Chapter L: Part V: They Sang (2)

I had suffered but little at that time in comparison with what life still had in reserve for me. But after a while we learn to suffer, and in this science, as in all others, it is the beginning one always finds the most difficult. A fearful storm, it is true, had assailed the first flower of my spring‐time, and spread darkness and gloom over the heavens of my sixteenth year; but spring‐time and the sun returned, and at an age when others only begin life I was commencing mine the second time. But this new life of happiness was, I now felt, threatened in a thousand ways. Apprehension, a worse torture than sadness; a vague, undefined fear, more difficult to endure than the woes it anticipates; the uncertainty, doubt, and suspicion, so much more intolerable to one of my nature than any positive suffering, rendered my heart heavy and depressed, and I felt it would be a relief to weep as well as to pray.

I knelt on the only vacant chair in the church, and remained a long time motionless, my face buried in my hands, unable to give utterance to my wants, but knowing God could read my heart, as, when we meet a friend after a long separation, we are often silent merely because we have so much to communicate, and know not where to begin. In this attitude I heard Vespers sung for the first time in my life, this office of the church being, as is well known, much less frequently used in the south of Italy than in other places. I have already mentioned the public religious observances of my childhood. I had, therefore, never heard Vespers chanted in this way. The voices of the choristers were harmonious, and the responses were no less so. A large number of the congregation joined in the chant. There was something monotonous rather than musical in it, but it was more musical than reading, and it produced a strangely soothing influence on me. I laid aside all thought of myself, and attentively followed the admirable lines of the Psalmist; and when the Magnificat was intoned, I rose with the whole congregation to chant this divine hymn with a sensation of joy and hope that, for the moment, made me forget the painful impressions I felt when I entered beneath these arches now resounding with its words....

Benediction followed, recalling the earliest, dearest remembrances of my childhood, and increasing the emotion I already felt. When the monstrance containing the divine Host was placed above the altar, I lost all thought of where I was. I forgot whether it was Paris, Rome, or Messina, and whether the arches above me were those of some magnificent church, or some humble chapel, or a mere oratory like that in which I had prayed from my childhood. What difference did it make? The sun shines everywhere alike, and diffuses equal light in all places. How much more truly shines throughout the whole Catholic world the living, uncreated Light, present on all our altars! Time and place were forgotten. I was once more with my beloved mother, once more with Livia, my sweet, saintly sister, and the faithful Ottavia; and when, at the end of one of those hymns that are usually sung before the Blessed Sacrament, a young voice, pure and clear, uttered the word _Patria_,(164) it seemed at that moment to have a double meaning, and designate, not only my earthly, but my heavenly country.

To Be Continued.

Pius VI.

Those were terrible days. Even the faithful quailed, and asked each other timidly whether it was possible that God’s enemies had at last prevailed, and that the Rock had been shaken and the Word passed away. Voltaire had come and done his work, and gone, leaving a new generation behind him to fight the devil’s cause, to flaunt his standard over Christendom, to revile “the Galilean,” and wage war against his church—the subtle, deadly, persevering war of envious hatred, conquered impotence, malignant fury. There was a shout of hellish triumph throughout the ranks of Voltaire’s disciples; it seemed as if their victory was now secure; the old man of the Vatican, who for generations had remained unconquerable as fate, was in the power of the soldier who had conquered fate, who held Europe in the hollow of his hand, who raised up kings with a nod, and overthrew dynasties with a word. He had overcome the world, why should he not overcome the pope? He had demolished a score of thrones, why should he not annihilate this fisherman’s chair that for seventeen centuries had defied the combined forces of the world? Poor fools! Why not!

Jean Angelo Braschi was born at Cesena on the 27th of December, 1717, of a noble but poor family. His parents left him all the patrimony they had, a faith of the royal antique sort, and an education worthy of the name he bore. He was little more than a boy when Clement XIV. saw of what stuff the young cleric was made, and appointed him his secretary. This was Braschi’s first step on the ladder which was to lead him to the perilous heights of the purple—“the dye of empire and of martyrdom.”

When Clement XIV., pursued by the entreaties and threats of European potentates, yielded a weak concession to their cabals, and spoke of “reform” to the general of the Jesuits (who answered, Loyola‐like, in royal scorn of the implied calumny: _Sint ut sunt, aut non sint_), Braschi, then cardinal, took his stand by their side, resented every outrage offered to the sons of Ignatius, those courtiers of martyrdom in all ages, and thus vindicated his future claim to a place in the palm‐ bearers’ ranks. He opened his house to the persecuted Jesuits; he braved everything in his unswerving, uncompromising fidelity to their order. What else could befall him but the crown of the confessor or the martyr?

Europe hailed his accession with delight. The pulses of the rising monster, Revolution, were beginning to beat, and the nations were growing afraid, they knew not yet of what; but all eyes were turned to Rome, as to the rock where the safety of the world was anchored. The advent of a man like Pius VI., firm as adamant, who could brave death, not merely for the faith, but for every tittle of principle which the uttermost integrity of the faith included—a man whom his enemies likened to Moses for his meekness, and to Solomon for his strong wisdom; who lived like an anchorite and officiated with the splendor of the prophet king, who loved the beauty of God’s house and the place where his glory dwelt—the advent of a priest like this to the papal throne gave joy all over Christendom.

Pius VI. was elected on the 15th of February, 1775. Seldom has the weight of that unearthly crown fallen more heavily on its wearer’s brow than it fell on that of the new pontiff. In the temporal order he saw before him a mountain to be uplifted; in the spiritual order no far‐seeing eye could fail to detect the ominous signs of the coming storm. Pius lost not a moment in designing and carrying out vast schemes of material improvement in his dominions. In those days the Pontine marshes were swamps of poison that had hitherto defied all petty attempts at reclaiming them.

“How do you live in this dreadful place?” inquired a traveller of one of the inhabitants of the dismal soil.

“Signor, we do not live; we die!” was the answer.

Pius VI. declared that henceforth they should live. Colossal works were set on foot, and, if the pestilential marshes were not radically purified, they were so much improved as to justify the people in proclaiming the energetic pontiff as the worker of that miracle. During his pontificate the draining was so successful that Pius himself declared this alone was ample reward for all his sufferings. The port of Ancona was repaired, and its entrance adorned with a light‐house; works of art were sought for, revealed, and cherished. Spiritual works were founded and fostered with royal munificence and paternal care. The Christian Brothers were called to Rome and a noble school built for them, on the front of which was inscribed the title so glorious and so dear to the Vicar of Christ: “Pius VI., the Father of the Poor.”

But not even the wisdom and prestige of this ideal pontiff could suffice to shelter him from the tempest that was slowly but steadily travelling towards the Holy City. The infidel philosophers of France and Germany had done their work; they had sown, and now the time had come for reaping. Austria first showed symptoms of disaffection. Joseph II., who was too cowardly to rescue his own sister(165) from the hands of the torturers, had become the tool of his minister, Kaunitz, whose delight it was to worry the pope with the small artillery of a cunning and treacherous diplomacy. These weapons, however, were not the ones that could move Pius VI. They glided off from the shield of his unalterable patience, humility, and truth like arrows from a marble surface. Nor could the weak monarch withstand the charm of the saintly pope when he came within its influence. He rallied to his side when he visited Rome in 1783, and promised to be faithful to him. But it was a broken reed, the friendship of the vacillating Joseph.

Spain, Tuscany, and Venice next came to sadden the Holy Father’s heart and strengthen his growing fears. His gentleness held them captive for a time; but they too were of the tribe of broken reeds. When friends prove false, then is the time for the treason of foes to flourish. Catherine of Russia, the woman with the wily head of the snake joined to the cruel heart of the tiger, came with honeyed words of reverence to tender offers of service, nay, even of allegiance, to Pius. A far‐sighted woman, this tiger queen who was stealing into Poland, and sucking the nation’s blood, as she crawled into its heart. Then there was Frederick of Prussia, more honest than many a self‐styled son of the church in those days; he was grateful to the prince who first assigned him his title of king. Gustavus III. came to do homage to the man who had drained the Pontine marshes, and made a noble road through that region, so long the tomb of all who dwelt within its poisonous area. Pius received these marks of courtesy with his accustomed gentle grace; he knew what they were worth, and was grateful without being beguiled. They were, in truth, the last rays of the sun that was soon to set in darkness over his reign, and to close it in sufferings unparalleled for fourteen centuries in the annals of the church.

France was to give the signal, and she was now ready. France, that had so often raised the standard of the church, and defended it with the blood of her fairest chivalry—France was to sound the war‐cry hounding on the fanatics to the destruction of her own purest glory. The Reign of Terror was inaugurated. The Constituent Assembly had decreed the civil constitution of the clergy. Bishops were no longer to be what they had hitherto been; they were henceforth to be the nominees of an unbelieving mob; the beautiful structure of the spiritual hierarchy was to be destroyed. To legalize the crime, an oath was exacted from the priesthood; those who refused to take it—and their name was legion—were deprived of the pittance allotted them by the state, and turned away to starve. Sixty thousand preferred starvation to the bread thus bought at the price of perjury. Of one hundred and thirty‐eight bishops, four only took the oath. Monasteries were dissolved; scandals arose on all sides. The papal nuncio, Cardinal de Bernis, was insulted and compelled to fly from Paris. The pope was burned in effigy. Thus did France sound the tocsin that was to herald in the earthquake—“a great horror of darkness and shakings of the world, and a cup of trembling which all the nations shall drink.” Faith is being driven out, and “philosophy” is riding in like a conqueror on her ruins. Peace and the brave pageant of virtue and all goodly things are banished, and in their place enter decay and chaos and unbelief; and then the Revolution is ready. The world is wheeling round, humanity is going mad, nothing is stable on the earth—nothing but the rock of Peter, against which the storm beats in foolish and impotent rage. Pius raises his voice above the whirlwind, and those who hearken hear it: “God is unchangeable. Truth is immutable. The church can make no compromise. Let us stand faithfully by the cross. God will save his own and redeem his word.” Avignon exhibited a hecatomb of murdered priests. On the 24th of October, 1791, over two hundred were butchered in the _Glacière_ of that city. In September of the following year three bishops and three hundred priests were on one day massacred in Paris. Numbers fled to Rome for protection. The fragments of the altar and the throne met in the Eternal City—Mesdames de France and the King and Queen of Sardinia, proscribed prelates and priests; and Pius opened his fatherly arms to all. This shelter was, however, soon to be torn from them.

On the 15th of February, 1793, the commandant of the French fleet at Naples walked into the Roman consulate, and ordered the consul to hoist the red flag and the cap of liberty over the building. The consul refused; a row ensued; blood was shed. The French government declared itself insulted, and threatened the pope in violent language. Meantime, the Directory succeeded to the Convention, and people drew a long breath, and hoped a change had come for the better. But, as Carnot said: “If now there was less blood shed, there were more tears.” The guillotine was still erect, and its work only slackened because the arms of the executioners were weary. The republican armies were progressing in their triumphal marches. Italy still remained to be conquered. Bonaparte was entrusted with the expedition. A series of victories brought him quickly to the gates of Rome. He proposed the most humiliating conditions to the Sovereign Pontiff. Pius was summoned to cancel every bull, brief, and pastoral that the Holy See had issued from the beginning of the Revolution to the present time. The pope firmly refused to comply. Bonaparte was at first full of insolent fury, and threatened to annihilate Rome and the Vatican. He relented, however, not out of deference to Pius, but to show his defiance of the home government, and drew up a treaty of his own invention, which, ruinous as it was, the Holy Father meekly signed, in order to save his people and prevent bloodshed. This treaty of Tolentino, as it was called, secured to Bonaparte the sum of thirty‐one millions of francs, sixteen hundred cavalry horses, and a portion of the Romagna. The Roman treasury was drained by this monstrous ransom; the people were starving, the misery was terrible. Pius was broken‐hearted, but his courage, fed by a faith that was anchored in God, never faltered. His conduct all through these dreadful days was that of a saint. He found his only solace in prayer and in fortifying the faith of his suffering flock. But he had as yet only tasted the first drops of his chalice. The Directory had resolved to get possession of Rome. A pretext must be created, since Pius would not furnish even the semblance of one, for breaking the iniquitous treaty, which had thus far secured to him the integrity of the Holy City. General Duphot was fired on by the Roman troops acting in discharge of their duty. Berthier was at once ordered to leave Ancona, where he was stationed with the French army, and to march on Rome and encamp under its walls. His first step was to issue a proclamation exciting the citizens to revolt, insulting and calumniating the pope and his government, and announcing himself as the liberator of an oppressed people. He entered the city next day, and took possession by placing seals on the museums and galleries, which were “henceforth the property of the _grande nation_ that had come to set free the Roman people.” A tree of liberty was planted on the capitol; tricolor flags floated on the public monuments, and tricolor ribbons decked the ears of Marcus Aurelius’ horse. The Holy Father was outraged in his own house; his furniture was taken from him, and his jewels; he was despoiled even of his pontifical robes; his private library, a valuable collection of 40,000 volumes, was seized and sold to a dealer for 12,000 crowns. The deliverers of Rome crowned these proceedings by inviting their victim to wear the tricolor cockade by way of a badge of authority from France. Pius VI. replied with majestic meekness: “I can wear no livery but that with which the church has clothed me.” This answer was distorted into an insulting challenge to the French government, and Haller immediately received orders to convey the pope by force out of Rome. Pius gently pleaded his age and many infirmities, and entreated the poor grace of being allowed to die in the midst of his people. “Oh! for that matter, you can die wherever you are,” was the brutal retort, and measures were commenced for carrying him away by force, in case he made any resistance. This was not likely; but the old pontiff’s heart was breaking. “God’s will be done!” he murmured. “Let us bow to whatever he sees good to ordain!”

Forty‐eight hours were all that was allowed him to prepare for this sudden departure. He devoted the short time entirely to the affairs of the church and to the performance of his religious duties. The night of the 20th of February was fixed for the departure. It was late when Haller brusquely entered the Holy Father’s room, and found him prostrate before the crucifix, bathed in tears. “It is time to go,” he said, and the French escort entered and rudely hurried the old man down the Vatican stairs and into the carriage that was waiting for him. In it were seated his physician and his groom of the chambers, and two other officers of his household. The people followed the carriage, loudly lamenting, and invoking all blessings on their beloved pastor. At Viterbo many French priests flocked round him with the Italian crowds, and fell on their knees for a last benediction. The first halt of the travellers was in Tuscany. The Directory would fain have sent their august prisoner to Sardinia, but they were deterred in this by fear of the English government, and so proceeded to Sienna, where for three months the Augustinian convent had the privilege of harboring the persecuted Vicar of Christ. Whilst here the finger of Providence showed visibly its protecting care of him. The Holy Father had just left his room one morning when the ceiling fell in, and crushed everything beneath it; the house was violently shaken by an earthquake, and suffered much damage. This event forced Pius to seek hospitality at the Monastery of Chartreuse, in Florence, where he arrived on the 2d of June. Here some tender consolations awaited him. The Grand Duke of Tuscany came frequently to the feet of his venerated pastor, to assure him of his loyal attachment. The King and Queen of Sardinia also gathered round him, driven from Rome, where they had been so lovingly welcomed on being robbed of the throne which the saintly sister of Louis XVI. had adorned so nobly. Her husband had ever been a devoted son of the Holy Father, and now declared that the sight of his serenity in the midst of trials so overwhelming was enough to make him forget his own sorrows.

“I cannot regret my throne, for I find more than it gave me at the feet of your Holiness!” he once exclaimed.

“Alas! beloved prince,” replied Pius, “all is vanity here below. What examples of this are we both! Let us look up to heaven; there await us those thrones that can never perish.” They entreated him to go with them to Sardinia the moment it was possible for themselves to return there; but Pius refused. He alleged his age and suffering health as a reason for remaining where he was; but the true motive was the fear that his presence in the generous king’s dominions might prove fatal to him and his people. They parted with many tears, never to meet again on earth.

All this time the captive pope devoted his whole mind to the government of the church and the strengthening of his afflicted children. He lost no opportunity of sending messages of encouragement to those who were at a distance, exhorting them to suffer cheerfully, pointing to the day of joy and of triumph that would soon dawn after the short night of darkness. His own serenity was a fountain of hope and sweetness to all who beheld it. Like the great apostle, he seemed in deed and in truth to glory in his infirmities and in Christ crucified.

A multitude of proscribed priests and prelates had fled to England, whence they wrote eloquent letters of condolence to their captive chief, protesting their allegiance to him and to the faith, and their readiness to die for both, if needful. These proofs of devout affection deeply moved the Holy Father, and consoled him for much. The Directory began at last to feel alarmed at the attitude of foreign cabinets towards the Holy See. England spoke in fearless condemnation of the cruelty of the French government towards Pius, and made no disguise of her sympathy with the exiled priests and royalists. France commanded the Grand Duke of Tuscany to drive the pontiff out of his states; but that prince replied with royal dignity: “I did not bring the pope here, and I certainly will not drive him away.” The grand duke paid for his boldness; his dominions were forthwith invaded, and Etruria added to the French territory. Austria was next appealed to, and requested to receive the pope into custody, a convent on the Danube being named as a suitable abode; but Austria haughtily declined. Spain lastly refused to become his jailer.

Nothing, therefore, remained but to secure his person by bringing him to France. Humanity cried out against the barbarity of subjecting the venerable old man to so long and painful a journey in his present state; but France had no ears for the voice of humanity. Pius VI. was now partially paralyzed; he was covered with blisters, and unable to move without labor and acute pain. But what of that? He was dragged to Parma, where a few days’ rest was granted. The medical men even then declared they would not take the responsibility of proceeding with their prisoner, lest he should die on the road. The French commissioner, impatient of so paltry an obstacle in the way of his orders, burst into the pope’s room, flung down the bed‐clothes, and, seeing with his own eyes the truth of the report, turned on his heel with the remark, “Alive or dead, he must go on!”

The cortège started accordingly. All along the road the gentle martyr was cheered by the love and pity of the people. Multitudes ran for miles by the side of his carriage, bareheaded, weeping, and invoking the blessing of the Most High upon him. Pius was moved to tears at the sight of their courage in thus openly compassionating him, and with his suffering hand, almost disabled as it was, he made an effort to bless them again and again from the window.

On the 24th they reached Milan. The escort, in order to hide his presence from the people, and prevent similar scenes of enthusiasm and indignation, conveyed their prisoner into the citadel at three o’clock in the morning. On the 26th they hurried him out of his sleep in the dead of the night, and conveyed him secretly to Oulx, and the next morning they started to cross the Alps. Who shall describe the sufferings of Pius VI. during that transit? His body was now one wound; his feeble strength was almost spent; he seemed scarcely more than a breathing corpse. They placed him roughly in a sort of sedan‐chair, while the rest of the escort followed on mules. The road over the mountains was precipitous and stony; every step was agony to the suffering pontiff. The cold was intense. Some Piedmontese officers, touched with compassion, took off their warm pelisses, and begged him to use them; the Holy Father thanked them with emotion, but refused. “I do not suffer,” said he gently, “and I have nothing to fear; the hand of God is upholding me. Courage, my friends! Let us put our confidence in God, and all will be well with us.”

On the 30th the wayfarers reached Briançon. Pius was visibly moved on beholding the soil of France, that unhappy land where such fearful crimes were being perpetrated, but where God was already preparing miracles of repentance. He was taken to the hospital for a lodging. The people, horrified at the wretched, attenuated aspect of the Vicar of Christ, a prisoner in the hands of the men who had deluged their country in blood, were loud in expressing their pity and respect; they flocked in crowds round the hospital, calling out for the Holy Father to appear at the window and bless them. But the jailers forbade him to show himself, and forced the people to disperse. The few companions of his exile who had accompanied him so far were now taken from him, his confessor and valet being alone permitted to remain. This cruel isolation lasted for nearly a month, and would no doubt have been continued still longer if the progress of Soovorof’s army in Italy had not frightened the Directory, and decided them to send their prisoner further on to Grenoble, where he was rejoined by his faithful attendants. Watched and humiliated as he was, his journey hither was one long ovation in every village and town through which he passed. The people would not be beaten off, but flocked in thousands to greet him, falling on their knees round the carriage, rending the air with their cries, and calling down vengeance on those who persecuted Jesus Christ in the person of his vicar. The women everywhere were foremost in testifying their devotion to the Holy Father. They disguised themselves as peasants, as servants, or venders, and bribed the guards to admit them to his presence, where ladies of the highest rank were proud to perform any menial service for him.

At Grenoble a hundred young girls dressed in white came forth to meet him, singing canticles and strewing flowers in his path. Pius VI. smiled lovingly on them, and blessed them with tears in his eyes. Precautions were useless; no threats could restrain the hearts of the pastor’s children, and this sorrowful journey, in spite of its cruelties, resembled the triumphal march of a king amidst his people. They reached Valence on the 14th of July. The pope was lodged in the citadel. Close by, imprisoned in a Benedictine convent, were thirty‐two priests who had shared his hospitality in Rome, and been compelled to leave it when he had been taken away. They entreated on their knees to be allowed to go and ask his blessing; but the prayer was denied, and the Holy Father was strictly forbidden to go beyond the garden‐gate, which was guarded day and night, lest by showing himself he should excite disturbance amongst the people. All prohibitions were alike to Pius now, for he felt that the goal was at hand, and the journey would soon be ended. He was suffering terribly, and knew that the hand of death was upon him. Sweet came the summons to the pilgrim pontiff. “All journeys end in welcomes to the weary.” Pius had trod the stony path, cross‐laden like his Master, crowned, like him, with the thorny diadem of sacrifice and love, and now the promised land was in sight, and angel songs were breaking on the pilgrim’s ear: “Come, thou who hast suffered persecution for my sake; come and reign with me in my kingdom.”

For some days the Holy Father remained altogether absorbed in prayer, as if unconscious of everything around him. Often in the midst of his prayer he would break out into expressions of pardon towards his enemies, or pity for the sufferings of his children. “What are the sufferings of my body compared to what my heart endures for them?” he once exclaimed. “My cardinals, my bishops, scattered and persecuted, ... Rome, ... my people, ... the church, ... O my Saviour! in what a state am I forced to leave them all.”

The symptoms of final dissolution now rapidly increased, and the pains he endured were so terrible as to bring on long fainting fits.

On the 28th of August Pius asked for the last rites of the church. He insisted, in spite of the agonies he was suffering, on being dressed in full pontificals, and placed in a chair, so as to receive the Holy Viaticum with the greatest possible reverence. His supreme devotion all through life had been to the Blessed Sacrament. His desire was complied with, and then, placing one hand upon his breast, and the other on the Holy Gospels, he made with great solemnity his dying confession of faith according to the pontifical formula. He then repeated several times, in the most impressive tones, his free forgiveness of his enemies, invoking the mercy and pardon of God upon them; he prayed earnestly also for the conversion of France; this done, he received the Bread of Angels.

On the 29th, the following day, Extreme Unction was administered by the Archbishop of Corinth. The Holy Father seemed to rally slightly after this, and was able to turn his attention a little to temporal affairs. At midnight the palpitations of his heart and other symptoms gave warning that the end had come. The faithful little band of friends and fellow‐ captives gathered round their dying pastor, and kissed the hand that could no longer lift itself to bless them. The Archbishop of Corinth gave the papal absolution, which the Holy Father received with deep humility and fervor, and, after a faint effort to give a last blessing to those who were kneeling in tears at his feet, he breathed his last with the words of the benediction half finished on his lips. It was an hour after midnight on the 29th of August, 1799. Pius VI. was in his eighty‐second year, and had governed the church for twenty‐four years, six months, and fourteen days.

A cry of anguish and of exultation rang through Christendom when the news of his death went forth. The faithful mourned their shepherd, the brave pastor who had loved them and defended them even to death; the wicked rejoiced and clapped hands, exclaiming, “Now we have done with him! This old man is the last of the popes! He has died in a foreign land, hunted like a dog, without honors or followers. His court and his hierarchy are dispersed; we have done with Rome and Roman popes!” Short‐sighted fools, that knew not how to distinguish between defeat and victory, because they could not read the mystic scroll which the hand of God has traced above the cross: “In this sign thou shalt conquer!”

The remains of the venerable old man were exposed for several days; the crowds were so great, both day and night, that it was found impossible to remove them at once, as had been intended. The people proclaimed the martyr‐pope a saint, and flocked round the bier to gaze upon those worn and emaciated features where the majestic peace of death now sat like a golden shadow. For miles around Valence multitudes flowed in to see him, to touch the bier, to throw flowers upon it, and bear them away again as sacred relics. The authorities of the place did not even try to prevent these public demonstrations of respect and enthusiasm. The Directory thought fit to be silent regarding them, and even issued orders that the pope should be laid out with the state becoming a sovereign. Thus the victim who had been denied the commonest mercies of humanity when he was on his death‐bed was surrounded in his coffin with the pomp and paraphernalia of royalty.

The body was finally placed in the citadel of Valence, where it remained until Bonaparte, on being raised to the consulate, had it removed under a bombastic decree setting forth “the magnanimity of the _grande nation_ to a good but weak old man who had for a while been the enemy of France, owing to perfidious advisers, etc.” This grandiloquent proclamation ended in the remains of the first sovereign in Christendom being transported to the common burial‐ground, where the charity of a Protestant courageously raised a small stone chapel over his grave. A few years later (1801) the body was brought back to Rome, and placed in the fitting shrine of a martyred pope—the Basilica of S. Peter. So does the King of Heaven overturn the designs of earthly kings, making sport of their power, and confounding their vain rebellion.

“Elias smote the waters of Jordan with his mantle, and with Eliseus passed over on dry ground.... And Eliseus said unto him: I pray thee let a double portion of thy spirit be upon me.”

And as the friends went on, behold a chariot of fire and horses of fire came and parted them both asunder, and Elias went up to heaven, and Eliseus saw him no more; but he took up the mantle of the prophet that had fallen from him, and went back and stood by the banks of the Jordan, and smote the waters with the mantle, and they parted, and he went over as before.

And who are these that we behold like a cloud travelling towards us from the West? Lo! they come, a grand procession, cleaving the waters, singing glad songs, and bearing in their hands gifts of gold and frankincense. Welcome, ye goodly company of pilgrims, who “have feared neither distance nor danger” to come from the furthest ends of the earth to lay the tribute of your love at the feet of Peter. Thrice welcome! ye sons and daughters of America, who have come to clasp hands with your brethren of the Old World, and to receive the loving embrace of our common father. May ye be blessed ten thousand‐fold for the joy your love has brought to his suffering heart!

One venerable figure shines forth amidst the band; the wisdom of nigh fourscore years is on her brow, the peace of a long life spent in the service of her Lord. She gazes on the wonders of the Holy City, on its glorious shrines, its stately temples, its monasteries and convents, its brave army of priests and monks and nuns, and, filled with holy envy at the sight, her fervent spirit exclaims: “Oh! if we could but carry this away with us. If we had these riches in America!”

“Nay, lady, grudge us not our treasure! Pray rather that this likewise may not be taken from us, and give thanks to God for the great things that are being accomplished in your own wonderful land. There the faith is like the sun at daybreak, scarcely yet above the horizon, but already powerful and splendid. What has become of that sun amongst us? Oh! I will not utter it.... Verily, there is One who will blow with his breath, and the cloud shall be scattered. Let us pray only that the day be hastened.”(166)

The mystic mantle which Christ first laid upon his apostle has descended through the ages, through evil times and persecutions, to the prophet of our own days, untorn, unstained, a garment of immortality and strength. Now, as then, it bears him in safety through the flood; now, as then, does he “throw salt upon the waters,” and cure them, so that all those who come and drink thereof have life and salvation. For God changes not, nor can those who love him and love one another in his love perish, nor their hope be confounded.

Assunta Howard.

I. Juxta Crucem.

The full moon was pouring a flood of light upon the marble pavement of S. Peter’s, and, by its weird influence, increased to an almost startling immensity the vastness of that mighty work of art, worthy offspring and expression of the faith which has subdued the world. The soft radiance in the nave seemed to throw into deeper gloom and an almost immeasurable space the ever‐burning lamps which, like fixed stars, surround the central point of Christendom—the tomb of the great apostle, to whom was first given the power of the keys. No one could remain unmoved in such an awe‐ inspiring scene; certainly not two, at least, of the three persons who alone stood within the church, silently receiving impressions which come but seldom in a life‐time. And yet, as the same sunbeam, falling upon different objects, will produce different colors, so on these three minds the impressions were stamped according to their preparation to receive them. To the man, in whom the moonlight, bathing him in brightness, revealed the appearance of gentle birth and refined culture, it was merely the human, the miracle of art, the power of man to design and execute; while the pure soul of the fair young girl at his side was struggling through the human up to the divine. The patient old sacristan standing apart, keys in hand, had dwelt for years in the midst of material and spiritual greatness with a faith so simple that he never dreamed it was sublime.

“How grand!” at length exclaimed Mr. Carlisle. “What a power there is in architecture; and how well those master‐minds understood and used this power for the elevation of man!”

“Yes,” replied his young companion; “and it seems to me that in church architecture every detail should be symbolic, and the whole should convey to the soul the impression of some one of God’s attributes. S. Peter’s is so truly the home of the Christian world, and draws the heart so lovingly to itself, that it always seems to express the paternity of God. But to‐ night there is more than this. It speaks to my very soul of the Father, but ‘the Father of an Infinite Majesty.’ ”

Mr. Carlisle smiled. “Another of your pretty fancies, Assunta. One would hardly expect to find such grave thoughts beneath this shining hair, which the alchemy of the moonlight is fast turning into gold.”

The usual ready answer did not come; for any light conversation was out of harmony with the emotion inspired by such surroundings. Besides, the young girl was struggling with herself and against herself in a contest little suspected by her companion. The wonderful influence of the time and place had brought near the moment of defeat or victory. It is sometimes the way of God with the soul to prepare it gradually for some struggle, and then suddenly and unexpectedly to bring it face to face with the trial, and to permit its whole future to hang upon the decision of a moment. Thank God! to the faithful soul the strength is never wanting. It was such a crisis as this which clouded the bright face and darkened with doubt the mind of one in whom youth and innocence would seem to preclude the possibility of mental conflict.

It was but a few days since she had become convinced that the guardian who had been to her both friend and father had come to feel for her a love which indeed might include that of father and friend, as the greater includes the less, but which was something more than either. And with the consciousness there came a strange yearning of her heart to go forth and meet his heart with an equal love, to trust herself to the protecting care she knew so well, to yield to the happiness which promised to gild her life with a radiance too dazzling to be all of earth. But there arose a barrier between them, and hence the struggle.

Strange how we play the devil’s advocate against our conscience! Must she respect that barrier? What if he were almost an infidel; would it not be her sweet mission to take heaven by violence, if need be, and by her importunate prayers obtain for him the light of faith? Dangerous sophistry! And yet on this quicksand how many women wreck themselves, instead of steering the bark freighted with the loved soul into the calm waters of truth!

They two, the guardian and his ward, had entered the church while yet the setting sun was irradiating column and statue with a glowing splendor; and they had continued to walk slowly and almost in silence up and down the long nave until the light had faded and darkness had succeeded the short twilight.

They were about to leave the calm influence and the majesty of repose which this vast temple of God ever inspires, when suddenly the moon, rising to a level with the window above the porch, poured its magic‐ working beams upon the pavement. They paused, and, turning to the sacristan, who was about to close the doors for the night, begged a few moments’ delay, which he, with unusual cordiality, granted.

And what were the busy thoughts which induced so prolonged a silence during that hour’s walk, until the gathering darkness and then the rising moon warned them how the time was passing, of which they had taken so little note? Suffice it to say that the mind of each was filled with the other. With Assunta Howard, the new sentiments kindled in her heart had conjured up the memory of a scene which, associated with her first sorrow, was a living picture to her imagination. Again, as if it were but yesterday, she, a little child, entered the room of her dying mother, and saw her lying pale and beautiful upon her bed, her crucifix in her hand, and beside her the little table covered with white linen, upon which were the exquisite flowers and the still burning candles placed there in honor of her divine Lord, whom she had just received as the Viaticum of her journey home. The little Assunta thought how much her mamma looked like the beautiful S. Catherine, borne in the arms of the lovely angels, which hung above her own bed; and she wondered if the angels would come before she had time to kiss her mother once again. It was almost with a feeling of awe that she whispered in the ear of the good priest who raised her in his arms, “Is mamma a saint now?”

“My precious child,” said the mother, strengthened for this bitter parting by the divine Guest who was reposing in her heart, “mamma must leave her little Assunta, her good little girl. But before long I hope that I shall be with the dear Jesus and his sweet Mother, whom you love so much. So you will be glad for mamma, and always remember how much she loves you. I am not very strong, my darling, but put your arms around my neck, and your curly head close to mine, while I say something to you. You will not understand me now, my poor child, but I know that you will try and remember all, and one of these days you will know what I mean. My darling, when you are grown up to be as tall as mamma, some one will perhaps find a way into that loving little heart. My little daughter, if divine love claims it, and our dear Lord wishes you to be all his own, do not hesitate, but gladly give your life as a sweet offering to him who has chosen you. Give him your whole heart without a fear. But if it is a human love which seeks to make my treasure all its own, think long and well and prayerfully, my child, before you give your heart into its keeping. And, O Assunta! remember, never marry one who does not cherish your faith as you do; who cannot kneel with you before the altar, and love you _in God_, even as you do him. I do not ask you to promise me this, for I feel that it would not be right to bind you by a promise which you cannot understand. Yet it is your dying mother’s wish. But I must kiss the wondering expression away from those dear eyes. One of these days dear F. Joseph will remind you of my request when you are old enough to understand—will you not, father? But my little girl can remember that she is to be poor papa’s dear comfort, and never forget the little prayer for him every day, that God will give to him—tell me what you ask for papa, my darling?”

The little Assunta answered through her sobs: “I want papa to love my blessed Mother Mary, and I ask God to make him. And, mamma, you said I must say faith; but I don’t know what that means, except when I say it in the catechism, and so I ask God to make him as good as mamma is, and a saint just like S. Joseph in my picture; and I think he will, mamma, because you know he heard me once when I asked him to let me go to school to Sister Rose.”

The mother smiled, as she replied:

“How earnestly I hope so, my daughter! And papa has promised me to leave you with the good Sisters for a long time; so you must please him by being his good, obedient child. And now, my dear, precious little girl, kiss me—once again, my darling. I am very tired, and must rest. Perhaps, when I wake up, I shall see, instead of my darling’s golden curls, the golden gates of the celestial city. When I am gone, Assunta, child of Mary, say every day: ‘Dear Jesus, take mamma home soon.’ Now call papa.”

The priest, who had stood by in silence, came forward and lifted the poor bewildered child down from the bed. He saw that the strength which had until now supported the mother in this time of trial was quite exhausted. She uttered aloud the words, “Thy will, not mine”—words which, since that night beneath the olives in Gethsemane, express both the bitterness of the chalice and the ministry of the angel—then her eyes closed; and though for a short time consciousness remained, they never opened until the resplendent majesty of the glorious humanity of her divine Lord burst upon her soul’s vision.

As the child turned away to obey her mother’s request, the priest began to repeat the _Proficiscere, anima Christiana_, with which the church so lovingly speeds her children on their last journey; and for the first time she realized that her mother was indeed going from her. She crept softly from the room, only to rush away to her own little chamber, where, kneeling before the picture of S. Catherine, evermore associated with that great, first sorrow, she poured out the grief of her loving, childish heart in sobs and tears.

And it was this scene which was again before the mental eye of the young girl as she stood there in the moonlight, herself so fair a picture. Her sainted mother, with her look of heavenly repose, and the angel‐borne S. Catherine, blended themselves into one image in her mind, while the Holy Spirit was guiding her innocent soul. Suddenly an impulse seized her; perhaps it was what mystic writers call an inspiration. Turning to her guardian, whose eyes had for some time been wonderingly fixed upon her, she hastily exclaimed: “One moment, my friend,” and then walked quickly towards the chapel, where hung the lamp which told of the divine Presence upon the altar.

Mr. Carlisle was quite accustomed to what he was pleased to call her “pretty, graceful piety,” and so, without surprise, he turned to exchange a few words with the patient sacristan, while, on her knees before her Lord, Assunta fought and conquered in the first real battle of her life. She realized fully now the love which seemed to offer her such human happiness, and she knew what it would cost her to refuse it. But then came the remembrance of her mother’s dying words—“Unless he can love you _in God_”—and her heroic soul gathered up its strength for the consummation of the act of sacrifice. With one appealing, heart‐breaking prayer for help, she bowed her head, and made to God the promise which her mother had not required from the child. And those alone who know what it is to offer up the crown and joy of life in sacrifice can understand the peace and rest which came to her troubled heart, even through the vision of a life robbed of its brightness.

Absorbed as she was, she had forgotten the world outside and its distracting claims until her guardian stood beside her.

“_Petite_,” he whispered, “in thy orisons be all my sins remembered. But since the list is somewhat long, I think you must not wait to recall them now. Your one moment has lengthened into fifteen by my watch, and I have exhausted my powers of eloquence in my endeavors to charm that good old man into forgetfulness of the flight of time. Can you not leave heaven for earth and us poor mortals? There are so many angels up in heaven, they can afford to spare us our only one.”

Rising hastily, Assunta exclaimed: “I have been very thoughtless, and you, as always, kind and patient. We will go at once.”

Her gentle apologies to the old sacristan added value to the gift she slipped into his hand; and as he closed and locked the door behind them, he muttered to himself:

“She is a saint anyhow, if she is an American.”

As they passed down the steps towards the carriage, Mr. Carlisle suddenly stopped, exclaiming: “Why, child, what is the matter? You have the real martyr‐look on your face. I read there, as in a book, that combination of suffering and triumph which we see in pictures, representing those times when men were not so chivalrous as now, and inflicted persecutions on account of a devotion which is so natural to your sex, and which,” he added, laughing, “is so particularly becoming where the woman is young and pretty. But,” he said uneasily, “I cannot see that expression in the face of my _petite_. Sunshine is her element; and the cloud which should cast a shadow upon her life would burst forth in thunder over mine. But what is it? Has the moonlight enchanted you?”

“No, dear friend,” replied Assunta, endeavoring to speak gayly. “Enough that you grant me the triumph. The laurel wreath is a woman’s ambition. You need not bestow the martyr’s palm until it is deserved. And now let us go home.”

“Indeed, that is the one thing in this world which I do not intend to do, at least at present. Thanks to my good sister’s well‐timed headache, we have a rare opportunity to follow out our own sweet will in the most unconventional manner. There is no respect for the world and the propriety Clara preaches left in me to‐night. I, for one, shall take advantage of the absence of that inconvenient third party and her friend Mrs. Grundy to drive to the Colosseum. If you decline to accompany me, I will just remind you that the walk home is somewhat long and the hour somewhat late.” Saying which, he gave his order to the coachman, and took his seat beside Assunta in the barouche. After a short silence, he continued:

“The cat‐is‐away sensation takes me back to my school‐boy days. Though I confess dear Clara to be the very best of the tabby race, still she does show her claws sometimes when I propose an escapade that shocks her sense of what is becoming at the advanced age of thirty‐five. To see the Colosseum to‐night is not to be resisted. There is no dampness whatever in the air, and the moon has risen just high enough to make the shadows perfect.”

“I think,” said Assunta, “that it must be a very guilty conscience that needs so many words in its justification. I, for my part, am so strong in innocence that I will meet Clara on my return with an unblushing brow—to speak poetically—as far as the Colosseum is concerned. The evening is certainly lovely enough to reduce even your friend Mrs. Grundy to a spirit of meek acquiescence. ‘How beautiful is night!’ Do you remember the first lines of _Thalaba_? It must have been just such a moon as this that suggested the opening of that remarkable poem.”