“Dese ish de brinciples I holts,And dose in vitch I run:Dey ish fixed firm and immutapleAsh te course of de ‘ternal sun:Boot if you ton’t abbrove of dem—Blease nodice vot I say—I shall only be too happyTo alder dem right afay.â€[149]
“Dese ish de brinciples I holts,And dose in vitch I run:Dey ish fixed firm and immutapleAsh te course of de ‘ternal sun:
Boot if you ton’t abbrove of dem—Blease nodice vot I say—I shall only be too happyTo alder dem right afay.â€[149]
From an editorial leader of May 25, we hear that theWeeklyis in receipt of abusive and threatening letters from various persons in the Southern States, the cause assigned for which rude conduct is “the statement inour editorial of March 4, to the effect that civil war between theFree States on one side and the Slave States on the otherwill inevitably, sooner or later, become a war of emancipation,†etc., etc. The reader may notice here that the expression, “Free States on one side and the Slave States on the other,†just as clearly and forcibly puts forth the doctrine of state sovereignty and the right of secession, as does the title of Alexander Stephens’s late work, which, in the smallest of nut-shells, gives the same doctrine in the few words,The War between the States. But what is of as great importance is that the contingent danger of emancipation was not presented by the journal at so early a date asMarch 4. There is no such editorial of March 4, there is no editorial of any kind of March 4, and, moreover, there was no number ofHarper’s Weeklypublished on that date. The editorial referred to appearedMay 4. And here we would frankly say that we are quite willing to accept this March 4 for May 4 as the result of mistake, oversight, or careless proof-reading.
With the abusive and threatening letters came advices that “In Tennesseevigilance committees forbid its (Harper’s) being sold.†“In Louisiana, the governor prohibits its distribution through the post-office.†And now, the Harpers, like Macbeth, have heard enough, and, seized with the frenzy of patriotism, thunder after this fashion:
“As forHarper’s Weekly, it will continue,as heretofore, to support the government of the United States,[150]the stars and stripes,[151]and the indivisible union[152]of thirty-four states.
“We know no other course[153]consistent with the duty of citizens, Christians, and honest men. If any subscriber to this journal expects us to give our aid or countenance to rebellion[154]against the government, he will be disappointed. If any man buys this journal expecting to find us apologize for treason,[155]robbery, rebellion, piracy, or murder, he will be disappointed. That is not our line of business. The proprietors ofHarper’s Weeklywould rather stop this journal to-morrow than publish a line in it which would hereafter cause their children to blush for the patriotism or the manhood of their parents.â€
This sharp change of sentiment, this sudden right-about face, may be best illustrated by the notes we have appended and by the utterances of theJournalbefore and after certain occurrences.
It begins by stating that Virginia affirms “the right of a state to secede from the Union at will,†and that Missouri and Kentucky “declare that, in the event of forcible measures by the general government to resist the dismemberment of the Union, they will take sides with the seceded states.â€
“It seems questionable,†continues theWeekly, “whether the continued alliance of these states, on these conditions, is an unmixed gain. If this Union of ours is a confederacy of states which is liable to be dissolved at the will of any of the states, and if no power rests with the general government to enforce its laws, it would seem that we have been laboring under a delusion these eighty years in supposing that we were a nation, and the fact would appear to be that,†etc., etc., etc.
Portrait of the typical Northern man in contrast with the typical Southern man, in which the first is described as mean, avaricious, and unprincipled. “Cotton Pork is a Northern man, mostly from New England, though often transplanted to New York, and doing well in our climate. Some varieties of his genius have been tried at the South, but they don’tthrive there. They can’t stand so much sun.â€
“At the South—an odd region—dollars are well thought of, to be sure, but still they don’t govern.... It seems ridiculous, but people talk and think much more about honor at the South than about dollars.â€
Cotton Pork, we are told, “isfor his country if dollars are on his country’s side, otherwise he crawls on his belly to lick the feet of the enemy who offers him dollars.â€
“Strange how differently they talk down South! They spend no energy in denouncing civil war. They do not want to fight.They seek peace.But if it comes, they will make no wry faces. It will cost them much, but they utter no such philanthropic shrieks as proceed from the mouth of Cotton Pork. They seem to think that there are things worse than fighting in this world, and better than dollars. An odd people, surely.â€
We trust that the Southern gentleman and Cotton Pork, Esq., “a Northern man,†are pleased with their respective portraits.
We have long and patiently borne with the insults and aspersions upon our faith and conduct as Catholics persisted in for years byHarper’s Weekly. Trusting that better counsels would prevail, and unwilling to add by controversy a single spark to the fire already kindled, we have deferred from day to day, and from month to month, saying what we might at any time have said.
Fully aware of the by no means reputable “anti-Popery†antecedents of its proprietors, of their palpably governing motive, and of the speculation they saw at the bottom of the movement, we might, so far as we were personally concerned, have looked upon the malicious movement as not meriting serious attention.
But we are also aware to how great an extent the prestige of the wealth and commercial standing of a large publishing-house, the widespread circulation of their periodicals, and most especially their noisyand incessant proclamation of a patriotism claimed as at once unvarying, inflexible, unselfish, and devoted, had misled or blinded the general public, ignorant of their real precedents, and we have, therefore, found it our duty to enlighten as well our own readers as those of theWeeklyas to the real state of the case.
In so doing, we wish to call attention to the fact that we have here confined ourselves to the information furnished by public judicial decisions, and to their own record as published by themselves.
Finally, we most earnestly, and in the spirit of charity, urge these gentlemen to devote themselves to their plain, and what they may make their noble, duty as journalists. Let them be advised for their own good to cease fanning the flame of a hateful bigotry, and to pursue in the future such a course as may induce right-minded men to look upon their title-page illustration as indeed the flambeau of civilization, and not the torch of the incendiary.
[147]Demurrer is thus defined: “A stop or pause by a party to an action for the judgment of the court on the question, whether, assuming the truth of the matter alleged by the opposite party, it is sufficient in law to sustain the action, and hence whether the party resting is bound to answer or proceed further.â€
[148]In passages here quoted fromHarper’s Weekly, the italics are ours.
[149]We give this passage not only because we think it apt, but also to vindicate the witty Hans from the inept aspersions of theHarper’scritic, who deliberately reaches the solemn opinion that “in Hans Breitman there is nothing funny but the grotesque dress. Translate his poetry into English, and it is, with here and there a solitary exception, the baldest of all commonplaces.â€
[150]“Wanted, a Capital.â€
[151]“The Crippled American Eagle.â€
[152]“There can be no question but the enterprise of holding the Union together by force would ultimately prove futile.It would be in violation of the principle of our institutions.â€â€”Harper’s Weekly, editorial leader of March 9, 1861.
“If the Union is really injurious to them (our Southern friends), heaven forbid that we should insist on preserving it.â€â€”Harper’s Weekly, 1861,p.146.
[153]“Most of them†(“alterations in the Constitutioneffected by the Congress at Montgomeryâ€) “would receive the hearty support of the people of the North.â€â€”Harper’s Weekly, March 30, 1861.
“Some practical people, viewing the dissolution of the Union as a fixed fact.â€â€”Weekly, Jan. 26, 1861.
[154]“Is it wise, is it prudent, is it possible to punish it?â€â€”Harper’s Weekly,p.146, 1861.
[155]“He [Jeff. Davis] is emphatically one of those ‘born to command,’ and is doubtless destined to occupy a high position, either in the Southern Confederacy or in the United States.â€â€”Weekly, Feb. 2, 1861.
[156]“Stand aside, you Old Sinner! We are holier than thou!â€â€”Our Comment.
[157]So italicized in the article.
Before allowing her husband to go to the town-meeting, Mrs. Yorke had given him a word of admonition, not the usual wifely charge to keep himself out of danger, but an exhortation to justice and reason.
“Justice and reason!†he exclaimed. “Why, for what else have I been contending, Mrs. Yorke?â€
“True!†she answered gently. “But may it not be possible that there is more cause than you will allow for this upheaval, and that it is not a superficial excitement which can be easily soothed or beaten down? These sailor friends of ours have told me that, when the water is dimpled and green, it has a sand bottom, and, when it is black and easily fretted into foam, there are rocks underneath. Now, this anti-Catholic excitement is dark and bitter enough to show that there is some fixed obstacle, which breath, though it be ever so wisely syllabled, will not remove.â€
“So there is,†Mr. Yorke replied promptly. “The devil is there.â€
“Charles, the devil, or human weakness, lurks under the surface of every side of every question,†his wife said with earnestness. “Good men are not entirely good, nor bad men utterly bad. There are men, and not ignorant ones, either, who have engaged in this movement from an honest conviction that there is need of it. They may be prejudiced and short-sighted, but they are†worthy of a patient, if not a respectful,hearing. My wish is that to-night you would be in no haste to speak, and that, when you do speak, you would address the real meaning of the trouble, and not the miserable froth on the surface.â€
What man likes to be told that he is not reason personified, especially by his wife? Not Mr. Charles Yorke, certainly. But the little lady was not one to be scouted, even by her liege lord, and he heard her respectfully to the end. Manhood must be asserted, however, and he compensated himself for the mortification after a manner that is often adopted by both men and women: he first absurdly exaggerated the charge made against him, and then answered to that exaggeration.
“I am much obliged to you, my dear, for explaining the matter to me,†he said with an air of meekness. “I am afraid that I cannot stop to hear more, for it is time to go. But I will remember your warning, and try not to make a fool of myself.â€
Nine women out of ten would have made the reply which such a pretence is calculated to call forth—a shocked and distressed denial of having had any such meaning, a senseless begging pardon for having been so misunderstood, and a final giving up of the point, and temporary utter humiliation and grief, followed later, on thinking the matter over, by a mental recurrence to their abandoned position, and a disenchantingconviction that men are sometimes artful creatures, after all, and only to be pleased by flattery.
Mrs. Yorke was not to be so entrapped. She accepted her husband’s submission with perfect tranquillity, as though she believed it both proper and sincere, and laughed a little as he went away. “My poor Charles!†she said, looking after him with tender indulgence.
Those little faults are so endearing!
The hall where the meeting was held was filled in every part; a dense mass of people struggled up or down the two flights of stairs leading to it, and a throng of men obstructed the street outside. Edith Yorke had been in the lane to see a sick woman, and, hearing that Miss Churchill also was in the neighborhood, had lingered longer than was prudent, hoping for her company home. Starting off alone, at last, she soon found herself in the midst of this crowd. They surged about her, muttering insults and maledictions on “that Catholic Rowan girl,†and seemed every moment on the point of stopping her. Not far in advance was Miss Churchill. An enthusiastic boy threw a stone at her, and the teacher wiped from her cheek a stain of blood where it struck. Edith held her head up, and walked straight on, looking neither to the right nor left, and, whatever ruffianly intention any one may have had, those who looked in her face stood aside, and kept silence while she passed. If the spirit that hardened her brow to the likeness of marble, shone in her eyes, and curved her red lips with a still scorn, was less Christian humility than natural loftiness, it was at least no petty pride, and it needed but the sense of actual personal danger to change it to supernatural lowliness. Her conviction, “They dare nottouch me!†prevented the advent of that martyr-spirit which brings with it every virtue.
Humility is a flower that grows on the mountain-tops of the soul, and is reached only by striving and endeavor. That is not true humility which the mean heart plucks in the lowlands, calling on God ‘twixt swamp and slough; nor does the child’s hand bear it, nor yet does it shadow the untried maiden’s brow, over her lowered eyelids. We must come out above the belt of pines and the gentian meadows, we must scale the dizzy track where to look down is destruction, and face the bitter cold of the glacier, and, over all, we shall find that exquisite blossom, its pure blue drooped earthward under the infinite blue of heaven.
Therefore we claim not humility for Edith, for she was not wise enough for that, and she was too true and brave for its counterfeit; but she had that scorn for meanness and tyranny which is one of the first milestones on the road to humility.
While his niece was walking unprotected through the crowd without, Mr. Yorke was in the hall, seated near the platform, on which were all the ministers, and the prominent Know-Nothings, several of the latter town-officers. One after another spoke, and was loudly applauded. The excitement and enthusiasm were immense. Mindful of his wife’s charge, Mr. Yorke restrained his indignation, and listened attentively, sifting out what was essential in this commotion and common to all its participants. As he listened, the vision of a possible future of his country appeared before him, and made the hair rise on his head. He saw the anarchy and bloodshed of a religious war more terrible than any war the world had seen—a massacre of innocents, a war of extermination.This was possible, was probable, was inevitable, unless men would listen to reason. And why would they not? He weighed all that was said, carefully attending to the most revolting and worthless arguments, and under all that foam and roar saw the one rock. However different might be the principles and feelings of those anti-Catholic speakers, they all converged, consolidated, and struck fire on that one point.
It was not that they were fanatic, for fanaticism cannot exist without some strong religious conviction, and by far the largest number of them had no religious belief; while many interpreted religious freedom to mean freedom from religion. It was not that they were intolerant of any man’s simple belief. The majority were more likely to laugh at faith than to be angry with it. Indeed, their scepticism made them incapable of practising real religious toleration, for that is to bear, without any manifestation of resentment, that your neighbor shall tacitly scorn what you hold sacred; a virtue most difficult to the faithful, but comparatively easy to the sceptic. It was not that they cared for its own sake whether the Bible was read in school or not, for the larger number of them never read it at home, many quoted it only in mockery, and every one denied the truth of some of its most plainly uttered tests. In short, the rock on which this tempest rose and dashed was a deadly fear and hatred, not of the Catholic Church, but of the Catholic clergy. The only question which interested these men in connection with any Catholic dogma was, How much temporal influence will it give to the priest? The supernatural side they cared not a fig for. To their minds it was impossible that a Catholic priest should be a truthful, plain-dealing, straightforwardman. He shuffled, evaded, intrigued. His aim was less to christianize the world than to govern it, less to enlighten than to direct.
Let us give the Know-Nothings and their sympathizers their due. Bad as they were, slanderers and law-breakers, and absolutely irreligious for the most part, the worst fault of many of them was that they knowingly used bad means to what they believed to be a good end. There was some sincerity in the movement, though it was, at its best, irrational, inconsistent, and un-American, as alien, indeed, to our republic as it charged the church with being. They believed that the Catholic clergy acquire power by insidious means, and that, once in power, they will destroy all that makes our dear country the abode of freedom and equal rights, and the bountiful home where all the starving, shivering exiles of other lands may feed and warm themselves. Once prove that the church is friendly to the republic, and the vertebra of their opposition is broken.
Mr. Griffeth was the only one of these speakers who cleared the question from thedébrisof personal slander and misrepresentation of doctrine.
“You mistake, gentlemen,†he said, “if you think that the doctrines of the Catholic Church are either ridiculous or bad. Such an opinion would show you ill-informed or incapable of comprehension. On the contrary, they are glorious. But they are such as can be safely preached and enforced only by saints and angels, or by men of such exalted holiness as the world seldom sees. In the hands of weak men, they may be, and have been, perverted to base uses. The dogma of the Infallibility of the church is a crown of living gold on the head of the mystical Spouse, and a mantle of cloth of goldabout her form; but the priest has drawn the shining folds about his own human shoulders, and made it a sin to criticisehim. Confession, which I proclaim to be, in its essence, one of the most comforting and saving institutions that ever existed, they can and do use to learn the secret workings of society and obtain power over individuals. I need not detain you to go over the list, for all are the same. It isSt.Michael’s sword in the hands of Satan.
“No, gentlemen, it is not because their theology is bad that I say, Down with the church! It is because its fair niches and shrines harbor thieves, and robbers, and tyrants—because, though the pope can sit there enthroned, with his lofty tiara, and the bishops stand with mitres, and the priests lift their haughty foreheads, the people cannot walk erect as God made them to walk, but must crawl on the pavement like worms. And therefore, though the walls of the temple were of jasper, its pillars of malachite, its ceiling of sapphires, its pavements of beaten gold, and its gates like the gates of the New Jerusalem, I still would cry, Down with the temple!
“From the time when peoples first began to crystallize upon the face of the earth, God has looked out from heaven, and asked each in turn, ‘Where shall my children find peace, and freedom, and room to grow?’ and each in turn has answered, ‘Here, Lord!’ lying to his face. And in his own time, after patient waiting, the Almighty has stretched forth his hand, and has effaced the boundaries of that perjured nation, and touched her people with blight. The kingdoms of old lied to the Lord, and they have perished; and in our own day there is a wavering and tottering in the battlements that wall the nations in.
“One hundred years ago, America rose up and made the covenant: Here, Lord, shall thy children find peace and freedom, and here shall they grow to the stature of the perfect man and woman! It is for us, brethren, to see that the pact is kept. It is for us to watch that the oppressor gains no foothold here, lest we perish for ever. For there is no Phœnix among the kingdoms of earth, from whatever cause they die. When a nation lies in the dust, it rises no more, save to walk, a ghost, in the dreams of its orphaned children. Ireland, Poland, Hungary,—they sleep the sleep that knows no waking. They are in the past, with Greece and Rome, with Babylon and Nineveh:
‘Youthful nation of the West,Rise, with truer greatness blest!Sainted bands from realms of rest,Watch thy bright’ning fame!’
“Brethren, when we in turn shall join that company of silent watchers, God forbid that we should hear rising from our beloved land such a lamentation as went up for that ruined city of the East: ‘Nineveh is laid waste! who will bemoan her? She is empty, and void, and waste; her nobles dwell in the dust; her people are scattered upon the mountains, and no man gathereth them.’ For the sake of humanity, may God forbid!
“There is now but one name written in living characters on the future, and that name is America. It was writ in blood by our fathers, and accepted in fire by the God of nations. Palsied be the hand that would quench one letter of that sacred legend!â€
During the loud applause that followed, Mr. Yorke mounted the platform.
Had they not known that he was soon to leave them, and had not hismanner been quite unlike what he had shown on former occasions of this sort, they might have refused to hear him. As it was, a reluctant and impatient silence was accorded. Some listened, doubtless because they wished to be exasperated, and hoped for another pretext for outbreak. But he looked like one who fully appreciates the strength of his opponent, and does not hope for a speedy victory.
“Gentlemen,†he said, with a certain grim emphasis on the word, “after Mr. Griffeth’s pyrotechnic display of eloquence, I cannot hope that my words will not fall with a dull sound on your ears. He has gone up like the rocket, and I must come down like the stick. I promise, however, to be brief, and to speak to the point. First, I thank him for having spoken like a gentleman, and left the subject clear enough for a gentleman to touch. On all that preceded him, I have but two comments to make. Concerning the attacks on the personal character of the Catholic clergy, I will only say, ‘Set a thief to catch a thief!’ To the misrepresentations of their creed, I would say, theologians should be better educated than to make them sincerely, and honest men should not fear to tell the truth, even of a foe.
“I come, then, to Mr. Griffeth’s argument: that these men, simply from human weakness, not from personal depravity, have always abused their power, and, being men, always will abuse it, and that, therefore, we must, in self-defence, either banish them from the country, or deny them the rights of citizenship; their doctrines all the time being perfect, or, at least, tolerable.
“I am not here to defend the character of the Catholic clergy. I know well that your deep-rooted prejudicewill not yield to any word of mine or theirs. They must live down your enmity with what patience they may; and the day will come, believe me! when the still, small voice of those lives that have been consecrated to God will silence and put to shame the blatant accusation and pseudo-patriotism which now overwhelm it. Whatever may have been proved against some, the whole world knows that that clergy has given for its admiration many a model of Christian behavior, and that among its missionaries have been, and are, men worthy to stand beside Peter, and Paul, and John—men enamored of the things of God, and dead to the attractions of earth. If it be true that you can find Judases in their company, it is equally true that apostolical laborers are not found outside of their fold. It may still be the apostolical church, though one in twelve were a Judas.
“This part of the question is, however, irrelevant. We stand here, if we are worthy to speak, for principle, and not for men. If the faults of partisans are to be used as an argument against an institution, no institution on earth can stand, and Protestantism and freedom must shake to their foundations.
“Assuming, though, that his assertion is true, and that the clergy have always been the enemies of freedom and enlightenment, though that would be strong circumstantial evidence against their future trustworthiness, still the conviction which he invokes is too grave and arbitrary for so just and enlightened a judge as our country promises to be. But I deny the truth of his premises, and, since proof is out of the question in this place, set my bare denial against his bare assertion.
“But if his assumption and conclusion were both true, if these menwere untrustworthy, and if we had therefore the right to refuse them equality, we are still bound to give that refusal, not with the howling of wild beasts, not with mobs and threatenings, but decently, and according to law, or we are ourselves unfit to be trusted with that freedom which we deny to them.
“No, I am not here to prove that the clergy of the Catholic Church are all saints, or even all good men; but I am here to say that, hate them as you may, you cannot, in these United States, under the constitution, you cannot with impunity persecute them, nor deprive them of any of the privileges which that constitution guarantees to them as rights. ‘Work in secret,’ do they? ‘Undermine,’ do they? And from whom does this accusation come? What of that society in which this movement takes its rise?—that society which now dominates the land, stirring up riots from Maine to Louisiana, making laws and changing laws, and setting the off-scouring of the earth in our high places? What of those lodges where men assemble to concert measures for governing the country, yet where no citizen can enter without the pass-word and oath of secrecy? Josiah Quincy, Senior, of Boston, a man whose name carries as much weight as any name here in this hall, has said of these same societies, ‘The liberties of a people are never more certain in the path of destruction than when they trust themselves to the guidance of secret societies. Birds of the night are never birds of wisdom.... They are for the most part birds of prey. The fate of a republic is sealed when the bats take the lead of the eagles.’ Our atmosphere is black with these same bats!
“To Mr. Griffeth’s parting anathema, I respond, ay and amen! Palsied be the hand that would quench oneletter of that sacred legend! But whose is the hand that threatens it in this town? Is it Father Rasle, who asked a right of you, and, when you refused it, asked it of the law—in a neighboring town, mark, there being no law here!—and when the law refused it, submitted in silence? Is it the few hundreds of harmless Catholics among you, not one of whom has raised a hand in violence? Or is it your brutal mobs, who have insulted both priest and people, destroyed their property, and threatened their lives? Think of this, citizens! If the laws are dear to you, keep them! If you love freedom, do not practise tyranny! If you claim to be an intelligent people, think for yourselves, and do not let demagogues do it for you! Who is he who truly loves and honors his country? Not that man who holds its constitution to be a pretty myth, fine to quote, but impossible to act upon; but he who demands that its most generous promise shall be fulfilled, and is not afraid that in sincerity will be its destruction.
“Mr. Griffeth has uttered his war-cry, ‘Down with the church!’ and you have applauded it with enthusiasm. While I have listened to-night, there has risen before my vision the possible demolition of another edifice—a demolition which is inevitable, if such counsels are to prevail. Our fathers raised in this land a temple to civil and religious liberty, and pledged to its support their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. That was no empty pledge, for the structure was cemented with their blood from corner-stone to pinnacle. And the genius whom they enthroned in the centre was no idol of wood and stone, to be used as a puppet by the designing, but a living creature. She was strong, and pure, and generous, and she had eagle’s eyes. Sheopened her arms to the world. She feared no alien foe, for her strength could be shorn and her limbs manacled only by her own renegade children. It is you are her foes. These narrow and violent counsels which pretend to protect, do contradict her; the manacles which you forge for others, will fetter her; with the violence which you do to others, will her strength be shorn; and the spirit which you obey under her name will dethrone her. But do not fancy that you can blind and make sport of her with impunity. The time may come when that insulted spirit will take in her mighty arms the pillars of the nation, and pull it down in ruin on your heads. No, the foe is not the orphan she has cherished, nor the stranger within her gates, but the children she has nourished at her bosom.
“Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended.â€
When Mr. Yorke went home that night, though it was late, he found his wife and Betsey waiting for him at a turn of the road. He expressed no surprise nor disapprobation, but walked slowly homeward with them.
“What have they done?†Mrs. Yorke asked. She perceived that her husband’s arm trembled.
“Nothing can stop their running but themselves,†he answered. “They must fall by their own speed.â€
“They listened to you?†she asked.
“Yes, they were civil, and even applauded a little. But what of that? In spite of all that I could do, they have passed a resolve, passed it unanimously, that, if Father Rasle comes here again, they will give him a suit that is not to be bought at the tailor’s.â€
“What does that mean?†was Mrs. Yorke’s wondering question.
“You little goose! it means tar and feathers! Well, don’t let us talk any more about it. I am done with words.â€
“Edith got into the crowd to-night,†Mrs. Yorke said, “and they were impudent. She took it very quietly then, I think, but after she got home she was quite hysterical. I thought the child would sob herself to death.â€
“She had no business to be out,†her uncle exclaimed. “Neither had you and Betsey. How do you know what they may do?â€
“You are right, dear,†she said soothingly. “In future, we will stay in the house, and you will stay with us.â€
“CELUI-LA FAIT LE CRIME A QUI LE CRIME SERT.â€
Mr. Yorke was at the Seaton House when the Western mail-coach came in Saturday morning, but Father Rasle was not a passenger. The mail brought a letter from him to Edith, however, and her uncle took it home to her immediately. She read aloud to the family his thanks for their invitation, and his reasons for declining it. He would drive over in his own buggy, he wrote, and would probably reach Seaton before ten o’clock in the forenoon. Edith had better come to see him in the morning, as he would then be more at leisure.
“Why, he must be here now!†Edith exclaimed, and ran up-stairs to prepare herself for the visit.
If Mrs. Yorke and her daughtersfelt any sense of relief on learning that they had escaped the danger which would have threatened them had the priest been their guest, they did not express that feeling. They were quite ready, in spite of the danger, to repeat the invitation. Mr. Yorke alone sincerely regretted Father Rasle’s decision. Even Edith, who knew nothing of the action of the town-meeting, perceived that the priest’s place was with his own people.
“I have seen the sheriff and Dr. Willis, this morning,†Mr. Yorke said, after his niece had left the room, “and they both agree in thinking that Father Rasle will not be molested for coming here to stay over one Sunday. They are probably right. The great objection is to his settling here. Besides, he comes so quietly, his being here will not be widely known. Half of his own people do not know that he is coming.â€
The two gentlemen named by Mr. Yorke were among the few who secretly condemned the conduct of the town, but did not publicly avow their sentiments, possibly because they knew that such a proclamation would harm themselves without doing any good to Catholics. Aside from the risk of violence to person or property, the physician would be accused of bartering his principles for an increase of practice, the politician of intriguing for the Irish vote. That any one could speak a good word for the church or the Irish from a disinterested motive, was not for a moment admitted.
The day was overcast, threatening rain; but to Edith Yorke it was as though spring and sunshine were at the door; for Mother Church, long exiled, bent once more toward her bereaved children.
“What I do not tell him voluntarily, he will ask,†she said to herself,thinking of Father Rasle. “He will point out what has been wrong in me, and reprove me once for all, and have done with it; and the fault that is not mine, he will lift off my shoulders. It is very heavy!†she whispered tremulously, and for a little while could say no more.
Edith was not breaking under her burden, but she was bending wearily, and the constant weight of it had taken away all her elasticity, not of spirits alone, but of body. While making her last examen of conscience, she felt too weak to kneel, and sank into an arm-chair instead, dropping her head back against the cushion, and closing her eyes. So seen, the change in her face was startlingly evident. Her manner was always so fresh, and her eyes and teeth lighted up her smile so brilliantly, whether she spoke or listened, or only looked, that one could not see that she was pale and thin. But the face that lay against the chair-back was very pallid, and even the hands stretched out on the arms of the chair looked sick.
“There are six sins that I am sure of, besides all the doubtful ones,†she said presently, sitting up. “That takes all my right hand, and the forefinger of my left hand. And now it is time to go.â€
The shortest way to the house where Father Rasle was to stop led through the wood-path that Edith and Dick had taken when he left her after his first visit to Seaton. She recollected that walk as she passed again through the forest, and murmured a tearful “Poor Dick! where are you now?â€
The trees were not, as then, bright with a prodigal splendor of color, and steeped in mellow sunshine. The gold was tarnished, the reds looked dark and angry, and the lowering sky seemed to press on thebranches. That silence which, in the glory of autumn, expresses contentment with finished work and wishes fulfilled, seemed now to mean only suspense or endurance. No leaf came floating trustfully down to give its earth to earth, and free the imprisoned gold into its native air; no gray squirrel was discovered gathering its store of beech-nuts for the coming winter; no bird flitted about to take one more look at its summer haunts. All was silent and deserted.
“You poor old woods! I know just how to pity you,†Edith said, looking about. “But cheer up! These are the days in which Nature tells over the sorrowful mysteries in her long rosary. Your garments are rent away, and the thorns are on your head; but after all is ended, then comes the glorious mystery of the spring resurrection. There! now I have exhorted you, you may exhort me. If you have anything to say, please to say it!â€
And then the woods answered: “Child, I know my rosary all by heart, for I have said it six thousand times—six thousand times, child, and yet man will not listen. I tell of resignation and hope, and still his ears are dull. I tell him that in obedience is wisdom, and in wisdom contentment, and he does not cease to rebel. That is a sorrowful mystery over which I grew sad many a time before the cross became the sign of salvation. My very birds are wiser than the children of men; my beasts less cruel. Do not blush, little one! It was your ignorance that spoke, and not presumption. No fairer flower has bloomed in my shadow than your loving thought. Cheer up! Hearts will find the way when heads cannot; for when true love is blind, then an angel leads it.â€
“I thank you!†Edith said afterhaving listened. “It is very true, our teachers have a hard time with us. There is you, Mother Nature, with your book full of pictures, to catch our eyes; and the church, speaking our own language, to catch our ears; and conscience, with its two words only, yes and no, to catch our thoughts, and we fight against you all. I am very, very blind! Will some good angel lead me?â€
She came out into East Street, and stood a moment on the spot where she and Dick had stood to look at that exquisite bit of meadow. The violet mist that had hung over it, like a parting soul over its body, had long since dissolved, and the little incarnate song that had floated there, yellow-winged and feathered, had been loosed into the heavenly orchestra. Half-way down the hill, a footpath led off to the left of the street, passed a few back-doors of houses on High Street, and ended at the door of the house where Father Rasle was. She knew by the buggy standing in the yard that he had come. If it had not been there, the smiling face of the woman who stood in the door would have told the story.
The woman stepped out to make way, and Edith ran in through the narrow entry to the square room that was both kitchen and parlor.
“O father, father! A hundred thousand welcomes!†And then, between grief and gladness, her voice was stopped.
“Dear child!†he said affectionately. “So you needed me very much?â€
Several women were in the room. Some of them had arrived before the priest came, nearly all of them had made their confession, but not one could persuade herself to go away while she was allowed to remain. They meant to stay till he should bid them go, and even then wait for a second telling. To see their belovedpastor, to hear him speak, to repeat over and over their demonstrative welcome, was a happiness which they would fain prolong.
The host and hostess were in their best attire. They had given up all other occupation to the supreme one of entertaining their priest. Their faces shone with a proud delight, their poor house was scrupulously clean, and, though Father Rasle was known to be abstemious, they had gone to the extent of their means for his entertainment.
The priest talked jestingly to the women to cheer them. “What is it that you cry about? But you need not tell me, for I know. It is because you have had nothing but hard words and the absence of your priest to bear. You cry because you were not blown up in the schoolhouse, or did not have your heads broken in the church. Or perhaps you were in hopes that I should come, and find you all strung up to the branches of trees. That is the finest fruit that a tree can bear—a martyr. The Bread of Life grew on the tree of the cross. Courage! They have not done with you yet. Make a good communion to-morrow, and afterward keep yourselves free from sin, and then, when I come again. I may have the happiness of finding all your bodies hung to trees, and all your souls in Paradise.
“Now, you two who have not been to confession will confess at once. Then I want every one of you to go home. I have to talk to that little girl.â€
“That little girl†seated herself in the midst of these poor women, who smilingly made room for her—they were not jealous of her—and all turned their faces away from Father Rasle, and sat silently looking into the fire while the confessions were finished. And at last Edith foundherself free to tell all her story to the priest.
The Catholics of Seaton could not, if they would, have concealed from their enemies that Father Rasle had come. Their joyful faces would have betrayed the secret if their lips had remained silent. All who could do so laid their work aside, and gathered in knots in the lane, or visited each other’s houses, to talk the matter over. They smiled and nodded to each other in the street with a significance which every one understood. Poor souls! to the cruel eyes that watched them their pathetic and sacred delight was a crime; their silence, treachery.
Toward evening the scattering visitors who had taken their way during the day to the house under the hill became a steady stream. It looked as though every Catholic in Seaton was going to confession. It looked, too, as though every Protestant in Seaton was willing that they should, for no one molested them, and the town was perfectly quiet. Those who had been anxious ascribed this quietude to the weather, and congratulated themselves that the threatening rain prevented any gathering of their persecutors.
At nine o’clock the crowd around the house where the priest was began to thin off. The road by which they sought their homes that night was avia sacra; for, newly shriven, and moved to the depths of their hearts, they carried with them, every one, the memory of an earnest exhortation to humility and forgiveness, and resignation to the will of God. At half-past ten only three or four women were left in the house, and the rain was beginning to fall outside. The confessions were over, Mrs. Kent had set out a late supper for Father Rasle, since he would have to fast till noon of the nextday, and he was standing to say good-night to the last of his visitors, who even now seemed unwilling to leave him. While he spoke to them, some one was heard running toward the house, and the next minute a man burst into the room, breathless, and bespattered with mud.
“They are coming!†he gasped out. “Run for your life, father!â€
In the midst of the outcry that rose from those present, Father Rasle stood fixed and silent. Perhaps he was startled at the sudden and unexpected announcement; perhaps his color had changed; but there was no other sign of excitement. He calmly questioned the man, and learned that a mob of fifty or more masked men were rapidly approaching the house.
“And they will kill you, father,†the messenger concluded. “They don’t put on masks and come at night to break windows. They can do that in broad daylight. For God’s sake, save yourself!â€
“They shall take me where I am,†the priest said firmly. “It is the will of God. I will not resist, and I have nowhere to fly to.â€
“Here is hot water. Put on more!†cried one of the women. We’ll scald them!†And instantly they took the boiling tea-kettle from the fire, and put cold water to heat.
“Run over to the lane, and rouse the people!†cried another. “They’ll kill everybody in the town in your defence, father, if you say the word.â€
“My children, I command you to use no violence, and make no resistance,†the priest said with authority. “If the people rise, it will be to their own destruction. Pray! It is all that you can do.â€
They fell on their knees, weeping loudly as they heard the muffled tramp of many feet outside. But one said, “The cellar! the cellar!â€and Mr. Kent, catching the priest’s arm, almost forced him toward the cellar-door. It was a pitiful hiding-place; but Father Rasle had no time for any thought except that, if there were a chance of escape, it was his duty to take advantage of it.
Scarcely had he disappeared, before the outer door was thrust open, and the room was filled with men wearing crape masks. They came in silently and swiftly, and as swiftly their companions outside surrounded the house, and stationed themselves at each window to bar all egress.
It was not in the hearts of these poor people to utter no word of reproach to the perpetrators of such an outrage, even though the priest had commanded their silence. Mrs. Kent pointed to one man after another, calling him by name. “I know you under your mask!†she cried. “And the Almighty would find you if I didn’t.â€
No one replied to her. The only one of the mob who spoke was he who seemed to be their leader. “Where is the priest?†he asked.
Of course no one told him.
The lower rooms and the attic were searched, and there remained but one place. The hearts of the Christians died within them as the leader of the mob took a candle from the table, and went toward the cellar-door. A girl who was near the door caught up a chair to defend the passage, but another took it from her, and pulled her down to her knees. The next moment Father Rasle was led out amid the sobs and prayers of his children. He was very pale, but perfectly calm, and, like his divine Master, he uttered not a word. But as the mob surrounded and led him away, he cast one glance on those who knelt and stretched their clasped hands toward him, and raised his hand in silent benediction. That hewas being led to death, neither he nor they doubted. And they had no reason to doubt it. What violence, short of murder, had these men any reason to fear to do in open daylight? And might they not well believe that even the murderer could escape if he had only the law against him? This was not true only of Seaton. Many a Catholic priest in the United States, at that time, owed the preservation of his life, not to a fear of the law, but to a fear of Catholic vengeance.
They did not take their victim through the lane which Edith had followed, but through a shorter one leading to High Street. The family living in the house at the corner of this street were well-bred people, and, though Protestants, friends to Father Rasle. He had been received in that house as a guest; and now, seeing a light in one of the rooms, the instinct of preservation rose, and forced a cry from him. “Save me!†he cried out, calling the man by name.
Those nearest immediately silenced him with threats. If he spoke again, they said, they would kill him on the spot.
His voice had not been heard, and the faint hope faded as quickly as it had risen.
They avoided the thickly-settled part of the town, and took their way down one of the back streets leading to the river. Half-way down they met a man on horseback, carrying a lantern. He held the light up, and asked whom they had there.
“No one,†they replied, making haste to conceal their prisoner. “We have no one with us.â€
Not till too late did Father Rasle know that he had missed another chance of escape, and that it was the sheriff who had met them.
The mob, feeling now secure oftheir prey, could indulge in revilings. “So they persecuted Jesus of old,†said one, with a laugh.
“Will the Virgin save you?†asked another.
But enough. One does not repeat the talk of those through whose lips the arch-fiend speaks without disguise. They reviling, and he praying, disappeared in the darkness and the storm.
Edith Yorke had passed that evening in her own room. It had been her custom to keep the eve of her communions in retirement, and to-night she had more than ordinary food for reflection. It was almost eleven o’clock when she began to prepare herself for bed, but she still heard her aunt and Clara up downstairs. Mrs. Yorke had not been well, and, unwilling that her husband should lose his rest, had sent him upstairs to sleep, and kept Clara with her. Edith was just thinking that she had a mind to go down and see how her aunt was, when she heard the small gate of the avenue open, and shut again instantly, as if some one had run through.
Her window was partly raised. She threw it up, and stepped out on to the top of the portico. Her heart divined the danger at once. Already the messenger was half-way up the avenue, and, before she could see that it was a woman, she heard her panting breath and half-exhausted voice: “Help! They are killing Father Rasle!â€
A faintness as of death swept over Edith. She would have spoken, but could only sink on her knees and lean over the railing. Mrs. Yorke, too, had heard the click of the gate, and had opened the sitting-room window, and Edith heard her voice and Clara’s. To them the woman told her story.
“Do not speak loudly,†Mrs.Yorke said. “Mr. Yorke and Edith must not know. They can do no good, and would only make trouble. Clara, go and wake Patrick, and do it quietly. I tell you, my poor woman, my husband could do nothing, and I shall not allow him to be called.â€
Edith grew strong the moment she knew the truth. The woman had left the house before Father Rasle did, and a rescue might still be possible. She opened her door noiselessly, stepped out, and closed it after her; then fled down the back-stairs, out through the back-door, and down the avenue to the upper gate. Reaching the road, she flew over it with winged feet. At North Street, instead of going down toward the centre of the town, she crossed to a lumber-road leading to the river. The bridge was far below, but one who dared could go over here on the boom that kept the logs. Edith dared, considering the peril not worth a thought. When some bugle-toned reveille of the soul wakes up our slumbering faith, then miracles become possible.
The bank was high on the eastern side, and the descent was by two immense timbers, or masts, chained together and chained to the shore at the upper end, and to the boom at the lower. The inclination was steep, and those who walked through the air on that slippery bridge stepped warily even by day, timing their steps to the heavy vibrations of the timber. But Edith ran fleetly down, and sprang on to the swaying boom ankle-deep in water. Lumber-mills above and below sent out their long lines of red light through the misty darkness, and the noise of their saws was like the grinding of teeth. The logs knocked against each other with a dull thump as the river flowed, and here and there littlespaces of water glistened. To slip into one of those black holes was death. You miss the boom, and step on a log instead, and, unless you are a practised log-walker—possibly, too, if you are—the log rolls, you go under, and there is an end of you. You cannot scream when you are under water; you cannot rise to the surface, for the logs keep you down, or close together and crush you, and no one can see you.
The boom did not reach straight but zigzagged across the river, the lengths chained together, but not closely, and hidden under water. In those spaces, the logs, trying to get through, pushed their bobbing ends up, and tempted the foot. More than once Edith’s foot was in that trap, but she did not sink till just as she reached the western bank. Then, as she went down, she caught an overhanging sapling, and drew herself to land, wet to the waist.
Irish Lane did not reach so far up, by about a quarter of a mile, and there was no road, the way being pasture and ledge. As Edith reached the upper end of the lane, some one else came into it from the lower end, next the bridge, and she heard a woman’s voice lamenting. She did not stop for lamentation, but ran from house to house, bidding them come out and save Father Rasle.
They gathered immediately, asking questions all in confusion, knowing not which way to go, but ready to follow her lead. Had they no rifles nor pistols? No; why should they have them? An Irishman’s weapon was his fist and a cudgel, and whatever he could catch by the way.
An Irishman, indeed, usually goes into battle first, and arms himself afterward.
But the enthusiasm which Edith’s words had kindled the other messenger soon quenched. It was too lateto save him, she said. He had been carried away, they knew not whither. Of course he must be dead long before that time. And he had bid them farewell, and commanded them to use no violence—to do nothing but pray.
Edith heard no more. The hand that, in her earnestness, she had laid on some one’s arm, slipped off, and she dropped to the ground without a word.
It was more than half-past eleven o’clock, and raining quite hard, and the wind had begun to rise. Broken and dispirited, the Catholics went into their houses again, but not to sleep. In one of these houses Edith opened her eyes, and saw about twenty persons gathered, some bending over her, others praying, others walking about and wringing their hands. She got up. “I wish that you would all kneel down, and say the litany of our Lord Jesus,†she said. “I am going to find Father Rasle.â€
It needed only that something should be proposed for them to do. The man of the house took his prayer-book, and they all knelt. Others came in and filled the room, frightened children cowering close to their elders, and watching the door, as if they expected to see a foe enter.
Edith went slowly out. One of the women had kindly put a shawl over her shoulders, but she was quite unconscious of the storm. The town clock was striking twelve, and as she stopped to count its strokes, the chorus of praying voices reached her through the open door:
“Jesus, King of Glory, have mercy on us!Jesus, the Sun of Justice, have mercy on us!â€
“O Sun of Justice!†she repeated, and lifted her clasped hands.
She went on, but heard again, in a pause of the storm:
“Jesus, most patient, have mercy on us!Jesus, most obedient, have mercy on us!â€
“Ah! yes, patience! It is not for us to invoke justice,†she thought.
“‘Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord! for in thy sight shall no man living be justified.’â€
The road was heavy with mud, and in the darkness she scarcely could find her way. Only the occasional twinkle of a lighted window told where it did not lie. She went wearily, for the spirit that had sustained her while there was hope failed now, and the storm grew every minute worse. In another lull there came again, more faintly:
“Jesus, the good Shepherd, have mercy on us!Jesus, the true Light, have mercy on us!â€
At that tender petition the tears started forth, and she walked on weeping. They were indeed as sheep among wolves. The blast almost swept her off her feet, and in some sudden current snatched the sound of prayer, and brought it to her once more, clearly as if it had been cried in her very ears:
“Jesus, the Strength of martyrs, have mercy on us!â€
The wind went sighing off to right and left, and opened a pathway of calm before her, in which she walked firmly, wiping her tears away, and taking courage again.
At the entrance to the lane, near the bridge, she paused and looked back. All was darkness there, but out of the dakness came faintly, “Lamb of God—†It was all she heard, and it was all! It meant patience, humility, immolation, and final triumph.
The cottage where Father Rasle had been was all alight when Edith came in sight of it, and as she approached the door a man came out and almost ran against her.
“Where is he?†she asked.
“Why, Miss Edith!†exclaimed Patrick Chester.
She only repeated her question.
“He has come back,†Patrick answered, “and Dr. Willis is with him.â€
“Will he die?†she whispered.
“No, Miss Edith; but he has been vilely used. He was out two hours in this storm. He found his way back more dead than alive. He has been tarred and feathered.â€
She cried out in disgust: “The brutes! They were, then, too base for murder!â€
“You may say that,†Patrick answered. “But now come home. You can’t see him, you know.â€
But she would not go till she had heard his voice, and Patrick was obliged to go back to the entry with her. The entry was filled with men and women, all listening for any news that might reach them. The door was ajar into the kitchen, where two or three men were admitted. The priest was with the doctor in an inner room.
“You had better drink this,†they heard Dr. Willis say; and Father Rasle’s voice replied: “No, doctor. It is after twelve o’clock, and I must say Mass to-morrow.â€
“But, if you do not take it, you may be very sick,†the doctor persisted.
“I cannot take it,†Father Raslesaid again. “My people must not be disappointed.â€
“Thank God, it is really he!†Edith exclaimed. “Come, Patrick, we will go home now.â€
Mrs. Yorke, fearing to alarm her husband, had put out the lights, and Edith, seeing the house all dark, took no precaution to conceal herself in approaching it. The first notice she had, therefore, that any of the family were awake, was her aunt’s frightened voice calling from the open window of the sitting-room, “Is it Edith? Has Edith been out?â€
“Yes, but I am safe back, auntie,†she made haste to say; “and everything is right.â€
Clara, Melicent, and Betsey were there. No one in the house slept but Mr. Yorke and the two Pattens, and, since the worst was probably over, it was not so much matter now if they waked. So a large fire was kindled, and Edith’s dripping garments taken off, while Patrick told his story. Then she also told where she had been, and smiled at their terror.
“But to cross the river on the logs and boom!†her aunt cried. “Why, child, your escape is a miracle! If you had fallen in, you would surely have been drowned.â€
“I could not have drowned tonight,†Edith answered. “If I had fallen in, I should have set the river on fire.â€
TO BE CONTINUED.