me think of a tomb, I will not have any appetite. You must change all that, and let in some light. Come, madame, show us if you still can turn a spoon in the sauce‐pan.”

Pierrette could not repress a pleased smile at this apostrophe, and all her old occupations and favorite habits came back to her at the remembrancer, which tickled her heart. Just as in nursery‐tales a wicked fairy enchants a house for a time, and suddenly a good one comes, and with a wave of her wand changes affairs; at Muiceron, which appeared desolate and dead, the words of the _curé_ restored the old life and animation which were so pleasant to behold in the former prosperous days. Ragaud made a great fire to drive out the close, damp smell; Pierrette threw open the shutters with a quick hand, and, seeing her garden ruined by the poultry, she blushed from shame, and grumbled aloud at her neglect. That was a true sign that her courage had returned. During this time, Jeannette and Marion got out the linen for the table, wiped the dishes, gray with dust, and prepared the _fricassée_, which consisted, for this meal, of a ragout of wild rabbits that M. le Curé looked at with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as he knew well this game could only be the result of poaching.

“There,” said he, trying to the best of his ability to cheer up his poor friends, “is a dish which does you honor, Mme. Ragaud, and that will be perfectly delicious if you will put a glass of white wine in the sauce. But if you will let me give you a word of advice, don’t feed those little animals with cabbage.”

“Why not?” said Pierrette, astonished, thinking that M. le Curé mistook the game for a tame rabbit.

“Oh! yes,” said he, “that animal smells of cabbage, unless I have lost the sense of smelling; and it spoils the taste very much.”

“But, monsieur,” answered Pierrette, half offended, “this is a wild rabbit, caught in the wood of La Sange.”

“Not possible!” cried M. le Curé, feigning great astonishment. “And since when has the farm of Muiceron, which I have always seen the best supplied in the country with poultry, sheep, pigeons, and all other productions, been reduced to buy game stolen from its master for food?”

“Marion bought it,” said Pierrette; “the poor girl goes after provisions, and don’t look far; she brings back what she finds, without thinking of evil.”