The writer of the essay above quoted favors not only a return to the old Edwardian liturgy, but a revival of various other usages to which we need not more particularly refer than by saying that they all have a genuine Catholic flavor. He sees no reason, apart from prejudice, why Anglicans should not call their communion service by "the old English word 'Mass;" and he deprecates the Protestant custom of consuming at once all the bread and wine which are blessed for the Lord's Supper, without reserving any for the visitation of the sick. "Those who minister among the lowest poor in missionary work," he says, "can bear witness how distressing oftentimes are celebrations in the crowded and sick rooms of a town population." And he quotes an instance in which the Eucharist had to be consecrated for a dying man who occupied one corner of a crowded room tenanted by several other families. In another corner crouched a woman of the vilest class, and during the consecration unclean insects were crawling over the "fair white linen cloth" upon which the elements were laid. Can we wonder that to a minister who believes in the Real Presence, and in his own power to consecrate, a celebration such as this must seem like profanation?
If there were nothing in this ritualistic revival but an attempt to borrow the rich robes of faith and dress up in them the shrunken form of heresy, it would hardly be worth our attention. It is little to us whether the human laws of the realm of England permit the ministers of the Established Church to stand with their backs to the congregation or not; whether they may legally burn candles in daylight, or swing censers, or chant their prayers instead of saying them, or wear colored and embroidered vestments instead of the plain surplice and the black gown. Since they have taken the liberty to discard faith and obedience, one would think it of little matter that they should discard ceremonies also. After they have lost the substance, why should they care for the form? If they could abolish, for instance, the celibacy of the clergy, they had surely as good a right to abolish a red or green chasuble. Indeed, to be logical, they ought to ordain, alter, and abolish just what they please. But it is impossible not to see that there is a great deal more in this movement than a mere striving after beautiful and impressive forms. There is first a reawakening of the Catholic idea of public worship, and a rejection of the common Protestant theory. It is the Protestant principle, not always expressly acknowledged, but practically acted upon, that the primary object of a religious service is the edification of the people; it is the Catholic idea that the chief purpose of that service is the worship of Almighty God. The Englishman, Thomas Sampson, whose complaint to Peter Martyr touching lights and crucifixes, we quoted just now, says in the same letter: "What hope is there of any good when our friends are disposed to look for religion in those dumb remnants of idolatry, and not in thepreachingof the lively word of God?" And what is it but a recognition of this principle which causes most of the Protestant sects to lay such stress upon sermons as to make them the predominating feature of every service, and often gives their public prayers such a doctrinal and exhortatory character that they can hardly be distinguished from sermons except by the substitution of the phrase "Almighty God" for "Beloved brethren"? Now, the ritualists, whatever their shortcomings, are at any rate free from this absurdity. Sermon-hearing or meditation, says one of their late writers, may be salutary enough in its proper time and place, but it is not worship. Here, no doubt, is a great advance in the right direction. But this is not all.An essay "On the Eucharistic Sacrifice" in The Church and the World gives the Catholic doctrine still more explicitly, and acknowledges "that Christian worship is really the earthly exhibition of Christ's perpetual intercession as the sole high priest of his church, the sole acceptable presenter of the one worship of his one body in heaven and in earth, and that as such it culminates in his own mysterious presence, in and by the sacrament of his most precious body and blood."
In this recognition of the true functions of the Christian ministry, the true character of the worship which ought to be offered in God's holy temple, we may suppose the ritualists to be pretty well agreed. But doctrinally, they may be divided into two classes. With the one class, a gorgeous ritual is merely the gratification of an aesthetic or antiquarian taste; with the other it is the logical development of an advance in doctrine. The one class would bring back the practice of the Anglican Church to what it used to be in old days; the other would imitate the rites and ceremonies which were followed in the Catholic Church ages before Anglicanism was heard of.
The second class is, we believe, the more numerous, as it certainly is by far the more important of the two. Its views are set forth with frankness and decided ability in the volume which we have already quoted; and we are certain that no one can read these essays without feeling that the ritualists are legitimate successors of the tractarians of thirty years ago, and that there is promise of as much good from the agitation which they are leading as came from the great movement of Dr. Newman and Dr. Pusey. "Ritualism," says one of the essayists, "is not employed as a side-wind, by which to bring in certain tenets surreptitiously, but as the natural complement of those tenets after they have been long and sedulously inculcated." The burning of candles and incense is of very little moment, considered as a mere form, but it is of great moment when it is done as the ritualists do it for the sake of rendering honor to the real presence of our Lord. It is of no consequence what order of words or what gestures or what dress the Anglican minister uses in reading the communion office, because he has not the priestly character, and if he followed literally the missal itself, he could not celebrate a valid mass. But if he comes as close to the missal as he can, by way of testifying that he believes in the doctrines stated and symbolized in the missal; if he imitates the ceremonies of the daily Christian sacrifice, in order to show his belief in the sacrificial character of the Eucharist, that fact becomes of serious importance, and indicates a genuine progress toward truth, at which every good Catholic ought to rejoice. The practice of auricular confession is not new in the Anglican Church; but it acquires additional significance when it is spoken of, as it is in the Church and the Word, by the name of "the sacrament of penance," for the Church of England recognizes no sacraments except baptism and the supper of the Lord.
If there is any name which a genuine ritualist really hates it is that of Protestant. The avowed purpose of the advanced school is to unprotestantize the Church of England; and the writer just quoted speaks of having found comfort at a time of spiritual doubt and trial, in the belief that the English Church was still a part of the Catholic Church, "unless she sinned sufficiently at the reformation to justify Rome in cutting her off." "Our place is appointed us," says the same essayist, "among Protestants and in a communion deeply tainted in its practical system by Protestant heresy; but our duty is the expulsion of the evil, and not flight from it, any more than it is a duty for those to leave the Roman Church who become conscious also of abuses within her system." The Church of England indeed, has but a weak hold upon the faith or affection of the ritualists of this school.We find the XXXIX. Articles spoken of as "those Protestant articles tacked on to a Catholic liturgy, those forty stripes save one, as some have called them,
laid on the back of the Anglican priesthood;" and in the same book we are told that "the universal church, and not the Church of England, is becoming the standard to which doctrine and practice must be conformed, and the advantages in many respects of other divisions of it over our own are becoming recognized." Prepared as many of these men are to accept the doctrines of the church in every particular except the supremacy of the Pope and the immaculate conception of the blessed Virgin, and to follow her discipline even to clerical celibacy, religious vows, and sacramental confession, can we doubt that there is hope of their overcoming the remaining obstacles to their conversion, and that the London Weekly Register is right when it calls this "the most important religious crisis that England has witnessed since the so-called Reformation."
And even in the vagaries of the other branch of ritualists, the church milliners, if we may be allowed the expression, who imagine they are bringing back their errant sect to the honest life of old, when they copy the forms and ceremonies, the lights and vestures, the incense and the chants of the primitive liturgy, without conforming to the doctrines which these observances are intended to symbolize; who set up as their standard of conformity not the universal church as she has been through all ages, but the Anglican establishment as it was in its infancy, before it had quite forgotten Catholic truth and propriety; even in the hollow ritualism of this school, we say, there is cause for gratification. Unlike the builders of material temples, who must work up from base to summit, these ecclesiastical architects can sometimes construct their foundation after the superstructure is finished. The mere copying of sacred forms is apt to lead them to the sacred faith and spirit; and, any way, it is something gained to know that one can bend before a crucifix without breaking the commandments, and that frankincense is not an abomination in the sight of the Lord.
O Tree, how strong thy branches are,To bear such wondrous, weighty fruit!"Hestrength imparts."Than all, thy fruit is sweeter far.What genial soil doth feed thy root?"Men's loving hearts."
"To be an artist . . . .It is his hope, his faith, his ambition."
Genius, however great, will not make a man famous unless he works for fame. Robert felt this and had strength, perseverance, and courage to labor, for he was poor and of obscure name, and he knew what he could do, and was determined to do it. But, like all who struggle through this life, he had his depressions and his griefs, which he bore bravely; and if discouragement ever glided into his soul, he instantly resorted to prayer, and peace and repose would then spread their wings over him. He imposed upon himself the strict obligation of never wasting a moment of time, and chained himself to his work, as a galley slave is chained; accepting his present life, mercenary and prosaic as it is, with perfect resignation and happiness, feeling that God has made it thus, and that he must be thankful for it. Existence was a happiness to him, for his heart was good, and duty was to him perfect joy; and knowing he was necessary to the happiness of Madame Gaudin, he devoted himself to her as a son. By degrees her strength returned, and at last she was able to resume the management of the household, which placed more time at Robert's disposition, and his mind, rid of these cares, regains its elasticity and primitive vigor. Artistic reveries come back, the fire of creative inspiration fills his soul, and he stands before his canvas, on which the faint outlines of the Virgin are traced. Then another dream seizes him, and hours and days and weeks of patient labor are necessary to faithfully bring out his ideas, and at first all is chaos; but slowly the canvas becomes animated, and finally Robert, like Pygmalion, stands in ecstasy before his work. His body trembles with enthusiasm, his eyes moisten, his knees give way under him—and why this emotion? He has faithfully presented the scene where, between God and his mother, his happy childhood was passed. The picture is astonishingly and wonderfully true. Here stands out boldly the savage grandeur of Ecorcharde, with its rugged sides and deep ravines—there the valley through which the silver waters of the Dordogne run—the village of Bains—the church spire, the rectory—and all the crowning glory of this mountain, its woods and sombre verdure. There the little house where Robert had lived for twelve years, and, at the extremity of the valley, the peak of Sauci, which majestically crowned the whole. The memory of the young artist is faithful, and he forgets nothing. Standing on a clearing on the mountain side is a woman, and a child is playing near her; it is Robert and his mother. The sun is just sinking below the horizon, and sheds upon the scene the glory of its waves of gold and purple. Each day Robert gave many hours to this picture, in which he relived his childhood's days; and, when completed, it was a perfect masterpiece of grace and taste, and finished with much care. His touch was fresh and bold—the animals that reposed in the valley were perfect, the trees of exquisite foliage, and the lights and shades of delicious harmony.
One morning the young painter was at work, bringing out a stronger effect of light on his picture, when a loud knock at the door drew him from his work. He opened it, and standing before him was his late master.
"Where have you been, my dear Robert?" asked the illustrious artist; "I have been so uneasy about you. Tell me why you have not been in my studio for so long a time?"
Robert, touched by this mark of interest, given with so much affability and simplicity, replied by a recital of the painful position in which he had been thrown by the sickness of Madame Gaudin, and told in such warm terms of her generous conduct to him, that the artist did not know which to admire most—the lively gratitude of the one, or beautiful devotion of the other.
The artist grasped his hand, and, pressing it warmly, said, "You have done your duty, and can never reproach yourself with ingratitude." Then, turning toward the picture, he explained, "Can this be your work? It is wonderful?" After a few moments, in which he was perfectly absorbed, he said, "Robert, you are ignorant of your talent; you know more than I do, and must be a great painter ere long." Then, clasping the stupefied young man in his arms, be pressed him to his heart in a generous transport of admiration.
Madame Gaudin, who had gone out to buy provisions for the day, stopped at the open door to ask what it could all mean; and when she understood what they were speaking about, she felt a great joy, and exclaimed, "I knew it; I knew he would be a great painter." Her excess of happiness made her steps a little trembling and uncertain; and, without caring for the presence of the stranger, she said to Robert, "God will bless thee, my boy; God will recompense thy Christian virtues, and all the affection thou hast had for a poor old woman like me." Then, noticing the artist, she said, "I cannot help it; excuse me, sir, but I must embrace him, I must press him to my heart, and then I will be content."
Robert yielded to her caresses in a manner which attested better than words the sincerity of his attachment for the worthy woman.
The approbation and praises given his work by his master made a profound impression on the mind of Robert.
"My dear boy," said the artist, "I will buy your picture at a good price. Each one of us should aid others to find the road on which he has gathered the flowers of fortune. God has blessed my work and made me rich, but I cannot enjoy the favors of fortune alone; I must aid others, and share with them the riches that God has loaned me. My purse, my credit, my protection are yours to-day, and I want you to use them without hesitation, for I cherish you as a pupil and love you as a friend. When I pay the debt of life, I hope to endow a great painter. Work, then, my boy; work for glory; you are now on the road to fame, and it will lead you to fortune." Before leaving he put in Madame Gaudin's hand a well-filled purse, and said, "Keep silence; say nothing of this to Robert."
Robert had another joy on this eventful day. Toward night he was going on an errand for Madame Gaudin, and near the Pont Neuf, by the Place Dauphine, he heard the voice of a man uttering a kind of lament for Napoleon. The voice was loud and strong, and in its modulations there was so much sorrow that he hastened toward the man, to see if his features verified a suspicion that came across his mind. He knew he had seen this man before. He was a street singer; and the longer he listened to him, the more convinced was he in his belief. Soon his eyes were fixed on a large wound in his forehead, and, no longer doubting, he called out, "O Cyprien! my good Cyprien!" at the same time holding out his hand.
"Pardon—excuse me—I do not know you."
"But are you not Cyprien Hardy, ex-grenadier of the Imperial Guards?" said Robert.
"I am no other person; but I can't remember to have seen you before."
"I remember you," said Robert, with expression. "The little orphan that you took before the palace at Fontainebleau and conducted to Paris, although eight years ago, has not forgotten his protector and friend, and now wishes to shake hands with him; you will not refuse me that pleasure surely?"
"Ah! truly no—a thousand times no—I cannot refuse. Touched there," said he, putting his hand on his heart, "I know it is Robert who speaks to me; my little Robert, grown to be a man. You have changed much, young man, and so have I; but that does not matter; I have suffered cruelly. Oh my loved emperor! if I could only go to him."
"Come with me," said Robert; "we can talk entirely as we please when alone; come with me and I will take you to a person who knows you already, and who, I am certain beforehand, will be glad to see you."
The idle and curious people who were standing by when this touching recognition took place all walked off and left the place clear to our friends.
"A thousand thunders, Mister Robert, you are no prouder now in Paris than when we came in together, but you walk too fast for my old legs."
"Pardon me, Cyprien," said he, stopping quickly, "but I am so anxious to get you home that I forget you may be fatigued and may need my arm. Take it, my friend, for it is sure, like my affection for you; take it and we can walk faster. I am afraid Madame Gaudin will be uneasy if I stay out so long, and I do not like to give her the least uneasiness."
"Oh!" said the soldier, stretching up, for he was bent more by grief than years, "you are a worthy young man, and not proud at all. You do not blush to give your arm to a brigand of the Loire; for that is what we poor soldiers who regret our emperor are called. But tell me, who is this Madame Gaudin—what in the deuce do you call her?"
"Gaudin, my good Cyprien."
"Gaudin! Oh! well, I suppose she is some particular person, is she?"
"She is a good and excellent woman, to whom I owe all that I am, and who has made every sacrifice for me, and whom I love with all my heart."
"Ah! I understand; it is a widow that wants to catch you?"
"Oh! no, my good Cyprien," said Robert, laughing; "it is a person that you know, the old housekeeper of the lamented Abbé Verneuil. You know the priest who gave me so sweet a welcome when I arrived in Paris, and who placed me at the house of Madame de Vernanges?"
"Yes, yes; it comes back to my memory now, and I took a bitter hatred against her the day I pulled the door bell at the curé's. She looked at me with a pair of eyes that shone like balls of fire, because I twisted my mustache when I spoke to her. Well, what has become of the priest?"
"Alas! he is dead, and much too soon for me. Oh! it was one of my dark days, Cyprien."
"The same as mine for my emperor. I weep for him as you weep for the curé."
"We have good reason, my friend, to remember such men, and to forget them would be to forget ourselves."
"So you tell me, old Gaudin is living with you?"
"No, no; I should have told you I lived with the dear, good woman; for since the death of the abbé this generous woman has provided for all my wants, spent for me her hard savings, and in every way tried to console me for what I had lost. Yes, my friend, this good Madame Gaudin pushed forward my taste for drawing and painting; and I thank her from the depths of my heart, and can say without vanity that these sacrifices have not been lost. I am rejoiced that I can give her some happiness, and it may be that in the turning of the wheel of fortune I may gain wealth, and all that I have and all that I may ever have shall be hers, for she has done everything for me."
"Certainly," said Cyprien, "and I embrace the good woman with my heart," mounting slowly as he said it, the four steps that led to their house. Robert had gone in ahead of him and returned with Madame Gaudin, who received the old soldier kindly, and feasted him as a friend, making his lonely and bruised heart feel happier than it had for a long time. After supper Robert asked him to tell them all that had happened him since they last met.
"There is but one subject for me, my dear Robert," said he, "and that is my emperor. I have so much joy and so much sorrow when I pronounce this cherished name; I am so moved when I recall the days when fortune abandoned him, that it is almost better for me not to revert to the subject; but, since you wish it, I will commence. When we had seen the last of the Little Corporal, and I found I could do nothing more for him, I commenced singing his praises through the streets, even at the risk of being imprisoned; and now he is dead," said he, with a melancholy air—"died on that lonely rock where he was held a captive, and the only hope I have left is in heaven."
He looked so tired now that Robert made him go to bed, and before he was up in the morning ran out and brought him suitable clothes, so that when he awakened he found new ones instead of the rags he had laid on his bed. "I want Cyprien to stay with me," said Robert, "for he has been a faithful soldier, and I am young, and can work for us both;" but it was a difficult matter to get his consent for this arrangement, and he had to tell him many times that he would be so useful to him, and that he really needed him before he would accept the offer. Finally he agreed to become an inmate of the modest household. He mixed colors for the young painter, rendered little services to Madame Gaudin, who did all she could to aid Robert to make him happy. From this time God seemed to open to him the treasures of the choicest favors, and to spread them in profusion on the head of the young painter. Warmly recommended to the world by the great artist who had been his master, esteemed for his excellent conduct, and justly appreciated for his talent, which was now burning in all its lustre, he could look forward to a happy future. His mother's prediction was being gradually accomplished, and this aided him. Whenever he sat down to composing, he first implored the assistance of God, with the firm belief that it would not be refused; and it was not, for the blessed Lord crowns with benefits those who serve him with love. Nothing gives courage like the certainty of success; and, full of an indefatigable ardor for his art, he worked hard, disdaining the vain pleasures of the world, and his labor was recompensed. As he advanced in age, the love of his art consumed him the more, and in place of the wild enthusiasm he felt at first he was filled with a deep and serious sentiment, and wanted to study the old masters under the bright sky of Italy. The only drawback he had ever had to his dreams of studying there was the thought of leaving Madame Gaudin alone; but now that Cyprien was with her, he would keep her company during his absence. He was too firmly convinced of the old man's affection to doubt for a moment that he would fail to fulfill any instructions he might give him; but before leaving France he wished to visit his native mountain, and pray on the grave of his mother. He was now twenty-one years of age, and had not forgotten the package he was to receive when he attained his majority, and which he felt sure contained some instructions from his well-beloved mother, which it would he a pleasure for him to obey. After quieting his fears about Cyprien and poor Madame Gaudin, he wiped away the tears of the good woman, embraced her tenderly, and, after receiving Cyprien's promise to take good care of the charge confided to his friendship, Robert set out for l'Auvergne.
* * * * * *"She sleeps—all is silent now,No more heart-beats."
The most touching and beautiful affection in the world is that for parents, for their homes, and their graves. A child who reveres his mother's memory will keep his name free from blemish; for a good name is a precious heritage, and the remembrance of virtues in either father or mother will shield against bad actions like an impenetrable buckler. But, alas! a veneration for the names of our fathers is no longer in honor among men. Family homesteads are ruthlessly destroyed by those who forget that every stone is sacred to some tender memory; and it seems now that cool indifference has replaced that sweet affection which of old united parents and children. How common a thing it is in the present day to see children disrespectful to those who have given them birth; and to what can this perversion of heart, which chills all natural feelings, be attributed but a want of religious training, that sanctifying, purifying power which is based upon God's holy will and divine commandments; and faith, hope, and charity, the celestial virtues which ought to fill all hearts?
With Robert, advancing years had not weakened in his soul the tender veneration be avowed for the memory of his mother and her virtues. It was to the principles she had instilled into his mind that he was indebted for his present prosperity and happiness, for, though genius is the inestimable gift of God, it needs guidance and consecration; and all the pious sentiments which were afterward developed in his soul were from the seeds sown by that angel mother.
Robert took the road to Clermont, and could have flown the entire distance, so eager was he to get to his old home. And again and again doubts would fill his mind as to whether he would find the loved grave; whether pitiless time would not in nine years, have effaced the letters which traced the name of his mother? Clermont at last appeared in the distance, then the village of Bains, and then he was at the door of the rectory, standing with a beating heart to see a loved face, but the door is opened by a strange priest, from whom he learns that the venerable curé whom he sought was dead, but in dying he left instructions to his successor; begging that Madame Dormeuil's grave should not be neglected, which gave Robert but another proof of his imperishable love. After obeying the first wish of his heart and visiting his mother's grave, he obtained the papers which concerned him, and, opening them with emotion, read as follows:
"My dear son: I did not wish you to know the contents of these papers until you were twenty-one, because it seemed to me that before this time you would hardly comprehend them, and I thought it best to wait until you had experience and maturity of judgment. You know we are rarely willing to take the experience of others for our instruction; believing that what shipwrecked them we would have been wise enough to have avoided; that we would have acted better, reasoned better, than those who have preceded us on the perilous sea called the world. The blind lead the blind, and when we fall we are astonished. It is so with all men. Being feeble, they think they are strong; being dependent, they think they are free; being powerless, they think they are creatures of genius. But thou, my dear child, wilt have more strength than those who repose in themselves the care of their conduct, and do not invoke God to light them with his divine rays. In the moment of trial they fall; it happened so to me, my son, when I took my own feeble reason for my guide. But, though I have no grave faults to reproach myself for, it is not the less true that I have compromised thy future, and forgotten my duties as a wife and my duties as a Christian, for I have not been indulgent and forgetful of injuries.To-day, by God's grace, I am calm. I judge myself more severely then he will judge me, and I feel guilty and cannot excuse myself to thy eyes, by my youth, inexperience, and the isolation in which I found myself, when I claimed the right of breaking the links which I ought to have respected for my son. But it was my fault, and I will have the courage to tell you all—to confess all my sins, and then ask for pardon. Dormeuil is not thy name, my child; it is mine, the name of my father, a plebeian name, but without blemish. Thy name is De Verceil, and thy father is the Count Sosthène de Verceil. At ten years of age, I lost my father; my mother died in giving me birth, and I was left to the charge of an aunt who was my only relative. This worthy woman was not rich, but an annuity left her by her husband and the revenue from some savings placed her above want, and her kind heart pitied my orphanage, and she shared everything with me. I owe to her five years of happiness, and oh! that it were more; her counsels and her tenderness would have spared me the regrets I feel at this hour. She had placed me in a school of great renown, wishing, she said, to leave me, in lieu of fortune, a good education. Notwithstanding my plebeian name I had a crowd of friends of rich and noble heritage, for youth never thinks of the differences in rank or the prerogatives of birth; and it was thus that I became the friend of an amiable young girl, Helena de Verceil. Her brother came to see her often, and, as we were inseparable, I was generally present at these visits. I was a simple and candid girl, and these traits made a profound impression on the young count, and when I left the school some months after Helena I continued to see him from time to time, at his sister's house, for she was married immediately after leaving school. Young, ardent, impetuous, and unused to any resistance, the count fell easily into the snare which was held out to his inexperience by an irresistible tenderness. His passion, far from calming, grew stronger each day, and he resolved to overcome all obstacles and ask to marry me, although his age and his tastes were far from this grave determination. With his fortune and hand, he came to beg my aunt's consent, and to pray that she would not defer his happiness. Overwhelmed with joy at so brilliant and advantageous an offer for her niece, she gave her consent, for in all her dreams for the daughter of her cherished brother she had never caressed so sweet an illusion as this. She accepted it with the more gratitude as she knew she had a mortal malady which would soon leave me alone, in the midst of the manifold dangers that assail youth. In taking for his wife an obscure and poor girl the count was alienated from all his family, and his proud and noble parents would not pardon this unworthymesalliance. He could, they said, have married a woman of rank and wealth, but this unprofitable union to the eyes of people blinded by their titles, whatever may have been the qualities of heart, was nothing and worse than nothing. He could obtain no favor from them, after putting so dark a spot on their escutcheon. These humiliations and insults would have had no effect upon me, could I have been consoled by the tender affection of my aunt, who saw but too late that wealth does not give happiness; and in less than two years after my marriage I was called to mourn her loss. The love of the count was soon extinguished, and men are very apt to be ungrateful and cruel when they cease to love. His conduct soon proved that he had only formed for me an ephemeral attachment, but I loved him above everything, and with all the energy of my soul; and this love increased when I became a mother, and I dared to believe that this title imposed by nature, and so dear to most men, would touch the heart of my husband, but the paternal sentiment could not triumph over the aversion the count felt for her whom, in a moment of insensate passion, he had taken for his wife.For one moment a ray of joy burned in his eyes when he saw that he had an inheritor; it was the pride of having a son, nothing more. He soon left my side, and I saw no more of him, except in the rare moments he consecrated to thee. Carried away in a round of pleasures, stifling in the noise of revelry the cries of conscience, regretting his liberty, furious at finding himself tied to a woman who was the only obstacle to his ambitious desires, be wished to give the half of his fortune to get clear of me; he overwhelmed me with reproaches, and flew into furious rages about my being the cause of his misfortunes.
"One day, after a fit of fury, in which he had treated me most cruelly, he said, 'I do not wish you to nourish this child any more; I am not going to have him raised by you!' These words struck me dumb. I had you in my arms, my dear Robert, and I resolved to keep you there, and fly with you to where he could not find me. I had laid by the sum of four thousand francs, which my aunt had left me, and some savings from my father's pension, with the jewels my husband gave me at our marriage. These I sold, and that, added to the rest, made ten thousand francs. I filled a trunk with the clothing which was absolutely necessary for us, leaving behind all luxuries, and all ornaments and jewels, save a portrait of thy father, which is in a small medallion set in pearls, and may aid you to recognize him. All my preparations being made, I waited until the servants had gone to their evening meal, and then, with a thousand precautions, left by a stairway which led to the vestibule. It was scarcely night when I came out and found a stage to take my baggage and myself. I did not know at first where to go, but I wanted to fly far from the city where I had suffered so much, and to assure myself of keeping my child; this was my only thought, my only desire. In thinking over where I should go, I remembered that my parents were originally of l'Auvergne, and in my childhood I had heard my father describe this part of France, and, above all, the baths of Mount Dore. I hesitated no longer, taking the road to Clermont, but filled with the most horrid fears. Each time the stage stopped I fancied I saw the angry figure of thy father, and that he jerked thee from my arms. What I suffered during this journey I can never express to you. A thousand terrors, shudderings, and anguishes of all kinds agitated me, until I feared I should lose my reason. If anyone looked at me, I thought they knew my secret, and was ready to scream with horror. The gallop of a horse made me tremble and think I was overtaken, and my emotion would have betrayed me had the passengers been interested in watching my movements. Every unknown person I suspected as an enemy, and the remembrance of those hours of my life is still so vivid that they even now fill me with horror. However, I arrived at Clermont without accident, and remained there long enough to inform myself of the chances of being able to find a small house to let, in the neighborhood of the baths of Mount Dore. Here the first years of thy life were passed, and no remarkable event has ever troubled our happy solitude. What I have most dreaded was that I might have to return to the world, but God spares me this; he will take me soon. Thou canst now judge of my anguish at the thought of being separated from thee, and the desolation of my soul, that I know will soon leave thee alone in the world. O my child! in this hour, when my love redoubles its strength and struggles against death to enjoy some moments more of thy sweet society, I weep bitterly at the loneliness I have made for thee. I may, perhaps, exaggerate my wrongs; I may have acted badly; but when the moment comes when I will appear before my sovereign Judge, to render an account for all my actions, if I reproach myself with voluntarily throwing off the yoke which weighed me down, I will say also, with the same frankness, that I rejoice to have raised thee far from the world's corruptions and would rather leave thee alone in life than surrounded by wicked men.I have tried to instil good principles into thy mind, and I know that thou fearest and lovest God and will cherish my memory, and the heart is the talisman that will preserve thee from evil. I have the firm conviction that thou wilt never forget the sublime teachings of religion, and that it will ever guide thee in the right way. Pardon me, my son, for having deprived thee of thy father's caresses and protection; and as I have need of thy indulgence, I will be indulgent to others, and efface all remembrance of what I have suffered, and will think only of the happiness thou hast given me. Then, if it pleases God that thou shouldst ever find thy father, tell him that I pardoned him long ago, but that I never forgave myself for my conduct to him. Tell him that to the last hour of my life I regretted I could not make him happy; and, if remorse should fill his heart, console him, my child, be to him an angel of mercy, be prodigal of thy cares and tenderness, for repentance is a second baptism; it is the regeneration of the soul. When thou wilt read the lines I now trace with trembling hand, it will be long after I have bid adieu to the transitory things of time. Thou wilt be a man and subject to passions. If thou art pure, God be blessed a thousand times; if thou art feeble, repent sincerely and call upon God to assist thee. Respect, above all things, the purity of affection. Hold out thy hand to help all who need encouragement and pity. A word of compassion does more good than severity and reproach. What can I say more, but what thou knowest better than I do? for I have seen little of the world, and what I have seen makes me regard it with horror. Flee from the wicked, from whom nothing can be gained and all lost. Whatever career you may choose, fill it with honor and credit. Happiness consists neither in feasting nor the brilliancy of riches; it is in the life within, in doing good and making others happy, and in laying up treasures in heaven. Recall often the sweet and peaceful joys of thy childhood, the twelve years of thy life which will forever be engraven in thy heart. May these simple pleasures inspire thee with wisdom to choose between the burning, wasting pleasures of a vain world, and the pure joys of retirement."
Thus finished the letter.
"O my precious mother!" cried Robert, raising his eyes toward heaven, "if thou wert living, I would say to thee, with lively gratitude, 'Thou hast done well;' for, if I am exempt from the passions of youth, it is to thy tender care that I owe it; it is to thy love and thy virtues that I am indebted for that peace of mind which makes my whole life happy. O my good mother! thy memory will ever be for me a precious talisman, and thy least desires and wishes will be sacred orders for thy son; and I swear by thy revered memory to try and find my father, if the Lord will permit me."
To the confession of his mother were joined the register of the birth of Robert and the marriage of Mlle. Stephanie Dormeuil with the Count Sosthène de Verceil. Though Robert had the right to take his father's name, be did not wish it. He preferred the more humble one of his mother, and hoped, by his talent, to raise it above the noble one of his father; to efface its original plebeianism under a crown of fame. This was the generous idea of a good son, who wished to avenge the contempt his mother had received from his noble grandparents. He had now but this desire, and determined the maternal name should be cited among the illustrious.
After one more visit to the grave of his mother, and another to his loved mountain, the little house, and all the place, which spoke so eloquently of her, he set out for the classic land of Italy, the cradle of the arts and sciences.
"A man may lose in a momentHis glory, empire, and dazzling throne."—Victor Hugo.
Robert, after having lingered long on the shores of Lake Geneva, in the city and its environs, so rich in natural beauties, and having admired the grandeur of the Alps, and, above all, Mount Blanc, the Jura, and Mount Salère, arrived at Saint René, a small village at the foot of the Great St. Bernard. This was the 20th of May, 1824.
The young painter wished to pass the night at the convent with the monks, so he asked for a guide, but was told that they only started in the morning to take travellers to that high point, and the innkeeper advised him to wait until the next day; but he was not willing to take this advice, as time was so precious to him that a day passed in inaction was an irreparable loss. So be started out through the village to look for a guide, but the man had told him the truth—there was not a guide to be found. Robert expressed so much regret at his disappointment to a worthy old man that he replied:
"If it were any other day Joseph would conduct monsieur better than anyone else, for be was the oldest guide, but unfortunately he could not do it, for it was the 20th of May, and this day he always spends at church in praying for his benefactor. But if you will go to his house you can see him; it is down there," at the same time pointing to a pretty little cottage with a garden in front. "A famous history, monsieur, that of Joseph, and if he goes up with you, be will tell it you, and I must not take up more of your time."
"I am much obliged for your information, my good man, and will try and put it to profit." Then he took the road toward the house, and soon reached it, but imagine his disappointment to find it closed! As he was turning to leave, he met a man of about fifty years of age, with a woman, still fresh and beautiful, leaning on his arm, and they seemed to be absorbed in each other; and in looking at them Robert forgot for a moment the guide he was seeking. They stopped at the gate, and were about entering it when he asked, "Is this the man Joseph of whom I was told—the guide up the mountain?"
"At your service, sir," replied he. "I am the person; do you wish to be taken there?"
"I do, but they told me at the village that you could not be induced to go on the 20th of May, but I thought I would ask for myself, and I assure you I will be very grateful if you can make this sacrifice in my favor, for I have the greatest desire to pass the night with the good monks." His amiable and polite manner had won the favor of the guide, but still he was undecided. Robert, seeing his hesitation, begged him to give his consent.
"It seems a little late to start," said the guide, reflecting and looking as if he did not care to go.
"Oh, we can walk fast," said Robert gayly.
"Well, I find I must give up to you," said he, half sadly, half smiling. "Come in the house, sir, while I change my clothes, and you may flatter yourself with having gained a victory. It has been many years since I put my foot on the mountain on the anniversary of this great day. It has been twenty-four years since then."
Robert was looking at a picture while he spoke, representing Napoleon mounted on a mule, climbing up the Saint Bernard, escorted by a guide.
"Aye, aye," said Joseph with emphasis, "this is my history—that guide who walks by the side of the first consul is me, I had the honor of conducting him."
"Indeed," cried Robert, "oh! do tell me about it. If my poor Cyprien was only here, how delighted he would be to hear of the emperor he loves so much."
"Is this Cyprien one of his faithful soldiers, sir?"
"Yes, and he is more than that; he is one of those soldier heroes who would give the last drop of their heart's blood for the emperor. I have had the happiness, with God's aid, to have saved from misery this noble wreck of imperial glory, for he was indeed miserable when he lost his emperor."
"Well, my good young man, that decides me at once, for, since you have saved one of the old soldiers of the emperor, I can refuse you nothing, for I loved him also, and had good reasons for so doing. We will start, and on the way I will tell you to whom I am indebted for this pretty little house, so good a wife, and children, that make all my joy. We must go rapidly, or we will run the risk of a storm, for we have only time to arrive before night, and in our mountains storms come up very suddenly." Then turning to his wife, he embraced her and said, "Don't be uneasy, Margaret, I will return to-morrow." They walked briskly, and soon left the village behind them, and the guide commenced his history.
"Twenty-four years ago, our valley was not so peaceful as it now is. It was invaded by French troops, whose tumult was rather a strange contrast to the usual noise of the mountains—the roar of the tempest and the moving of the avalanches. The guides all became worn out with fatigue, and one morning I was ordered out. I did not receive the order with much pleasure, but I was young, poor, and unfortunately in love with the most beautiful girl in the valley. The officer whom I was to guide wore a three-cornered hat, and enveloped in a sort of gray riding coat. He had with him two other gentlemen, but be rode first, and I was at his side. He was rather singular, and did not seem to know or care where he was, though we were above frightful precipices which gave the bravest a vertigo, but he was as tranquil as if on a lounge in his chamber. It seemed so strange to me that he had no fear and was so silent. But after awhile he spoke to me, questioned me about my life, my pleasures, my troubles. His manner was so winning that I told him everything, and when on the chapter of my loves told him I would die if I could not marry Margaret.
"Well," said he, smiling, "why not marry her then?"
"For a very simple reason," I replied. "I am poor and she is rich, and I cannot obtain the prize until I have a house and garden."
He listened eagerly, then questioned me a great deal, and at last fell into a a reverie, and remained silent and absorbed, until we arrived at the convent, where the good monks came out to receive us. I did not pay much attention to this, I was so chagrined. A little time after, the officer came to me with a letter, which he directed me to take to the headquarters of the army, on the other side of the mountain. I went and returned in the evening from Saint Pierre with the answer. Imagine my surprise and mortification when I found that the person with whom I had spoken so familiarly was none other than the first consul, and his companions were General Duroe and Secretary Bourrienne. I was terrified, thinking I should be thrown into prison for daring to speak so familiarly to my superior. What an end to my fears! The first consul gave me for my trouble a house, garden, and money, so that all my dreams were in an instant realized. I could now marry Margaret, and I was so completely overcome with joy that I thought it was a miracle. This great man did all for me, and you can now see why I love the emperor, and why all my happy remembrances are dated from the 20th of May.
This was only one of the many kind acts of Napoleon during his glorious life; and if we are electrified in reading of his high military deeds, how much more touching are those simple charities which show the beauty of his soul, and the goodness and generosity of his heart, that will ever render his memory immortal.