Chapter II: “ay De Mi, Alhama!” (4)

The evening of the day before yesterday was a beautiful triumph: the festival of Joan of Arc had begun. All day long the belfry resounded; a touching and patriotic as well as Christian idea seemed, as it were, to call back the past to life; and in the evening a large crowd followed in the torch-light procession, which was beautiful to see from the memories which are attached to it. With more than four centuries between, these souvenirs are still living with an imperishable life. O pure and fair Joan of Arc! my chosen heroine, how I love the fidelity of Orleans to thy dear memory! Scarcely had the cortège reached the cathedral when … but let me transcribe for you the description of these splendors by a more skilful hand than mine—by the pencil of an artist, and an artist of genius. This is what was spoken by Mgr. Mermillod, on the 8th of May, 1863: “Yesterday evening, gentlemen, under the vaulted roof of your basilica, I followed your priests and your pontiff, who were proceeding towards the portico. The interior of your church was in silence and obscurity; one little light alone was gleaming before the tabernacle, announcing the Master’s presence. When I reached the threshold, tears filled my eyes, while my heart beat with an indescribable emotion. I had before me, in an incomparable scene, a vision of your history, of your heroic splendors, of your providential destinies. You, gentlemen, were there, ranged in this place; your children, your wives, your aged men, the great ones and the lowly ones of your city, were present at this solemn assembly. Suddenly the clarions sound, bands of inspiriting music fill the air, drums beat, the artillery thunders, the bells fling into space their triumphant clangor, and the choir of Levites raises on high the hymn of victory. The standard of Joan of Arc is advancing, borne by the magistrates of the city, hailed by all the united voices of the army and the church. Is not this the most eloquent address, the most moving panegyric, the living incarnation of an undying remembrance?… Your cathedral becomes radiant; these grand, sculptured masses light up with sparkling brightness, pennons, armorial bearings, and banners glitter like stars. Your bishop descends the steps, the first magistrate advances, and each gives the other the kiss of peace: I there beheld an apparition of religion and our country.

“The pontiff invokes the name of the Lord, the multitude answers; soldiers, priests, and people bend the knee; the benediction falls upon these souls.… My gaze mounted from earth towards heaven, and it seemed as if I could perceive above the towers of your basilica forms more luminous than earthly fires, the ancient witnesses and workers of the greatness of your France—Ste. Geneviève, Ste. Clotilde, St. Rémy, St. Michael, Ste. Catherine, Ste. Margaret, Joan of Arc; your own saints, St. Aignan and St. Euvertus, blessing you by the hand of their worthy successor. Clergy and people intoned the psalm of thanksgiving: ‘Praise the Lord, ye peoples: praise him, O ye nations! for God hath remembered his goodness; he hath confirmed his loving-kindness towards us. The truth of the Lord endureth for ever. Praise the Lord.’

“I seemed to hear the stones of your cathedral, the ramparts of your city, your own souls, the saints of heaven, the past, the present, all your centuries, unite in one immense acclamation, and repeat the song of gladness: ‘Glory to the Father, who is strength; glory to the Son, who is sacrifice; glory to the Holy Spirit, who is light; glory to God, who made worlds for himself, the church for eternity; France for the church, and Joan of Arc for France!’”

Dear Kate, what can I say to you after this? Who would venture to speak after Mgr. Mermillod, “write after Châteaubriand, or paint after Raphael”? Yesterday the town was rejoicing; it was the anniversary of the deliverance. Was present at the panegyric by M. l’Abbé Freppel, professor of sacred eloquence at the Sorbonne. He asks for the canonization of Joan of Arc. His text was a sentence out of the Book of the Machabees. Divisions: 1. The life of Joan of Arc was marked by all the virtues which characterize sanctity. 2. She uttered prophecies and performed miracles. It was very fine and elevated. There was an imposing assemblage. At half-past twelve we went out and hurried to the hotel to see the procession pass by. What a _cortège_! All the parishes, each headed by its banner; the court, the authorities, the troops, the corporations, and I know not what. It was indeed a day of excitement. Dearest Kate, in the midst of this _encombrement_[178] I thought of you. Our drawing-rooms were overflowing with people; from time to time I went noiselessly away to Hélène, whom a headache excused from appearing, and we spoke of God and the sweetness of his service. I am so fond of these conversations. In the evening, Month of Mary: I would not dispense myself from this for anything in the world.

I am going to read _Sainte Cécile_, by Dom Guéranger. Letter from Lizzy, who announces a most joyful piece of news: all the M——s are abjuring Protestantism. “Make haste and sing the hymn of St. Ambrose and St. Augustine; Ellen consents to say the _Lætatus_; it is Mary who has obtained this miracle.” When I told you, dear Kate, that one ought to sing alleluia over her tomb, it was truly a prophetic saying. What consolation for Fanny and her mother!

I am sending to the post; I wish not to delay your happiness.

MAY 11.

To write to my Kate is the condition _sine quâ non_ of my existence. A beautiful sermon yesterday by M. Baunard, a young and eloquent curate of _Sainte Croix_, on visits and conversations, “in which the Christian ought always to have three charming companions—Charity, Humility, and Piety.” Went to the museum with René and Adrien, the most learned and agreeable of _ciceroni_. I was captivated by the hall of zoölogy, and that of botany also.

To-morrow Hélène will have with her mother the conversation which I dread. René proposed to his niece to select this day, which will recall to Gertrude (Mme. Adrien) a remarkable favor due to the protection of Our Lady of Deliverance. Pray for all these hearts which are about to suffer, dear Kate. We set out for Paris on the 1st of June; my mother has taken an entire house there. We are going to breathe the burning atmosphere of the capital, as Paul says, wiping his forehead; and your Georgina adds: We are going to see Kate. All the beauties of the much-vaunted Exposition would affect me little if you were not in Paris, dear sister of my soul. What gladness to embrace you, to speak to you! This paper irritates me; it answers me nothing. It is _you, you_ that I need; I thirst for your presence. And then a new separation, a new rending away—you will take the veil, and be no more of this world. Kate, I want not to think of it.

Could you to-morrow have several Masses said at _Notre Dame des Victoires_? Hélène begs that you will; there she is, near my bureau, leaning her pretty, pensive head against an arm-chair. Ah! we understand each other so well; I love her so much, and am scarcely older than she is. I was mistaken as to her age; she is not yet eighteen, and was like a sister given me by God to console me for having my Kate no longer; and she also is now to go away.

May all the angels of Paradise be with you, and may they be to-morrow with Hélène!

MAY 13.

Thanks, dear Kate! The heavenly spirits were almost visible in our home during the eventful day. Adrien and Gertrude received, with a profound faith, the confidences of Hélène, and I know not whether to admire most the heroism of the parents or that of the young virgin. Her father’s grief is inexpressible; he had formed the brightest projects for the future of his daughter. She was his especial darling; … but he is a Christian of the ancient days, and says with Job: “The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away …” Gertrude is like Mary at the foot of the cross, mute and immovable, with death in the heart, and yet happy at the divine choice. Adrien undertakes to prepare his mother; … it is for _her_ that I fear most.

“This is my Calvary,” said Hélène to me this morning. “To see them suffer through me! And I cannot hesitate!…” I have read _Sainte Cécile_, and I made Gertrude read it, who thanked me with a smile that went to my heart. René is afflicted. “This,” he says, “is the first bird that leaves the nest, to reenter it no more. There will be from this time a great void in our _réunions_, a source of distress to my brother—a subject we shall fear to touch upon. Georgina, you were saying that we had not a single shadow in our sky!” Alas! I feel only too keenly how painful it is, but also how happy Hélène will be! Thanks for having made me understand this, dear Kate. Gertrude, the wounded eagle, takes refuge with me to speak about her daughter.

Good-by for a short time, _carissima sorella_.

MAY 15.

A splendid benediction yesterday, on account of the Perpetual Adoration. The sanctuary was enkindled with light. Behind the altar, _a cathedral_ of lighted tapers—yes, dear, the towers of _Sainte Croix_ in miniature; all around it pyramids of lights, clusters of flowers with long, luminous stems, lustres hanging at an infinite height, the arches and smaller arcades, etc., illuminated. An _O Salutaris_ and a _Regina Cœli_ were sung that seemed to carry one away. I stood on the earth, but my heart was in heaven; and near to me René, absorbed in God, brothers and sisters, Hélène, Thérèse, Madeleine, and _grandmother_, who was in tears.… How touched I was! Adrien had spoken.… It was a thunder-clap! And the choir chanted the glories of the King of Virgins, and all those beloved countenances beamed with fervor, as we bent our heads beneath the benediction of the Almighty!…

This morning Mme. de T—— asked for Hélène. Their conversation lasted two hours. After _déjeuner_[179] my mother said, smiling: “It is decided we have a Carmelite!” The children opened their eyes in wonder. Lucie began to sob; Picciola, pale and trembling, kissed the happy Hélène a hundred and a hundred times over. The sacrifice is, as it were, accomplished.

Johanna, the dear Creole, is astonished at the promptitude of this decision. The babies will no more be persuaded to leave the side of the tall cousin “who did not know that she was so much loved,” she says. This morning she received a long, beautiful letter from an intimate friend inviting her to a marriage. It is impossible to refuse; this will be the last worldly festivity at which that sweet face, made to delight the angels, will be seen. The word _marriage_ made Mme. de T—— start, and she afterwards said to me: “I had planned a brilliant earthly alliance for Hélène; how much there is of _human_ and _material_ within us that I should still regret it when a divine alliance is secured to her! Here, Georgina, read me again the chapter on abandonment to God.” I read, and, seeing her meditative afterwards, I opened a book of Ozanam which Lucy lent me. I will give you the Christian theory of marriage from this great mind, who too soon disappeared from a world that wondered at his works: “In marriage there is more than a contract; above all, there is a sacrifice, or rather two sacrifices: the woman sacrifices that which God has given her of irreparable, that which causes the solicitude of her mother—her first beauty, often her health, and that power of loving which women only once possess; the man on his part sacrifices the liberty of his youth, the incomparable years which will return no more, the power of devoting himself for her whom he loves which is only to be found at the beginning of his life, and the effort of a first love to make himself a lot both sweet and glorious. That is what a man can do but once, between the age of twenty and thirty years, a little sooner or a little later, perhaps never! Therefore is it that I speak of Christian marriage as a double sacrifice. There are two cups: in one is found beauty, modesty, and innocence; in the other, love intact, devotedness, the immortal consecration of the man to her who is weaker than himself, whom yesterday he knew not, and with whom to-day he finds himself happy to spend his days; and it is needful that these cups should be equally full if the union is to be happy and deserving of the blessing of Heaven.” Is not this an admirable page? While reading it I thought of Albert and Alexandrine, those two immortal types of Christian marriage. What a life was theirs, what happiness, so short but perfect, and which made the poor widow say, “I have memories of happiness which seem to me as if they could not be surpassed”!

Good-night, dearest Kate!

MAY 20.

The house is transformed into a convent, dear Kate; so, at least, Arthur declares, finding in this fact an excellent reason for Hélène’s being detained in it. Since her departure has been seriously thought of, every one is wanting to have the enjoyment of her company, and she is literally torn away first by one and then by another; and if you could see her lending herself with her bright smile to all the exactions of this affection, tyrannical as it has become!

We took a long excursion yesterday into the open country, among the wheat; the rustling of the ears of corn, the charm of the sunny solitude, the verdure with its soft lights and shadows, all the renewal of the spring, the beauty of the landscape, which showed in the far distance the fine towers of the cathedral—all this smiled upon us; and yet sadly, like an adieu, we shall return, we shall look again next year upon this same picture, but without Hélène.… Why is she so engaging, so sympathetic?

Letter from Margaret, who will be at Paris in June. What joy, dear Kate! It seems to me that our friend is more tranquil; she describes like a poet her enthusiasm for Italy and for the Pope. At Florence she met with our poor mistress Annah, who had some trouble to recognize in this brilliant lady the pale little girl of former times. Annah is giving English lessons. Lord William, seeing Margaret’s affectionate demonstrations, proposed to her to secure the independence of the aged mistress, which he has done, to the great satisfaction of the two persons interested. I like that, and am convinced that Margaret deceives herself.

Another happiness, darling Kate: here is your letter, in the joyful hands of Picciola, who recognizes your handwriting. Five days without saying a word to you! René sends you quite a volume. Love always your Georgina.

MAY 26.

Was present at the ordination. What an imposing ceremony! I had never seen one, and I followed all the details with the greatest interest. Sixty young men giving themselves to God, devoting themselves to a life of sacrifice! I prayed for and envied them: how much good will they not be able to do! What life is so full as that of a holy priest? That which most moved me was the moment when priests, deacons, and subdeacons fell prostrate; then the imposition of hands, the Mass said by all these voices, which must have trembled with emotion and with happiness, the kiss of peace, the communion, and, lastly, the _Te Deum_, that heavenly song. Oh! that all these souls to-day consecrated to the Lord may one day sing the _Sanctus_ and Hosanna before the throne of the Lamb.

On arriving yesterday at _Sainte Croix_ (the weather was splendid) I saw myriads of swallows joyously flying about and warbling among the towers. René began to hum, “Oh! that I had wings, to fly away to God.” You dear swallows who have made your nests on the roof of the temple of the Lord, in the bell-turrets, and among the towers; ye swallows, my sisters, as said the Seraph of Assisi, you who fly so high, have you seen heaven? You who in sweet warblings sing the praises of the Eternal, have you touched with your wing the portals of the celestial Eden? Sing, and cease not, O gentle swallows! who know not what it is to offend God.

Gertrude has confided to me that for some time past she had divined Hélène, and, as she treats me entirely as a sister, she has given me the journal to read which she wrote whilst her daughter was at the convent. Observe this passage: “My beloved girl is seventeen years old to-day; her father and I have duly observed this anniversary as a festival. Poor dear child! What will be thy will for her, my God? One of these pure creatures, seraphs left upon earth to sanctify it, whose life is spent beneath thy watchful eye, in the shade of the sanctuary? … O my God! Once I thought not that it would be possible for me to live far from her, no more to rest my gaze on her fresh countenance, so bright and open. Thou hadst, O Lord! united us so closely that it seemed as if my soul had passed into hers. Sweet angel, return to spread your white wings over the maternal nest! Oh! I fear lest you should be the first of all to leave it; but if you leave us for God, may you be blessed, my well-beloved!”

O ye mothers! who may sound the depths of your sorrows? Happy as mothers are in their enchanted life of love and innocence, yet they are also martyrs, and who knows whether the gall in their chalice does not absorb the honey?

Beloved, in a few days I shall embrace you.

MAY 29.

God be praised, who is about to bring us together again, dear sister of my soul! It is settled that we are to return on the 1st of July, once more to salute Orleans. Hélène will at this date enter the novitiate at ——. The town is beginning to lose its inhabitants. Hélène and I traverse it in all directions to have another look at its curiosities: the fine old houses richly and deeply sculptured, historic dwellings, which remain standing after their inmates have disappeared. We are shown the house of Joan of Arc, of Francis I., of Agnes Sorel, of Diana of Poitiers—names with very dissimilar associations. One more visit to Benoni, a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Miracles, a halt at my bookseller’s, and my preparations will be ended.

Wrote to Sister Louise. I like to return to her twice in the year, to pay her this tribute of the heart with my tenderest affection. What a fine nature—an ideal! A soul whom the world never touched who had no sooner finished her education than she gave herself to God, sacrificing even her last vacations. A nature so poetic, so rich and pure, that God reserved it for himself, and at the same time so charming and devoted that she spent herself wholly in affection upon those around her. Thus have I known and loved her, like an apparition from another world.

Good-by for the present, dear Kate. René, my so dear and gentle René, is more happy because of my happiness than I am myself—happiness moistened with tears, the tears of sacrifice. “What matters it where one weeps, or wherefore, since tears buy heaven?”

Hélène has given me a share of her heritage—a paralytic old woman whose succoring angel she has been. Every morning she went to the lowly room of the poor invalid, whom she dressed, and then with her patrician hands she made the bed, swept the room, and prepared the repast. After this she read to her out of some pious book, conversed with her a few minutes, and on leaving called a little girl of ten years old, who was charged to keep the poor woman company. I shall continue Hélène’s work.… In summer it is a neighbor who, for a slight remuneration, does all that is necessary; but Mariette, the _femme de chambre_, who is often employed to carry little comforts to the invalid, said to me with tears: “Nothing replaces mademoiselle, and the old woman says, ‘Summer is winter to me, for it takes away my sunshine!’” What praise, Kate, is it not? Can you not understand how Gertrude may well be proud of the treasure which is about to be taken from her? Cannot you understand also how much I sympathize with her?—for my heart is bleeding from the same wound. Be happy, beloved Kate; we shall meet again where there are no separations to be feared, in our true fatherland.

MAY 31.

Our departure is postponed; my mother being unwell, enough so to keep her bed, and the doctor does not yet know what to say about her. Pray for us, my sister. René fears inflammation of the lungs. Mme. de T——, who is very austere with herself, never complains until the last extremity.

O my sweet Mother in heaven! your beloved month is drawing to its close, and these lines are the last which I shall trace before the latest hours of May have fallen into eternity. Oh! I entreat you, you who are all-powerful with the Heart of your Divine Son, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, hear our prayers!

A thousand kisses, dear Kate.

JUNE 3.

A mucous fever has declared itself; the danger is imminent; we are scarcely alive. Never was mother more adored. She has been delirious; her wanderings were those of a saint. God, the angels, her dear ones, both living and dead, pass in turn before her mind; when she recovers her sense of the reality, she finds the most consoling and heavenly words wherewith to comfort us. Her room, now haunted by the shadow of death, is become our universe, and we fraternally share amongst us the sorrowful sweetness of attending upon this beloved sick one. All our poor are in prayer; two tapers are continually burning before the black Virgin. Thanks, beloved! I have read your letter to my mother, who said to me:

Dear Georgina, I am happy to possess the affection of your good sister. I feel myself in reality your mother.…” To tell you René’s distress would be impossible; as for me, I have in the depth of my heart an unconquerable confidence God will spare her to us!

JUNE 4.

She is as ill as she can be. René proposed to make a vow. Kneeling all together around this dying bed, with one voice and one heart we have promised to go to _Notre Dame de la Salette_. Now we wait.… Unite your vows to ours, we love her so much! Oh! if you could see her, so weakened, and with only a breath of life, and yet in possession of all her presence of mind, all her attentive solicitude, thinking of everything and everybody, pressing me to take a little rest! This scene reminds me of my mother, her peaceful death, whilst she commended us to the Father of orphans. Will not God spare her to us? One cannot lose a mother twice! Picciola has assembled all the babies for a perpetual Rosary.

Tears choke me; and yet I still have hope. She has received the Holy Viaticum, and Extreme Unction; it seems as if she were already in heaven.

JUNE 5.

Always the same hopeless state; extreme weakness, and no life left but in the look, which beams with love. We are all here, more silent than shadows, starting at the slightest sound. I did not know that I loved so strongly this mother worthy of my René. Yesterday evening, seeing me leaning over her bed, she made a supreme effort to say to me: “You will comfort him!” O my God, my God! can it be that mourning is about to darken our youth, and that this first year of marriage should contain so great a sorrow?

JUNE 7.

Nothing but a breath, … yet I hope still. Something tells me that she must live.

JUNE 9.

Yes, dearest, she will live; let us thank God. A reaction has taken place; it is now a resurrection. How happy I am! You would scarcely recognize René, so greatly is he altered; but he smiles now, recovering with our beloved sufferer. Your letter of yesterday brought balm to my heart; and an hour afterwards the good doctor assured us that all danger was over, though the recovery will be very gradual. And so this beautiful and glorious Feast of Pentecost finds us all radiant. My mother has insisted on sending us to the services, but the others could not refuse to let me remain. “Grandmother and Aunt Georgina are Ruth and Noemi,” observed Arthur. My mother heard him, and sighed at the thought of her dear ones dead; and now having cheered, comforted, and attended to her, I see that she has sunk into a quiet sleep, and so begin to write to you. My darling Kate, a _Te Deum_!

They are returned. I went to the door with my finger on my lips, and now I am alone again.… No, René is by me, light as a sylph, and together we watch the blessed slumber which will not be the last. Kate, I am going to pray with my _brother_, who invites me to do so, and at the same time sends his love to you.

JUNE 11.

What a new and delightful aspect everything has regained! We are now longing to accomplish our vow. Why are you not here, my sweet one, at my side, by this beloved invalid, who so touchingly thanks me for having made my sister love her? You recollect her handsome countenance, so admirable and harmonious in its lines and contours; it has become fearfully pale and thin, but what we were dreading was so terrible that we rejoice without troubling ourselves about anything. I am writing to you by the side of the reclining chair on which my mother is at this moment reposing; I do not leave her, but have made myself her shadow. René is gone to the flower-market; since the harbingers of summer have made their appearance my room has never been wanting in decorations and perfumes. Oh! this intimate life together, the quiet chats in the evenings, the reading, all this richness of youth and happiness—how fair is earth with all these things!

Picciola enters; my pretty fairy whispers in my ear that she would very much like to look at grandmamma asleep. She is now kneeling at her feet, saying her Rosary with the fervor of an angel.

A well-known step, although it makes itself aërial in order not to disturb this restoring sleep: it is René! He smiles and retires: he knows that I am writing to Kate. Dear sister of my soul, my better self, it is to your prayers that we are indebted for this cure! Lucy is anxious. The pretty baby is cutting his teeth; he cries and screams, so they are obliged to keep him at a distance from Mme. de T——‘s rooms; and Lucy is not fond of solitude.

Hélène is impatient to know you. How useful she has made herself to every one during these sad days! Kate, dearest, may God be our guard.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[173] “_Jusqu’à ce qu’ils aient la clé des champs_”—the
key of the fields.

[174] Sketch of Christian Rome.

[175] Courses of instruction on various subjects.

[176]
“An English cottage is her hermitage;
And if a wrinkle marks her pearly brow,
‘Tis not, believe me, that she thinks on death—
She’s too strong-minded to have fear of aught—
But that, from Paris, an expected dress
Crumpled arrives, and spoiled with grievous stains.”

[177] As for myself, abounding in the good things with which
opulence overflows, how willingly would I exchange this
gold which fortune disdainfully lavishes upon me for one
hour of the time when I had nothing in the world but my
vine and my fig-tree—for those divine dreams which sang
within my soul, and for which no gold can pay.”

[178] The obstructions or impediments attendant upon crowding
together.

[179] _Déjeuner_, late breakfast, is taken about eleven or
twelve o’clock. The early breakfast is simply a cup of
coffee or chocolate.

WAS MILES STANDISH A CATHOLIC?

In the quaint old town of Leyden, somewhere in the year 1619, an English soldier, who had seen service on the battle-fields of the Continent, came in contact with a little community of men of his own country, hard-working, unhappy people, who had left England to enjoy greater freedom in the practice of their religious ideas than they could expect at home. But if the people of the United Provinces harmonized with them in doctrinal standards and principles, their lives and practice were far from unison with the English refugees, and these last were planning a settlement beyond the Atlantic.

The soldier did not share their religious views. He did not join the church at Leyden or swell the number of the worshippers in the church of the Beguines, which, on the principle of religious liberty as they understood it, the Dutch had wrested from the Sisters to give to the strangers. But, how or why no one knows, the hot-tempered, good-hearted soldier contracted a strong friendship for Robinson, the pastor of the English flock, and that sturdy upholder of Puritan views seems to have entertained a warm affection for the soldier.

When the _Mayflower_, after breasting the waves of the Atlantic, neared at last the shore on which the colony proposed to begin a settlement in midwinter, daring in the worst season of the year what many had failed to effect with all the advantages of the balmiest spring, a compact for civil government was drawn up and signed by the chief men of the expedition. On the list is the name of Miles Standish. He landed with them; became their military leader; his exploits as an Indian fighter are known to all the children in our schools. He is the type of those who from the beginning of the seventeenth century have done battle with the red man. He died at last, at a ripe old age, in the colony he helped to found, but died without joining the church established by the pilgrims of Plymouth Rock, though conformity was as a rule required from all.

New England historians and scholars seem puzzled to account for the fact of his never having joined the church. His life was beyond reproach. He brought from his experience of camp and garrison no habits to shock the sober, rigid men with whom his career was cast. It could not be, they admit, that the Pilgrims found any objection to his admission. He evidently never sought it. He was no hypocrite to seek admission as a church-member like Captain Underhill, whose life set morality at defiance, or like Mayor Gibbons, whose questionable dealings with pirates show his unworthiness. Contrasted with these men, Standish stands out as a noble, consistent figure. As Dr. Ellis remarks: “Of the two captains in the early Indian warfare, and in the straits of dangerous enterprise, the uncovenanted Standish is to be preferred.” He is comparing him with Underhill; the comparison will still hold good in regard to Gibbons or Patrick.

Some years since, the writer threw out in our American _Notes and Queries_ the suggestion that Miles Standish, the military hero of the _Mayflower_, of the Pilgrims, and of Plymouth Rock, was a Catholic. A correspondent, using the initials J. W. T., which seem to denote an historical scholar of no mean repute in New England, one who has shown real research and sound judgment, lost all self-command at the suggestion, and raved in this style: “If Miles Standish was a Roman Catholic, he was also a hypocrite; till proof of the latter, he must be considered what the Pilgrims believed him to be—and never before doubted—a Protestant and an honest man. Miles Standish was not the man to sail under false colors. He was bold, brave, impetuous, open as the day, and not double-faced. His memory should have been safe from insult.”

No distinct assertions are made, and the grave historical scholar forgot to cite authorities. The language infers that the Pilgrims believed Standish to be a Protestant, and that he professed to be one. But there is no evidence at all to sustain this. The late S. G. Drake, whose acquaintance with the sources of New England history was certainly very great, expressly says on this point: “I do not remember ever having seen it stated that he belonged to any church,” and no one has ever cited an authority that connects him with any Protestant church. Governor Hutchinson, in his _History of Massachusetts_ (vol. ii., p. 411), says: “It seems Standish was not of their church at first, and Mr. Hubbard says he had more of his education in the school of Mars than in the school of Christ. He acquired, however, the esteem of the whole colony.” Baylies, in his _History of Plymouth_, says: “What induced him to connect himself with the Pilgrims does not appear. He took up his residence among them at Leyden, but never joined the church” (part ii., p. 21). Palfrey, the author of the _History of New England_, with all the researches of the present century, says of Standish: “He was not a member of the Leyden Church, nor subsequently of that of Plymouth, but appears to have been induced to join the emigrants by personal good-will, or by love of adventure, while to them his military knowledge and habits rendered his companionship of great value” (vol. i., p. 161). Later on in the same work, Palfrey reiterates the assertion: “Standish was no religious enthusiast. He never professed to care for, or so much as to understand, the system of doctrine of his friends, though he paid it all respect as being theirs. He never was a member of their church” (vol. ii., p. 407-8). At the laying of the corner-stone of the Standish monument on Captain’s Hill, Duxbury, Oct. 7, 1872, the Rev. Dr. Ellis, endeavoring as a clergyman on that day to say all that could be said, makes him only a sort of “proselyte of the gate,” but admits distinctly that “he was not a man of ‘professions,’ nor, so far as we know, of ‘confessions.’ He was never ‘sealed’ or ‘covenanted.’ We are at a loss for the explanation of this fact, considering the standard and the expectations of his associates.”[180] On the same occasion, Charles Deane, who certainly did not speak without examination of his subject, said: “He was not a member of Plymouth Church, and there are strong suspicions that the doctrine of the perseverance of the saints had not taken strong hold of him.”[181]

It was not that Standish preferred the platform of Massachusetts Bay. He went to Boston, but never seemed to harmonize with them or relish their system of management. He was no adherent of Mrs. Hutchinson, Roger Williams, or the Baptists; no one ever claimed him as a disciple of Fox; no treasured Book of Common Prayer or any other proof of adherence to the Church of England has been preserved to justify Episcopalians in claiming him.

Where, then, is his Protestantism? He certainly avowed himself a member of no Protestant denomination whatever, and made no professions of the kind; so that, if he really was a Catholic, there can be no charge of hypocrisy, for there is not the slightest tittle of evidence that he ever pretended to be a Protestant. He was an extremely valuable man to the little community at Plymouth, and rendered important services. At that time, to have proclaimed himself a Catholic would have compelled the Pilgrims to exclude him, and exposed himself to annoyance when visiting other colonies or England. That the leaders knew him to be a Catholic, too firm in his faith to be shaken, would explain much that seems now inexplicable to New England writers.

The question, then, comes up, whether there is any direct ground for supposing the famous Captain of the Pilgrims to be a Catholic. In his will, he left to his eldest son, Alexander, “all my lands as heir aparent, by lawfull decent, in Ormistock, Boscouge, Wrightington, Maudsly, Newburrow, Crawston, and in the Isle of Man, and given to me as right heir by lawfull decent, but sereptuously detained from me, my grandfather being a second or younger brother from the house of Standish of Standish.”[182]

This gives a clue to his family, and another is found in the name of the town which he planted—Duxbury. Some of the earlier writers of this century made a fanciful derivation for this. Duxbury, according to them, was from _Dux_, captain; that Duxbury meant Captain’s town, and was an allusion to his position in the colony.[183] But turning to English authorities, we find at once in Lancashire an ancient family of Standish, of which there are two branches, Standish of Standish Hall, and Standish of Duxbury. Their arms—three silver plates on a field azure—meet you on tombs and on the churches erected by them centuries ago.

When the young king Richard II. rode out to meet Wat Tyler at the head of his rebels, John Standish was one of the king’s esquires—the very one who slew Tyler. A Sir John Standish won fame by his prowess at Agincourt, and the name occurs frequently during the French wars of Henry V. and Henry VI. When the eighth King Henry sought a divorce from his faithful wife, Queen Catharine, Henry Standish, a Franciscan, Bishop of St. Asaph’s (1519-1535), a most learned man, assisted the unhappy queen throughout the shameful trial. After the change of religion, the Standish family adhered to the old faith, one of them writing vigorously in its defence; and down to this day they are reckoned among the Catholic families of England. Standish Hall, the seat of the elder branch, is close to Wigan, twenty miles northeast of Liverpool; and Duxbury Hall, the seat of the younger branch, is only two miles distant from Standish Hall. There have been frequent litigations between the two branches, and in one of these, doubtless, the immediate ancestor of the Plymouth soldier lost the property alluded to in his will.

The family remained Catholic, and after the fall of James II. was among his sturdy adherents. The famous Lancashire plot, formed in 1692 with the object of replacing James on the throne of England, was hatched in Standish Hall.

The wrong of which the gallant soldier of Plymouth complained was one that he could have had redressed promptly, even if not in accordance with the rules of justice. Had he appeared as a Protestant claimant for the broad acres of an old Catholic house, courts and juries would have bent law and fact to place him in possession. How the feeling operates we have seen by instances in our own day. The feeling in favor of the Tichborne claimant in England was deeply imbued with the desire to place the heritage of an old and well-known Catholic family in the hands of one who was to all intents and purposes a Protestant—one whose Catholicity, if he ever had any, had completely vanished in a brutalizing Australian life. In the claim of Earl Talbot, a Protestant, to the earldom of Shrewsbury, so long identified with the Catholic cause, we see what slight evidence, or show of evidence, satisfied the House of Peers. Had the circumstances been reversed, a Catholic claiming a Protestant peerage, the doubts of the tribunal would have required tenfold proof, and the investigation lasted a generation.

Miles Standish, by his own avowal, belonged to an ancient Catholic family, which has clung to the faith to this day. He evidently scorned to change his religion to enable him to recover what he deemed his just rights. Such seems to be a position that solves all difficulties. Among the old Catholic families of the British Isles, after the change of religion was completed, and the line of distinction between Protestant and Catholic sharply drawn, it became a matter of honor and pride to adhere, during the evil days of the penal laws and the butchery of the clergy, to the faith so heroically retained.

Here and there, one who gave the reins to his wild passions, some man sunk in vice like Mervyn, Lord Audley, or the Duke of Norfolk at the close of the last century, would conform to the state church, though every decent Protestant shrank from contact with them; or some nobleman deprived of his estates, like Lord Baltimore, would renounce his faith to recover a province like Maryland, wrongfully detained from him; or, like Lord Dunboyne, give up the faith, even after teaching it for years as an honored priest, in order to live as seemed to become his title; or, led by ambition, to rise at court like Waldegrave; but for one to join a body of dissenters there is on record scarcely an example.

Descendants of old Catholic families emigrating to America, like the Dongans, Townleys, and others, fell away; but in the Old World a sense of honor made them cling to the oppressed faith when to desert it seemed to imply cowardice or vice. The opening words of Moore’s _Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of Religion_ embody this feeling.

As a necessary consequence, the conversion of one of the members of an ancient Catholic house by the Protestant party was a triumph, and the new-comer was well rewarded. The conversion of one of the Standishes would have found mention somewhere among the events of the day, and there would be some trace of office or rank bestowed on the man who at last conformed. Yet the county annals of Lancashire and the memoirs of the time chronicle no such defection on the part of Miles Standish, and it is equally evident that no post was bestowed upon him as a reward.

That Miles Standish was one who, turning his thoughts to the great religious questions then rife, fell into doubts as to the solidity of the claims of the Catholic Church, and with all zeal and fervor embraced some form of Protestantism, is a theory too wild for consideration. The whole mass of Pilgrim testimony establishes the fact that he was one who took no interest in the religious systems of Protestantism; that he was utterly devoid of any such enthusiasm in them as would mark a convert from conviction.

From what we know of his origin, the presumption is strong that he was and always remained a Catholic, and we cannot shield his memory from insult except by adopting this presumption. Neither a life of vicious indulgence nor ambitious hopes, and certainly no conviction, led him to renounce the religion of his family and embrace Protestantism.

Let us, then, gather what is known of the life of this Catholic soldier of early New England annals.

He was born about 1584, at Duxbury, in Lancashire, England, as is supposed, from the fact that he preserved the name in the town he established; but was, as he claims in his will, great-grandson of a second or younger brother of the house of Standish of Standish. This is a well-known Catholic house in Lancashire, known as early as the reign of Edward I., the elder branch of two in that county, the other being the Standishes of Duxbury. With this last he claims no connection, although the inference is probable that he was born at that place. As his just inheritance at Standish was, he asserts, surreptitiously detained from him, it may be that his father, unjustly deprived of his patrimony, took refuge at Duxbury under the protection of the other branch. Both branches were Catholic, John Standish being a distinguished writer against the Reformation. A Robert Standish figures in Parliament in 1654; Captain Thomas Standish, of the Duxbury house, was killed at Manchester fighting bravely for the king. The Standishes of Duxbury, as their genealogy shows, intermarried with the old Catholic houses of Howard and Townley. Richard Standish was made a baronet after the Restoration, in 1676.

The estates to which he asserts his rights lay, as expressed in the will, in Ormistock, Bouscouge, Wrightington, Maudsley, Newburrow, Cranston, and in the Isle of Man.

The latest history of Lancashire, by Baines, unfortunately gives no detailed pedigree of the house of Standish of Standish, that of Duxbury being given to some extent, though not in the line of descent of the younger sons. As, however, he does not claim at all to have belonged to the Duxbury branch, it is useless to look there for him.

Standish Hall, the seat of the branch from which he was descended, “is a large brick house, irregular in form, to which is attached an ancient Catholic chapel, still used for that purpose” (Baines, _Hist. Lancashire_, iii., p. 505). Standish forms a parish in the Hundred of Leyland. “The extensive and fertile township of Duxbury, at the northern extremity of the parish of Standish, stands on the banks of the Yarrow, by which the township and parish is divided from the parish of Chorley” (_Ib._, p. 517).

Ormistock is evidently Ormskirk, an adjoining parish, in which Baines mentions that there are two Catholic chapels (iv., p. 244). In the Buscouge of the Plymouth record we easily recognize Burscough, where once flourished a famous priory, suppressed by Henry VIII. The Lancashire historian notes that there was formerly a Catholic chapel at Burscough Hall (iv., p. 256). Of the next place mentioned in Standish’s will, Baines says: “Adjoining Wrightington Hall stands a small Catholic chapel for the use of the family” (iii., p. 481); Mawdsley or Mawdesley is an extensive flat and fertile township between Croston and Wrightington (iii., p. 404); Newbury and Croston are in the same Hundred (iii., 171, 391-5).

He was thus of Catholic stock, and born and brought up amid families where the old faith is still cherished to this day. Almost every place mentioned in his will is linked with Catholic life in his time and the present.

Of his early life not a tradition or trace has been preserved. In that day the younger men of Catholic families constantly went abroad to gain an education and to seek service in the Continental armies, many too to study for the priesthood, and return to England, unawed by the terrible fate that awaited them if they fell into the hands of the myrmidons of English law.

That Miles Standish should have sought service abroad is therefore natural. Ignoring his Catholic origin, New England writers have sought to explain his military career on the Continent. All seem to assume that he served in the Low Countries. Baylies, in his _History of Plymouth_ (part ii., p. 21), says explicitly that “he served as an officer in the armies of Queen Elizabeth in the Low Countries, when commanded by her favorite, the Earl of Leicester.”

Captain Wyman, at the laying of the corner-stone in 1872, goes further: “In early life he was trained to the hardships and trials of war, having been commissioned at the age of twenty a lieutenant in the army serving in the Low Countries against the armies of the Inquisition.” The Rev. G. E. Ellis and Charles Deane on the same occasion limit themselves to the assertion that he served in the Low Countries (pp. 21, 24).

Palfrey is less positive, as he was writing history, not pronouncing eulogies. “The ‘cautionary towns’ of the Netherlands had been garrisoned by British regiments for thirty years, and Miles Standish had _probably_ been employed on this service” (_History of New England_, i., p. 161). “_Probably_ while serving in an English regiment in the Netherlands he fell in with the company of English peasants” (ii., pp. 407-8).

There seems to be no really authentic foundation for all this theory. Standish died in 1656, aged 72, and must have been born, according to this, in 1584. Leicester was sent to the Low Countries with eleven thousand men in 1585-7; but we can scarcely believe that this precocious scion of a Catholic house served as an officer in this campaign when only one year old, or three at the most.

The assertion that the Catholic soldier was commissioned a lieutenant at the age of twenty, that is, in 1604, when James was ruining the Catholic families by extorting all the arrears of fines, and producing the spirit of exasperation which culminated in the Gunpowder Plot, can scarcely find any support in sober history. The armies of the Inquisition which James was fighting in 1604 elude research.

Savage, in his _Genealogical Dictionary_, though on what authority we know not, says that Standish had been at Leyden some years before 1620. All that is positively known is that he had seen military service on the Continent, and was living in Leyden with his wife Rose when the followers of Robinson proposed to emigrate. A strong friendship, not based on harmony of religious views, existed between Miles Standish and the pastor of the exiles. Writing subsequently to Plymouth after receiving tidings of Standish’s first Indian fight, Robinson says: “Let me be bould to exhorte you seriously to consider ye dispossition of your Captaine, whom I love, and am persuaded ye Lord in great mercie and for much good hath sent you him, if you use him aright. He is a man humble and meek amongst you; and towards all in ordinarie course.”[184] This strong feeling of personal friendship was reciprocal. In his will Standish writes: “Further, my will is that Marrye Robenson, whom I tenderly love for her grandfather’s sacke, shall have three pounds in som thing to goe forward for her two yeares after my decease.”

Whether he had served in the Spanish armies or the Dutch, or in English garrison, he was to all appearance simply a resident of Leyden when this friendship grew up. It evidently led to the proposal or offer to accompany those of Robinson’s flock who were to venture to make the first attempt at colonization in North America.

His wife Rose, of whom we know only her name, agreed evidently to join him in the voyage. True wife of a brave man, she was ready to face all danger and to share all hardships with him. Nothing is recorded from which to glean whether she was some fair English girl from his own Lancashire, or some one whom he won on the Continent. Her name, her faith, and her country are alike unknown. We know that they embarked together at Delft Haven, and formed part of the memorable body on the _Mayflower_. Among them Miles Standish was a man of importance. When the compact for their government in America was drawn up, he signed it, and the place of his signature shows the esteem in which he was held and his recognized position among them.

That document is purely a civil one, and contains nothing that could not be signed by the strictest Catholic.

Reaching in November the poorest, sandy part of the coast, the little colony had a fearful career of hardship. Standish was one of the pioneers in exploring the land. After they landed at Plymouth Rock in December, he saw his companions sink under their hardships and breathe their last. Though his own rugged health triumphed over everything, his wife Rose sank beneath the unwonted trials, and died on the 29th day of January, 1621, leaving him alone in the diminishing body of settlers, without a tie to bind him to them or the settlement which they had undertaken. But he was not one to falter or easily give up.

During that winter of terrible suffering so heroically borne he was one of the six or seven who were untouched by disease, and his care and devotion to the sick and afflicted are mentioned with gratitude. When spring at last gladdened them, and they resolutely set about the labors of building, cultivating, and otherwise preparing for a permanent residence, Miles Standish had been made the first military commander of the colony, and, as we may infer from some statements, he turned his engineering skill to a peaceful channel, laying out the lines of the new town and surveying the plots taken up by the settlers. The first military organization of Plymouth dates from February, 1621. It was not formidable in numbers, but it was necessary to make it as imposing as possible. Standish felt all this. He threw up defensive works, a little fort on the hill above the dwellings mounted with five guns, and prepared to make the Indians respect the power of the settlers.