Chapter XXXIX: Conclusion: IV (14)

Meanwhile the monks
(The lights removed in reverence of his sleep)
Sat mute nor stirred such time as in the Mass
Between “_Orate Fratres_” glides away,
And “_Hoc est Corpus Meum_.” Northward far
The great deep, seldom heard so distant, roared
Round those wild rocks half way to Bamborough Head;
For now the mightiest spring-tide of the year,
Following the magic of a maiden moon,
Had reached its height. More near, that sea which sobbed
In many a cave by Whitby’s winding coast,
Or died in peace on many a sandy bar
From river-mouth to river-mouth outspread,
They heard, and mused upon eternity
That circles human life. Gradual there rose
A softer strain and sweeter, making way
O’er that sea-murmur hoarse; and they were ware
That in the black far-shadowing church whose bulk
Up-towered between them and the moon, the monks
Their matins had begun. A little sigh
That moment reached them from the central gloom
Guarding the sleeper’s bed; a second sigh
Succeeded: neither seemed the sigh of pain:
And some one said, “He wakens.” Large and bright
Over the church-roof sudden rushed the moon,
And smote the cross above that sleeper’s couch,
And smote that sleeper’s face. The smile thereon
Was calmer than the smile of life. Thus died
Ceadmon, the earliest bard of English song.

Copyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1878.

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CONFESSION IN THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.[160]

The subject of confession has of late been brought prominently before the British public. We need hardly say that a storm of indignation has been raised. Parliament has been called upon to put a stop to a practice which is generally believed to be quite at variance with the spirit of the Church of England, and many of the bishops have publicly condemned it. It may, however, be doubted whether any effect has really been produced; for as long as clergy are found who claim the power of forgiving sin, and as long as people feel the need of absolution, it is certain that confession will be practised.

A Catholic must necessarily look on confession, as existing in the Anglican communion, with feelings of a very mixed nature. On the one hand it is impossible not to appreciate the sincerity and humility evinced by those who voluntarily seek what they believe to be a means of grace. It is hard to doubt that the habit of self-examination and of watchfulness naturally resulting from confession must have its value; above all, it seems as if we might fairly hope that the spirit of obedience and the faithfulness in acting on conviction will be rewarded by fuller light and knowledge.

On the other hand, it is equally impossible to shut our eyes to the great dangers which beset confession among Anglicans. In the first place, there is the absence of all sacramental grace; secondly, of training, and even of theological knowledge, in the clergy; and, thirdly, those who use confession are in an exceptional position, which of itself is fraught with peril to the soul.

Of course no Catholic supposes Anglican clergymen to have true orders. Confession in the English communion is simply a conversation between two lay people on some of the most important subjects that can occupy the thoughts of human beings. There may be on either side sincerity, piety, and earnestness, but sacramental grace there is not. Relations so close between two souls are certainly not without peril; we do not speak of the danger to morals which the Protestant party constantly insists upon, and whose existence we cannot altogether deny, but of the tyranny on the part of the minister, and of the unreasonable obedience yielded by the penitent to a self-appointed guide.

Those who have looked a little into their own hearts, and who have reflected on the subtle influences which have told on their characters, must feel that dealing with another soul is no light matter; that the chances of doing harm are many and great; and that special graces are needed by those who are called to so sacred an office. The need of training, too, is obvious; he who is to be the physician of the soul ought to be as well acquainted with moral theology as a physician should be with medical science. Among the clergy of the Church of England there is an absolute want of theological knowledge. It would be hard to mention an Anglican book on any subject connected with moral theology. Anglican clergymen, even where they have learnt to believe many of the dogmas of the Catholic faith, are, generally speaking, ignorant of the difference between mortal and venial sin. Hence results a spirit of severity on the part of the confessor which tends to produce scrupulosity and depression in the penitent. Converts have declared that the first time they heard Catholic teaching as to the nature of sin it seemed to them the most consoling doctrine possible.

It is true that of late years some Catholic manuals have been translated and “adapted” to the Anglican use. In the recent controversies regarding the _Priest in Absolution_ some of the leading High-Church clergy have proclaimed their ignorance of the book, and have asserted that experience had taught them all that they could learn from its pages; but while they were gaining their experience what became of the poor souls who were the subjects of their study? In the Catholic Church a person cannot be said in any way to distinguish himself by going to confession; he does what has to be done if he would save his soul. Among Anglicans, although the practice is now pretty widely spread, the case is very different; the man or woman who goes to confession occupies a somewhat exceptional position, and is more or less considered as a support of the church, as one of those through whose influence that church is gradually to be reformed and restored.

It is hard to get at statistics as to the actual strength of the extreme High-Church party, and even among those who call themselves High Church there are many shades and differences of opinion; the amount of notice which it has attracted is due rather to the adoption of practices unknown in the Church of England, and to the earnestness and activity of its clergy, than to the great number of its adherents. If we were to count one-tenth part of the members of the Church of England as High Church we should probably be overshooting the mark; and of these it is by no means to be assumed that the greater number go to confession. Personal inquiry in at least one so-called centre of ritualism has led us to believe that it is the practice of a mere minority.

We believe that the practice of confession may be said to be pretty nearly universal in the case of the Anglican religious communities (which are about thirty in number). Many people living in the world are accustomed to go to confession weekly or fortnightly, and in some few London churches the practice is probably followed by the majority of the congregation; children are trained to it from their earliest years, and it is boldly proclaimed to be the “remedy for post-baptismal sin.”

As far as we can gather from the testimony of those who have confessed and heard confessions as Anglicans, we should say that confession is often an actual torture to the soul; that penances are often imposed altogether without proportion to their cause; that a kind of obedience unknown among Catholics is claimed and is rendered. This, after all, is the great danger. It will never be known till the last day how many souls have been kept out of God’s church by the authority of their Protestant “directors.” A director finds that one of his penitents begins to think that the Catholic Church has claims worthy, at least, of being examined. At once active works of charity are proposed as a remedy; all reading of Catholic books, or intercourse with Catholic friends or relations, is forbidden; the director is not afraid to say that leaving the Church of England is a sin against the Holy Ghost, and furthermore will promise to answer at the last day for the soul that, in reliance on his dictum, suspends all search after truth and blindly obeys. The moment of grace is too often lost; the soul holds back and will not respond to God’s call. Too often those things which it had are taken from it, and the sad result is an utter loss of faith.

A Catholic’s interest in the working of the Anglican Church is solely in reference to the work of conversion. Those who in one sense are said to come nearest to the Catholic Church are often in reality the furthest off; for they believe Catholic doctrines not because they are proposed by a divine authority, but because they consider them reasonable, or find that they are in accordance with the testimony of antiquity. Their religion is as much a matter of private judgment as that of the Bible Christian; the difference lies in the fact that the ritualist exercises his private judgment over a more extended field than the other.

An Anglican who goes to confession must be an object of great anxiety to a Catholic friend. In such a case, at least where the practice has been voluntarily and earnestly adopted, we feel that God is calling that soul to his church; that he has awakened in it a sense of need, a craving for the grace and aid which, generally speaking, are only to be found in the sacraments. We can hardly doubt that, if that soul is true to grace, it will ere long be in the one true fold; but the position is one of peculiar difficulty, and the temptations which beset it are of no common kind. Minds of a weak order naturally yield to anything that bears the semblance of lawful authority; the conscientious fear to go against those whom they believe to be wiser and better than themselves; a peace of mind often follows the confession of an Anglican. Perhaps it is the natural result of having made an effort and got over what is supposed to be a painful duty; perhaps it is a grace given by God in consideration of an act of contrition. How is the poor soul to discern this peace from the effect of sacramental grace? So the very goodness of God is turned into a reason for delay and for resting satisfied.

Hitherto we have looked on the subject of confession in the Anglican communion chiefly from the side of the penitent; the case of the clergy who hear confessions is widely different and is beset with many difficulties. Generally speaking, the only question arising in the mind of the penitent would be: Can I get my sins forgiven by going to confession? Of course the reality of the absolution turns primarily on the validity of orders; strange to say, a vast number of the laity of the Church of England are contented to take the validity of the orders of their ministers as an unquestioned fact. The clergy naturally are most positive in the assertion that their orders are valid; as the nature and the necessity of jurisdiction are alike unknown to the ordinary Anglican mind, the matter seems pretty clear. The laity in the Anglican body are not in any very definite manner bound by the Prayer-book or by any of the authorized documents of that body; there is nothing anomalous in the idea of Anglican lay people, especially women, going to confession without even asking themselves whether the practice is in accordance with the mind of the communion to which they belong. Moreover, High-Church Anglicans are avowedly bent on improving their church; their church is not their guide or their mother, but rather an institution which has so far fulfilled its purpose but imperfectly, and which, by a judicious process of reformation, they hope to assimilate to an ideal existing in their own minds. Many conscientious Anglicans would therefore deem any objection founded on the evident want of encouragement of their views by their church as quite irrelevant. The Church of England does not forbid such and such a practice, they would say; we are convinced that it is in accordance with the teaching of antiquity, that it is useful, and therefore we encourage it.

The clergy, however, are bound not only to follow the voice of individual conscience, but to keep certain solemn promises by which they have voluntarily bound themselves. Even if a clergyman be fully convinced that he possesses the tremendous power of the keys, it does not necessarily follow that he should feel at liberty to exercise it at all times or in all places. We do not go at all into the question of Anglican orders, except to remark in passing that it seems strange that the majority of the clergy should give themselves so little trouble on the subject; they know that, to say the least, grave doubts as to their position are entertained by Christendom in general, and yet it is very seldom that any one of them takes the same trouble to investigate his orders that a reasonable man would take in regard to his title-deeds, if a doubt were thrown on them. We believe that the feeling which we once heard expressed by a clergyman said to be High Church is not very uncommon; being told by a friend that there were serious reasons for doubting Anglican orders, and consequently Anglican sacraments, he made no attempt to defend them, but simply remarked: “I don’t suppose that God would let us suffer for such a trifle.” To make the position of the Anglican clergy clear to our readers, we must begin by citing from “The Form and Manner of making Priests” the solemn words which a Protestant bishop, “laying his hands upon the head of every one that receiveth the order of priesthood,” pronounces over him:

“Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a priest in
the church of God, now committed unto thee by the imposition of
our hands. Whose sins thou dost forgive, they are forgiven; and
whose sins thou dost retain, they are retained. And be thou a
faithful dispenser of the word of God, and of his holy
sacraments: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of
the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

By the thirty-sixth canon of the Church of England, published and confirmed in 1865, it is required that the following Declaration and subscription should be made by such as are to be ordained ministers:

“I, A. B., do solemnly make the following declaration: I assent
to the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion, and to the Book of
Common Prayer, and of Ordering of Bishops, Priests, and
Deacons; I believe the doctrine of the United Church of England
and Ireland, as therein set forth, to be agreeable to the word
of God; and in public prayer and administration of the
sacraments, I will use the form in the said book prescribed,
and none other, except so far as shall be ordered by lawful
authority.”

An Anglican clergyman, again, pledges himself at his ordination to minister the doctrine and sacraments and the discipline of Christ as our Lord hath commanded, _and as this church and realm hath received_ the same. The subject of confession is mentioned three times in the Book of Common Prayer, which, as our readers may perhaps be aware, is the only authorized formulary of devotion possessed by the Church of England. There is no separate ritual for the clergy; the Common Prayer is the one comprehensive whole and is in the hands of everybody.

In the exhortation which is appointed to be read on the Sunday immediately preceding the celebration of the Holy Communion, and which, by the way, a great many regular church-goers seldom or never have heard read, the concluding paragraph runs as follows:

“And because it is requisite that no man should come to the
holy communion, but with a full trust in God’s mercy, and with
a quiet conscience; therefore if there be any of you, who by
this means, (_i.e._, by self-examination and private
repentance,) cannot quiet his own conscience herein but
requireth further comfort or counsel, let him come to me, or to
some other discreet and learned minister of God’s word, and
open his grief; that by the ministry of God’s holy word he may
receive the benefit of absolution, together with ghostly
counsel and advice, to the quieting of his conscience and
avoiding of all scruple and doubtfulness.”

The next occasion on which we find confession in the pages of the Prayer-book is the Visitation of the Sick. A rubric lays down the “priest’s” duty in these words:

“Here shall the sick person be moved to make a special
confession of his sins, if he feel his conscience troubled with
any weighty matter. After which confession the priest shall
absolve him (if he humbly and heartily desire it) after this
sort: Our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath left power to his church
to absolve all sinners who truly repent and believe in him, of
his great mercy forgive thee thine offences; and, by his
authority committed to me, I absolve thee from all thy sins, in
the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen.”

Lastly, in the twenty-fifth of the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion, which are subscribed by all the clergy, we read:

“There are two sacraments, ordained of Christ our Lord in the
Gospel—that is to say, baptism and the Supper of the Lord.
Those five commonly called sacraments—that is to say,
confirmation, penance, orders, matrimony, and extreme
unction—are not to be counted for sacraments of the Gospel,
being such as have grown partly of the corrupt following of the
apostles, partly are states of life allowed in the Scriptures;
but yet have not like nature of sacraments with baptism and the
Lord’s Supper, for that they have not any visible sign or
ceremony ordained of God.”

As the Church of England has but one authorized book of devotion, she has but one book of instruction; her Homilies are declared, in the thirty-fifth of the Thirty-nine Articles, “to contain a godly and wholesome doctrine and necessary for these times,” and it is directed that they should “be read in churches by the minister diligently and distinctly, that they may be understanded of the people.”

The Homilies are not read in churches; in fact we believe it would be safe to assert that they are hardly ever read anywhere, and we might almost suppose them to be obsolete, were it not that every candidate for orders signs the statement that they are “necessary for these times.” The second part of the Homily on Repentance says:

“And where they (the Roman teachers) do allege this saying of
our Saviour Jesus Christ unto the leper, to prove auricular
confession to stand on God’s word, ‘Go thy way, and show
thyself unto the priest,’ do they not see that the leper was
cleansed from his leprosy, before he was by Christ sent unto
the priest for to show himself unto him? By the same reason we
must be cleansed from our spiritual leprosy—I mean our sins
must be forgiven us—before that we come to confession. What
need we, then, to tell forth our sins into the ear of the
priest, sith that they may be already taken away? Therefore
holy Ambrose, in his second sermon upon the 119th Psalm, doth
say full well: _Go show thyself unto the priest_. Who is the
true priest, but he which is the priest for ever after the
order of Melchisedech? Whereby this holy Father doth understand
that, both the priesthood and the law being changed, we ought
to acknowledge none other priest for deliverance from our sins
but our Saviour Jesus Christ, who, being our sovereign bishop,
doth with the sacrifice of his body and blood, offered once for
ever upon the altar of the cross, most effectually cleanse the
spiritual leprosy and wash away the sins of all those that with
true confession of the same do flee unto him. It is most
evident and plain, that this auricular confession hath not the
warrant of God’s word, else it had not been lawful for
Nectarius, Bishop of Constantinople, upon a just occasion to
have put it down.

* * * * *

“Let us with fear and trembling, and with a true contrite
heart, use that kind of confession which God doth command in
his Word, and then doubtless, as he is faithful and righteous,
he will forgive us our sins and make us clean from all
wickedness. I do not say but that, if any do find themselves
troubled in conscience, they may repair to their learned curate
or pastor, or to some other godly learned man, and show the
trouble and doubt of their conscience to them, that they may
receive at their hand the comfortable salve of God’s word; but
it is against the true Christian liberty, that any man should
be bound to the numbering of his sins, as it hath been used
heretofore in the time of blindness and ignorance.”

Such are the scanty devotional and dogmatical utterances of the Church of England on the subject of confession. The only other instruction given to her clergy in regard to their duties as confessors is to be found in the one hundred and thirteenth canon, which treats of the presentment of notorious offenders to the ordinaries. Parsons and vicars, or in their absence their curates, may themselves present to their ordinaries

“All such crimes as they have in charge or otherwise, as by
them (being the persons that should have the chief care for the
suppressing of sin and impiety in their parishes) shall be
thought to require due reformation. Provided always, that if
any man confess his secret and hidden sins to the minister, for
the unburdening of his conscience, and to receive spiritual
consolation and ease of mind from him; we do not any way bind
the said minister by this our Constitution, but do straitly
charge and admonish him, that he do not at any time reveal and
make known to any person whatsoever any crime or offence so
committed to his trust and secrecy (except they be such crimes
as, by the laws of this realm, his own life may be called into
question for concealing the same), under pain of irregularity.”

As far as we can gather, the belief of the Church of England on the subject of confession may be summed up in the following propositions:

1. Penance is not a sacrament, but

2. Her ministers have the power of forgiving sins.

3. This power is exercised after confession made by the penitent.

4. But such confession is not to be made, save in case of serious illness or of great disquiet of mind.

5. The absolution of the priest is not the ordinary means by which sins are forgiven.

6. The penitent is to be the judge in his own case. If he feels very much in want of confession, he may have it; if not, he is to do without it. His own feeling is the only rule in the matter.

We think our readers will admit that the above statements are in no way an unfair summary of the teaching of the Church of England as represented by her formularies. Certainly they give no warrant for the assertion now made by the High-Church party that confession is the ordinary remedy for post-baptismal sin, or to the practice of frequent and regular confession which is now so widely advocated and followed. Confession is evidently, according to the teaching of Anglicanism, what it has been well called by an Anglican, a “luxury.” How, it may be asked, can men who are pledged to teach and maintain the doctrines of the Church of England act in direct opposition to the instructions which she has given them? We do not maintain that those instructions have the appearance of being all the expression of the same convictions. There is an apparent discrepancy existing amongst them; they are not consistent with each other. But the one broad fact is plain as daylight: they do not countenance the present action of extreme Anglicans. Lookers-on constantly ask, Are these men sincere? Why do they not “go over to Rome”? Are they not traitors in the Anglican camp? To these questions we can only reply: We judge not; each individual must stand or fall to his own master; but we cannot hesitate in saying that ritualism as a system is dishonest, and that the position occupied by its adherents is the most untenable that any man can undertake to defend.

If we seek for the reason why men whom we are ready to believe upright and honorable act in a manner which is apparently absolutely incompatible with their solemn engagements, it may perhaps be discovered by a consideration of one of the chief characteristics of the Church of England.

St. Paul speaks of the church of Christ as “the pillar and ground of the truth.” The Church of England is essentially a compromise. Some of her dignitaries even look on this as her glory: the High-Churchman can find his belief in the Real Presence supported by her catechism, but the Low-Churchman has the black rubric, which is equally strong in favor of his opinion; her prayers are for the most part preserved from the days of Catholic piety, and her Articles bear the impress of foreign heresy; she prays against “false doctrine, heresy, and schism,” and devotes one of her Articles to the assertion that all churches have erred. Her clergy are required to accept anomalies and inconsistencies; and we cannot but do them the justice to say that they accept them with great equanimity. Every one has something to get over: the High-Churchman could wish some things altered, and the Low-Churchman would be glad to see others omitted; the result seems to be that every one subscribes with a kind of laxity which, if it does not imply a want of honesty, at least betrays an absence of accuracy and of definite conviction. Subscription to articles and formularies seems to sit very lightly on the Anglican conscience; it is a mere means to an end.

But the Anglican clergyman not only pledges himself to the doctrines of the Prayer-book and Articles; he also promises obedience to his bishop. Here is something apparently definite. In the voice of a living bishop there can hardly be the same scope for diversity as the pages of the Prayer-book afford. Generally speaking, the Anglican bishops condemn the practice of confession; if they were really rulers in their communion there can be no doubt that the High-Church party would long since have been extinct. As a fact, the Anglican does not obey his bishop; at this very moment one of the leading High-Church clergy of London has definitely and deliberately refused to obey his bishop by removing from his church a crucifix and a picture of Our Lady, which he believes tend to promote devotion among his flock.

For the reasons which lead conscientious men to disobey the ordinary whose godly admonitions they have engaged with a glad mind and will to follow, and to whose godly judgments they have promised with God’s help to submit, we must again look to the peculiar theories of the Church of England. It is hardly necessary to say that the Church of England does not in any way or under any circumstances claim infallibility; nay, more, she goes out of her way to deny its very existence. One of her Articles asserts that the churches of Jerusalem, Alexandria, Antioch, and Rome have erred in matters of faith, and another follows up this assertion by the kindred statement that general councils may err, and sometimes have erred, even in things pertaining to God. She indeed daily professes her belief in One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church, but she does not inform her children where and how the voice of that church is to be heard. She constantly asserts the authority of Holy Scripture, but she recognizes no authority competent to interpret Scripture in a decisive manner. Under the influence of such teaching it is not surprising that there should exist in the Church of England two theories regarding authority in matters of faith. One is that there is no authority save Holy Scripture. Everything must be proved by Scripture; and as there is no one necessarily better entitled than another to explain Scripture, this virtually amounts to a recognition of the right and duty of private judgment to its fullest extent. The other theory is based on belief in the One Catholic Church. It admits that our Lord appointed his church to teach men all truth; it believes that the voice of the church in primitive times was the voice of God; it doubts not that at a former period the church was guided by the Spirit of God, but it holds that supernatural guidance to be in abeyance; it recognizes no _living_ voice of the church; it looks forward with a vague hope to the reunion of Catholics, Greeks, and Anglicans, and the possibility in such a case of a general council being held, whose decisions would bind all Christendom. In the meantime the church is dumb, if not dead, and all that can be done is to turn with a reverent mind to the study of antiquity, to an examination of what has been handed down from the days of pure and undoubted faith. This last is the theory of the High-Church party in general. To their mind a bishop is a necessity; he is required for the conferring of orders and for giving confirmation; he is not the centre of sacrificial power in his diocese, nor the source of jurisdiction; he is not a teacher in any other sense beyond that in which they are themselves teachers; their obedience to him is not an obedience to one whom our Lord has set over his flock with a special charge to feed his sheep as well as his lambs; it is an obedience rendered to one who is officially a superior—an obedience which has no direct reference to God, and which is constantly evaded (it may be in perfect good faith) on the principle that “we ought to obey God rather than man.”

Another cause which has probably much to do with the apparent inconsistencies of the High-Church Anglican clergy is the fact that they are in a great many cases absorbed and overwhelmed by an amount of active work which leaves little leisure for the serious examination of their position. It is admitted on all sides that the last century was a period of spiritual apathy and deadness as far as the Church of England was concerned. The movement of the past forty years has not been merely in the direction of Catholic doctrine, but it has also led to a renewal of zeal, to energy and self-sacrifice, which we cannot but appreciate. The poor, the young, the ignorant, and the fallen are cared for with a charity whose root is, we trust, to be found in the increased knowledge of the life and of the love of our Lord. But even works of mercy have their snares; a man who is toiling night and day among the outcast and the poor of great cities, who sees the results of his labor in the reformed life of many a wanderer, and who also sees pressing on him needs which he can never fully satisfy, must be sorely tempted to turn a deaf ear to all such questionings as would stay his course. He hears people’s confessions, and he sees them turn to God and lead better lives; naturally he concludes that all is right, and he resents any interference with a practice which is apparently so salutary.

We have now given a short and, we hope, a fair idea of confession as it exists at present in the Anglican communion. We must add, for the information of those who have not had the opportunity of watching the progress of events in England, that the practice of confession was unknown, or almost unknown, in the Anglican communion until about five-and-thirty years ago. It was one of the first fruits of that turning back to the old Catholic paths which by God’s blessing has led so many souls into the Church. The movement still goes on; it has passed through different phases, and year by year it brings one after another to the very threshold of their true home; they enter in and are at rest, and find the reality of all that they had hitherto sought and longed for.

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MICHAEL THE SOMBRE.[161]

AN EPISODE IN THE POLISH INSURRECTION, 1863–1864.

It is a trite remark that every age has produced its heroes, its saints, and its martyrs; but there are few amongst us who have sufficient discernment to recognize them when they cross our path in life. “Should we know a saint if we met him?” asks Father Faber. And so if we were to meet the heroine of this tale, quietly working in her own village or busy with the _ouvroir_ for young girls she has just established in her province in France, we should be far indeed from guessing that we saw with our own eyes a woman who had equalled, if not surpassed, Joan of Arc in heroism, devotion, and courage, and who had done deeds which would be incredible, if not attested by a multitude of living witnesses.

She was born in one of the departments of France unhappily annexed during the war of 1870–71. Having lost her mother in infancy, she was brought up by her father, an old officer under Louis XVIII. and Charles X., who educated her entirely as a boy. At twelve years of age she was a complete mistress

of the art of fencing, riding, shooting, and other manly accomplishments. Then, fearing lest she should be altogether unfitted for the society of those of her own sex, her father suddenly determined to send her to a convent, where her extraordinary cleverness soon enabled her to conquer all difficulties, and she made the most rapid progress in every branch of study. A vein of earnest Catholic piety ran through her whole character, coupled with an equally earnest devotion to her country and her king.

We do not know what family circumstances induced her father to part for a time from a child on whose education he had lavished such thought and care. But at eighteen we find her established in Poland as an inmate of one of its noblest families. After two years thus spent, during which she acquired a thorough knowledge of the Polish and German languages, she returned to France and had the melancholy consolation of nursing and assisting her father in his last moments; after which she was entreated to return to the Countess L—— in Poland, and become the adopted child of the house, to which she consented. So that, when the insurrection in that country broke out in 1863, “Mika,” as she was affectionately called by the whole family, rejoiced in the opportunity it afforded her of repaying the debt of gratitude she owed to those who had been as her second parents, by a devotion which was ready to sacrifice life itself in their service.

It is an episode in this war which we are about to give to our readers, and which we think will be doubly interesting at the present moment, when all eyes are fixed on the terrible struggle going on in the East. The story is told in the heroine’s own words.

* * * * *

It was on the 22d January, 1863, that the Poles, in little bands of ten or twenty men, met by a cross raised in honor of Kosciusko in the palatinate of Radom, and made a vow to deliver Poland from the Muscovite yoke or perish in the attempt. Let those who blame them remember the intolerable persecution which they had patiently endured for years—a persecution which deprived them of their faith, their language, their rights as citizens, and all that men hold most dear.

On the 24th they marched on Miechow, having no other arms than scythes and sticks and old-fashioned fowling-pieces. Led by inexperienced chiefs, who, in their ardor, fondly imagined that patriotism and a holy cause would carry the day against military tactics, they were foolish enough to attack, in broad daylight, a strong body of Russians, well armed and superior to them in numbers, who occupied an almost impregnable position on the heights above the town. The result may be easily imagined. The Poles were repulsed with heavy loss, and the Russians, who delight in celebrating their triumphs by a bonfire, burnt down the town and massacred all the Poles who came within their reach.

Ten of the Polish wounded were secretly brought to the castle, where we had established a subterranean ambulance. It was my business to dress the wounds of these poor fellows, assisted by a holy nun, the Mother Alexandra, who played too important a part in my future history not to be mentioned here. The Count L—— did not approve of the insurrection and considered it hopeless from the first; but he would not abandon his brave peasants. Towards the 30th of this month our couriers gave us warning that the Russians were aware of the wounded men being under our care, and that they were marching on the castle for the purpose of burning it down. The count refused to fly, saying that his place was amongst his own people at Syez, of whom he had always been both the father and protector. But he called me into his counsels, and implored me to carry off his wife and children and his sister-in-law (who lived with us) to Mislowitz, a little manufacturing town on the frontier of Silesia and Poland. After all it was a false alarm; and after a fortnight’s exile, which anxiety and fear had doubled, a letter from the count recalled us. We had nearly reached the end of our journey when we were attacked by a mob of Russian fanatics, who endeavored to seize the carriage. I was on horseback at the head of the little cavalcade, and I managed by means of my revolver to keep these miscreants at bay. The coachman profited by this moment’s respite to lash his horses into a gallop, by which means we escaped the ambush and reached the castle in safety.

But our tranquillity was not destined to be of long duration. About a fortnight later eight insurgents of the legion called of “Despair” sought refuge in our house. We concealed them as well as we could; but in the middle of the night notice was sent us that the Russians were on their track and had discovered their hiding-place. We hastened to send them off to a part of the forest where a cavern had been prepared to receive any such fugitives. They reached it in safety, but unhappily were betrayed by a peasant to whom the secret had been confided. The exasperated Russians again threatened the castle; and again the count insisted on our flight. On our way an alarm was given of some sort which so terrified the coachman that he threw down his whip and fled for his life, leaving us and the carriage at the mercy of the four horses, which were strong beasts and very fresh. Luckily, they stood still for a moment, and, as I was used to driving, I reassured the countess and jumped on the box. Hardly, however, had I taken the reins than the wheels of the carriage became wedged in the sand. I jumped off the box, and, seizing one of the leaders by the bridle, urged him forward with all my might. The animal made so violent an effort that he threw me down and dragged me some twenty paces; but as I held on for dear life, he ended by stopping, and, the carriage being thus released, we went on as fast as we could, continually in dread of pursuit, till we reached the house of Countess N——, who received us with the warmest kindness and hospitality. Our stay here, however, was not of long duration, for my poor friend, the Countess L——, was in an agony to return to her husband, who had been left alone in the castle; and so, at the risk of being again captured, we returned to Syez. Fortunately, this time we had no alarms on the road, and the joy of the family at their safe reunion was as great as their thankfulness.

But our happiness was short-lived. Although the count did not take any part in the insurrection, it was well known that his sympathies were with his people, and this was sufficient to make him a marked man with the Russian authorities. At last we heard from undeniable authority that his arrest had been determined upon, and that he had been already condemned to Siberia. Then followed a heartrending scene—his wife and children (whose whole future would have been wrecked had his deportation been carried into effect) imploring him to take refuge in Germany, where he had a small property, and to remain there till the storm was past; while he clung tenaciously to his old home and to his duties as a proprietor during the struggle. Finally, he yielded to our tears and entreaties; but before leaving he sent for me and solemnly commended his wife and children to my care. I swore to defend them or to die in the attempt. It was agreed that we were to watch our opportunity, and, if possible, obtain an escort so as to cross the frontier and rejoin the count as soon as we could. Three days only after his departure we received intelligence that the Russians were close to our gates and were going to insist on a domiciliary visit. I flew to the count’s private room and commenced making an _auto-da-fé_ of every compromising letter or paper I could find and of all suspected newspapers. Whilst I was fanning the flames the count’s sister came in, and, seeing what I was about, exclaimed with horror:

“O Mika! for God’s sake stop. You don’t know what you are doing. All Arthur’s gunpowder is hidden and stowed away in that chimney!”

I was almost paralyzed with fear, but I said:

“Fly for your life and get the countess and the children out of the house.” And then, with a fervent ejaculatory prayer to God, I tore the burning papers out of the grate before the flames had had time to ignite the gunpowder, which, luckily for me, had been carefully done up in packets and placed in a metal box. I managed to drag the papers into another fireplace, and had time to see that they were all burnt, and to conceal the tinder, before the Cossacks surrounded the house and summoned us to open the doors. Their officers made the most minute examination of everything, but found nothing that they could lay their hands on, and went away disgusted, while I escaped with a few trifling burns on my hands and arms.

A few days after this scene Mme. de I—— and I were sitting talking in the room where we generally met and waited before dinner, when the countess came in with an open letter in her hand and looking more sad and pale than usual. “What has happened?” we both exclaimed; and I added, smiling: “Are we condemned to the knout? Or do the Russians reserve us the honor of a hempen collar?” But my dismal pleasantry produced no response, and the poor lady silently came and sat down by me, taking my hand. After a pause she said:

“Mika, I have been unwittingly guilty of a great indiscretion. You know how miserably anxious I am for news of Arthur’s safety. A servant whom I had sent to the post, in hopes of finding a letter from him, brought me back this one; and, full of my cruel anxiety, I tore it open without looking at the address, being fully convinced it came from him.”

“Well?” I inquired, as she hesitated to go on.

“Well, this letter was a terrible disappointment. It wasn’t from Arthur at all, or for me, but for you, and from your own family, who, dreading the consequences of this sad insurrection, insist on your immediate return to France.”

“Is that all?” I asked, smiling.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I only read enough to find out my mistake, and I was so absorbed by my own anxiety that I hardly took in the meaning of the words at first.”

“But that is not what I ask,” I rejoined. “I want to know what there was in that letter which makes you look so sad.”

The countess’ eyes filled with tears. “I own, Mika, that the thought of losing you breaks my heart. You know, at the first moment of alarm, Miss B—— and Fräulein F—— left the children and returned to their homes. I fancied you would follow their example; but seeing you so brave and so ready to share in all our dangers, I had been completely reassured, until God allowed this letter to fall into my hands.”

“And what have you concluded from that letter?” I asked rather coldly.

“I have made up my mind, Mika, that it would be the height of selfishness on my part to strive to induce you to stay on with us in a country where desolation and terror reign supreme; where we are not safe from one moment to the other; where neither human nor divine laws are respected, and where even ladies are not spared the lash or the stake. Yesterday, as you well know, Countess P——, for having worn mourning for her brother, who had been massacred by the Russians, was flogged publicly in the market-place and hanged afterwards. Fly, then, my dearest Mika, while there is yet time. Already you have done far more than your duty. You have risked your life over and over again for us. I cannot, I must not, exact any further sacrifice. Leave us, Mika, leave us to our sad fate, and may God be with you!”

Here the poor wife and mother hid her face in her hands, and I saw great tears coursing down her cheeks through her clasped fingers. Mme. de I—— and the children, who had come in during the interval and had heard their mother’s words, clustered round me and cried too. When I could command my own voice I turned towards the countess and said: “Dearest madam! seven years have now elapsed since I first became an inmate of your home. When I arrived here, Poland, if not happy, was at least at peace, and I reckoned you among the limited number of the truly happy ones on this earth. You received me (I, whom a deep sorrow had driven from my native land) as a friend, as a child, as a sister; and this affection and consideration for me have never failed for a single moment. When the insurrection broke out your English governess left you; and I think she was right. A sacred duty was laid upon her—that of supporting her old mother, who lived entirely on her earnings. As to Fräulein F——, that is quite another matter. I expected she would go away on the very first alarm. With Prussians devotedness does not exist. I believe they have tomatoes in place of hearts! As for me, I have only one brother in the world, and he is good enough to think of me only when his purse is empty. I have, therefore, not the same excuse as Miss B——, still less that of Fräulein F——; for if I chose to live independently, the little fortune left me by my father would be enough for my wants. If I returned to Poland after his death it was to find the same disinterested love and affection I had left there. I have found more than a duty to fulfil: I have a debt of gratitude to pay; and I thank God for the portion he has assigned to me.”

“But your family?” again urged the countess, whose face began to brighten.

“Since my father and sister died,” I replied, “I do not consider I have any family claims. Now, listen to me, contessina,” I continued, clasping her two hands in mine. “God has put into my heart an inexhaustible treasure of devotedness and tenderness. He has given me likewise unusual courage and strength; and now I thank him that he has also given me the occasion to employ these, his gifts, in your service. Your husband is in exile; you are threatened in your home, in your children, in your property, and by everything around you; and you could imagine for a moment that, under such circumstances, I should go and abandon you! Thank God! that there never has been a stain yet on our family name, and my father, an old soldier, impressed upon me, from a child, the strongest feelings of duty and honor. I swear, therefore, in the sight of God, that as long as this war lasts your country shall be my country, your children shall also be mine, and as long as my heart beats not a hair of your dear head shall be touched! When happier days arise for Poland, and peace shall be restored, then, but not till then, I shall remember that France is my country, and that I have left well-beloved tombs on her soil.”

The countess threw her arms round me in a close embrace and cried on my shoulder. Mme. de I—— looked at me with the sweetest smile. “Thanks, Mika,” she murmured in a broken voice. “I never believed for a moment that you would leave us. You!”

The children seized hold of my hands and covered them with kisses. It was a moment of the purest happiness I had known on earth.

In proportion to the progress and extent of the insurrection the cruelty of the Russians increased. Every day brought new vexations or fresh tortures. We lived in constant fear, and our position became really insupportable. Almost every noble family in the neighborhood had fled and left the country, and we should long before have followed their example had it not been for the great distance we were from the railroad. The count had arrived safely at Dresden, whence he wrote imploring his wife to join him. But we were at least forty versts from the nearest station, and to go there without an escort would have exposed us inevitably to fall into the hands of the Russians, who had lately ranked emigration in the category of crimes of high treason. And how was it possible to form an escort? The peasants, in the pay of the _Raskolnicks_ (or old believers), would refuse to march, and the servants would, in all probability, have betrayed us. In vain I racked my brains to find some way out of this difficulty, and every day the danger became more imminent. Providence at last had pity upon us, and disposed events in a way which became eventually the salvation of those so dear to me.

Every evening, when the rest of the family were gone to bed, I went alone into the library to answer letters, verify the steward’s registers, and look after the accounts. In the absence of the count there was no one to see after these necessary duties but myself, and I looked upon them as my right. One night, when this work had kept me up later than usual, I heard some one knocking at the door. It was past midnight. I rose to open it, very much surprised at any one coming to me at that hour, and all the more as no servant would venture into that part of the house at night, as it was reported to be haunted. What was my astonishment at finding the countess herself outside the door in a pitiable state of agitation.

“O Mika!” she exclaimed, almost falling into my arms as I led her to a seat, “I am in the most horrible perplexity and anxiety. I have just received an entreaty to send a despatch instantly to General B——, my husband’s oldest and dearest friend. He is encamped with his squadron at Gory, on the property of Count Dembinski; and he does not know that eight hundred Russians are in the immediate neighborhood and have laid an ambush to surprise him. This despatch is to warn him of it; for he has only three hundred men with him, who will all be cut to pieces, if he should not be warned in time. Who knows? perhaps already it may be too late. But you, Mika, who are always so clear-headed—can you suggest anything? Can you advise me what to do?”

“But the man who brought this despatch,” I exclaimed—“where is he? Why cannot he go on instantly to Gory?”