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Title: A royal son and mother

Author: Baroness Pauline von Hügel

Release date: August 2, 2024 [eBook #74179]

Language: English

Original publication: Notre Dame, Indiana: The Ave Maria, Loretto

Press, 1902

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROYAL SON

AND MOTHER ***
 Prince Demetrius Gallitzin.
Prince Demetrius Gallitzin.

A ROYAL SON
AND

MOTHER

BY THE

BARONESS PAULINE VON HÜGEL

NOTRE DAME, IND.:

THE AVE MARIA
LORETTO PRESS

COPYRIGHT, 1902,
BY D. E. HUDSON, C. S. C.
 In Memory
of
PRINCE DEMETRIUS GALLITZIN
of
HIS NOBLE MOTHER,
and of the
BARONESS PAULINE VON HÜGEL.

——

As a Tribute
to
MR. AND MRS. CHARLES M. SCHWAB,
of Loretto, Pa.,
who have erected in that storied village a
beautiful and fitting monument to
its Founder and first Pastor;
To
MR. JOHN A. SCHWAB,
who with grateful veneration superintended the
construction of this Memorial Church;
and to the
REV. FERDINAND KITTELL,
who has done so much to revive the memory of
The Pioneer Priest of the Alleghenies,
THIS BIOGRAPHY
is republished from the pages of
The Ave Maria.
 "In this country, a traditional antipathy or bigoted repugnance to the
Catholic Church prevails in an unjustifiable extreme. Whatever is repulsive
in the Catholic dogmas or rule is fastened on with unwarrantable acrimony
and exclusiveness. The interests alike of justice and of good-feeling demand
that the attention of Protestants shall, at least occasionally, be given to the
best ingredients and workings of the Catholic system. In the present work,
we have the forensic doctrine and authority of Catholicity in the
background, its purest inner aims and life in the foreground. We here have a
beautiful specimen of the style of character and experience which the most
imposing organic Symbol of Christendom tends to produce, and has, in all
the ages of its mighty reign, largely produced. If every bigoted disliker of
the Roman Catholic Church within the English-speaking race could read
this book, and, as a consequence, have his prejudices lessened, his
sympathies enlarged, the result, so far from being deprecated, should be
warmly welcomed. This is written by one who, while enthusiastically
admiring the spiritual wealth of the Catholic Church, the ineffable
tenderness and beauty of its moral and religious ministrations, is, as to its
dogmatic fabric and secular sway, even more than a Protestant of the
Protestants."—Rev. William Rounseville Alger, "Madame Swetchine's Life
and Letters" (Introduction).

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I.—GERMANY

II.—AMERICA

III.—THE FOUNDING OF LORETTO

IV.—LAST DAYS
 A ROYAL SON AND MOTHER.

I.—GERMANY.

It is rather strange that no times should have differed from one another
more widely than the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. We feel more in
sympathy with, say the fourth or fifth century, that produced a Jerome, an
Augustine, and a John Chrysostom—an age of decadence, no doubt; and yet
one of intense intellectual activity, of deep heart-searching, of vehement
thirst after truth,—than with those days so comparatively close to our own,
when all seemed so cold, so colorless, so shallow; when the very first need
of man—his need of God—was as though it had died away.

Then came the French Revolution, succeeded by the terrible Napoleonic

days, when apathy and indolence had perforce to be shaken off, and men
were roused to the consciousness that there was still such a thing as
patriotism in the world; that noble enthusiasms needed but the strong winds
of adversity to fan them into flame. And yet how deep-seated were the
nervelessness and indolence of the children of an effete civilization! Had
the Corsican tyrant worn his laurels with one degree less of insolence, had
his despotism been a little less brutal, German princes and Russian
statesmen and Italian diplomatists might have gone on obligingly handing
him over crown after crown.

An age barren in patriots is also an age barren in saints. The man who
can not be fired to a lofty enthusiasm, to heroic self-sacrifice for his
country, is not made of the same stuff as those blessedly violent ones who
carry the kingdom of heaven by storm. Hence we see a lamentable dead
level in the religious life of the eighteenth century. The gentle Anna
Emmerich was almost persecuted by good men for having the stigmata;
anything abnormal, anything like direct interference on the part of Heaven
with the ordinary jog-trot of human existence, aroused suspicion, even
resentment. There was indeed faith, beautiful and deep-rooted, among the
Catholic poor; but the wise of this world had not only lost faith, but lost all
respect for faith; it was looked upon as something obsolete, useless, no
longer capable of exercising any power over the lives of men. Bound, as
they said, to die out among the lower orders of society, the upper classes
had already flung it aside, as soon as the fashionable French philosophy had
won the day.

It was at this period of spiritual darkness, as yet showing no signs of the

grand revival to come, that Amalie von Schmettau was born in Berlin, in
the year 1748. Field-Marshal Count von Schmettau, her father, was a
Protestant; but, as her mother was a nominal Catholic, Amalie was to be
brought up in the old faith. She was sent at a very early age to a convent
school in Breslau, from whence at fourteen she returned good and innocent
but with a very imperfect education. "I felt," she wrote in later years, "as
though I had dropped from the skies, to find myself abruptly removed from
the atmosphere of an enclosed convent to that of my mother's house, one of
those most frequented by the gay world of Berlin."

Frederick the Great had received Voltaire with open arms at his court,
and the French infidel had taught fashionable German society to sneer in
the most approved style at all things great and holy. The grand old language
of their fathers was no longer tolerated; in polished circles only French was
to be spoken and written; and with the old language the old beliefs were to
go too; and, if possible, that which has been well called the glory of the
Teutonic race—its hunger and thirst after God.

Amalie von Schmettau, whose rare abilities fitted her to shine so

brilliantly in her mother's salon was now sent to an educational
establishment in Berlin, conducted by an avowed French atheist. The girl
remained there about eighteen months, to return home once more, still
innocent and in one sense unspoiled, but with no faith whatever left. Her
beauty, her great talents, her musical accomplishments, and a certain innate
refinement and distinction, quickly made her a great favorite at court.
 In 1768 she went to Aix-la-Chapelle as lady in waiting to one of the
German princesses. Here she met Prince Gallitzin, the Russian Ambassador
to France. He was a man considerably older than the interesting young girl,
but perhaps all the quicker to discern and appreciate her superior qualities.
After a short acquaintance he made her an offer of marriage, that was
accepted both by Amalie herself and her relatives, though for very different
reasons. It was a brilliant marriage; this recommended the Prince to her
family. With Amalie this side of the question had not the least weight. In
after years she wrote to an intimate friend: "My heart did not feel the need
of what is generally called love. But an affection that would lead one to
desire and seek the perfection of the person one cared for—this I felt myself
strongly capable of; it was an idea that had taken deep root within me and
had become necessary to my happiness. Such an ideal was quite
independent of externals. I believed the Prince could be everything to me, if
he but shared these views."

Alas! so far from sharing them, he was not even capable of

comprehending them. He proved himself in many ways a kind husband and
father; but he was a disciple of the new school, which owned Voltaire,
Diderot, D'Alembert and the other Encyclopedists for its leaders; and in
their philosophy poor Amalie's idealism had no place. Indeed, proof does
not seem wanting that the evil tree—French philosophy—brought forth evil
fruit in the moral conduct of Amalie's husband, which explains the long
years of their separation. But over this the high-souled wife has thrown a
veil, which it would be useless and ungenerous now to draw aside. At the
time of their marriage the young wife was almost as little of a Christian as
her elderly husband; but while she was groping toward the light in a
darkness that oppressed her, he was content with his own shallow views of
life.

Shortly after their marriage Prince Gallitzin took his beautiful bride to
St. Petersburg. She was presented to the famous Empress Catherine, who
soon after appointed Prince Gallitzin Minister to the Hague. In Berlin, on
their way to Holland, Marie Anna (Mimi), their only daughter was born;
and a year later, in December, 1770, at the Hague, their only son,
Demetrius.
 Amalie's life was now seemingly a brilliant one. Rich, young and
beautiful, highly gifted, blessed with two dearly loved children, she was not
happy. "In vain," she writes, "did I throw myself into the distractions and
amusements of the great world. I brought back after these entertainments,
visits, dances, theatricals, and other frivolities, only an increased, fruitless
longing after something higher, something better, which I could speak of to
no one. It was seldom that I did not cry myself to sleep. I felt like one of
those actors who have to amuse others on the stage while in secret they are
shedding bitter tears."

She felt a great longing to lead a quiet, retired life, devoted to study and
the education of her children. But the obstacles in the way of such a plan
seemed insurmountable. And now we can but admire how God Himself
leads onward the soul that is unconsciously striving after Him.

Diderot, one of the French atheistic philosophers, was for a time living
at the embassy as Prince Gallitzin's guest. Amalie opened her heart to him,
and he approved of her wish to devote herself to "philosophy," and to give
up the world and its frivolities. He undertook to obtain her husband's
consent, which he did; and in future, whilst keeping on cordial terms,
corresponding regularly, and meeting occasionally, the Prince and his wife
pursued their very different ways apart.

Amalie never did things by halves. She took care quickly to burn her
ships behind her. She cut herself off from all society, save that of a chosen
set of intimate friends of like mind with herself. Every luxury of dress,
which then was at its height, was rigorously renounced. Her beautiful dark
hair, in which splendid, costly pearls had been wont to gleam, and which
had been particularly admired, was shaven off, and a black flat wig worn
instead. The gay embassy was abandoned for a plain little country-house
situated between the Hague and Schevelingen; and, as a warning to visitors,
over the door hung a sign-board with the strange device, Nithuys—"Not at
home."

Amalie was now exceedingly happy. "Soon I felt such comfort in this
new life, in constant intercourse with my children, in gradual advance in
knowledge, and above all in the peace of conscience with which I every
night retired to rest, that still higher thoughts found room in my mind. God
and my own soul came to be the usual subjects of my reflections and
investigations."

That Amalie Gallitzin's young children received a very strange

education her most ardent admirers would not seek to deny. It must be
remembered she was really educating herself—trying first one system and
then another, anxious to put what she read into practice, and making many
an experiment with the poor little boy and girl. Mimi, the daughter, being
somewhat of an amiable non-entity, was affected comparatively little by the
educational vagaries of her mother. At one time she and her brother were
made to run about barefoot, at another to plunge into the cold river from a
bridge, to "harden" them and make them fearless.

But with Mitri (Demetrius)—clever, impulsive, sensitive, refined—

mistakes were likely to be fraught with evil consequences. That his mother,
who loved him so dearly, and whom he resembled so much, later on, in his
splendid spirit of self-sacrifice and utter unworldliness, sorely
misunderstood him seems certain. From the first she had an impossibly high
standard for the poor boy, who, naturally spirited, was forever being
checked and veered round like a pony in a game of polo. This led to a
seeming indecision and weakness of character very foreign to his real
nature. If you do not know where you stand, it is difficult to "put your foot
down." Now, to his mother, who was all fire and energy, anything like
weakness and half-heartedness was of all things most intolerable. His
father, who saw the boy but seldom, judged far more correctly when he
said: "That lad has really a tremendous will of his own, and will always go
counter to the stream."

And yet all the different systems of philosophy and education (some
absurd enough) that were tried on herself and her two children by the
Princess, were adopted and abandoned with such earnestness of purpose,
such a single-eyed desire to do not only right but the best, that we feel the
Sacred Heart must have been touched; and we do not wonder that our
generous God should have made all things co-operate unto good to that
favored mother and son, who were by and by to love Him with a love
nothing short of heroic.
 Demetrius had a prodigious memory, and in his old age could still
describe how when he was four years old he was taken to see the Empress
Catherine, who petted the pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed child, and then and
there presented him with that ensign's commission in the Russian army
which was destined to be the source of so much trouble. He remembered
those early days and their sumptuous elegance, in which, as to the manner
born, he had been the little tyrant, ordering about servants and serfs in most
lordly style. But soon all that was changed: he was required to live in quite
a poor way, to wait upon himself, and not to be spared the rod for childish
misdemeanors.

In a memorandum from the Princess to the children's tutor we find the

following: "Keep a sharp lookout on the children's chief faults. Mimi is
talkative, vindictive and quarrelsome; and Mitri gives me much pain by his
inveterate laziness and absurd want of pluck." Very serious are her letters to
her son, who was, after all, but a little boy. On his fourteenth birthday she
wrote to him:

"My thoughts to-day are a mixture of joy and dread. My first thought on
awaking was certainly one of joy, love and gratitude that God had given
you to me,—that He had granted me the grace to bring a soul into the
world, destined, perhaps, to eternal salvation. But, oh, this 'perhaps'! Here
came another cruel thought, fraught with fear and great uneasiness. To-day I
said to myself: 'He has lived fourteen years, and he is still, alas! quite will-
less and colorless, creeping along life according to the lead and will-power
of others.' This terrible thought suggested the doubt whether this being I had
brought into the world could ever grow up into a man pleasing to God, an
heir of salvation; or whether, in spite of all the excellent gifts bestowed
upon him by an all-good Creator to enable him to be one of the best and
happiest of men; whether in spite of my anxieties, prayers, entreaties, he
would continue to hasten on toward destruction.

"For a while I had been full of better hopes, which I gladly own have
not altogether left me; but they have all grown dim since I have seen the
ever-recurring signs of the slavish way in which you sink back into your
dreadful sloth and want of energy.... Have mercy on him, Heavenly Father,
—have mercy on him and on me! Hear him, help him, and strengthen him
when he prays with sincerity and a firm will. Lord, Thou who knowest all
things, Thou knowest that I care nothing for the praise of men, for riches,
for honors, either for him or for myself; but only for the honor of pleasing
Thee and for the happiness of both together drawing nearer and nearer to
Thee, till we shall be united in that love and blessedness which Thou hast
promised us for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen."

But in quoting this remarkable letter we are anticipating. In the year

1779 the Princess began to think of a change of residence. Her little retreat
did not afford the necessary means of education for children beyond a
certain age. At first Geneva suggested itself as a likely place; it was in the
heyday of its reputation as a city of culture and modern "enlightenment."
Moreover, Prince Gallitzin owned a small property in its neighborhood, and
readily gave his assent to a family migration. But it was not to be: God was
about to lead the eager, earnest, groping soul surely and sweetly into His
pleasant paths of peace.

Before Geneva had been finally settled upon, Amalie was told wonders
of a new educational system introduced by Franz von Fürstenberg, as
minister of Prince Maximilian of Cologne, into the town of Münster and
other districts of Westphalia. This holy and enlightened priest was greatly in
advance of his age, and had devised such an excellent scheme for public
education that even infidel philosophers were forced to express wonder and
admiration.

The Princess was far too eager to investigate anything likely to benefit
her two children not to decide upon a visit to Münster as soon as she had
read one of Fürstenberg's pamphlets. From their first acquaintance this truly
great man made a profound impression upon her. In her letters to her
husband she always speaks of Fürstenberg as le grand homme. This
admiration soon ripened into a friendship which made her feel the priest's
counsel and support necessary to her in the great task of her life—the
education of her children. Moreover, Fürstenberg did not stand alone: at his
side was the saintly Overberg, who devoted his time and talents to teaching
the teachers of the poor. She felt, and with reason, that she now lived in an
entirely new world.
 Her new friends did not talk religion to her—that would at once have
repelled her,—they lived religion. Their lives were obviously the fruit of an
unseen deep root. Amalie asked no questions, she but basked in this sunny
atmosphere of light and life, from which she felt it impossible to tear herself
away. She rented a small country-place, known as Angelmodde, in the
neighborhood of Münster; and now at length the days of real education had
begun. To her own children, Mimi and Mitri, were added Amalie von
Schmettau, who afterward became a nun in Vienna; George, a son of the
celebrated Jakobi; and the Droste-Vischerings, one of whom became dean,
the other bishop of Münster.

The Princess, in her anxious search after truth and goodness, had lost
none of her old sprightliness and charm. Her society to the end was eagerly
courted by all the best and most distinguished men of her time. But, strange
to say, even yet Amalie continued to believe she was attracted to
Fürstenberg and her new friends in spite of, rather than because of, their
religion. "I could not," she once wrote, "blind myself to the great views and
principles of Herr von Fürstenberg; but I felt I must forgive him his
Christianity on the score of early education and prejudice. I had started my
friendship by frankly asking him kindly not to convert me, as in all that
concerned Almighty God I could stand no meddling; that I did not fail to
pray to Him for light, and at the same time kept my heart open to receive
it." Hence even then there could be no question of definite dogmatic
Christian teaching in the education of her own and her adopted children.

Later she mourned that her want of faith had deprived the children's
earlier years of the blessed knowledge of Christ. Once, when speaking of a
family singularly fortunate in the way the sons had turned out, she
unhesitatingly ascribed it to their early training in piety and devotion;
adding that what she had obtained only through infinite pains and labor,
these Christian parents had effected with comparatively little or no trouble.

But a practical difficulty now arose. What were the children, no longer
little children, to be taught about religion? It was the very last subject she
would entrust to the teaching of a stranger; yet what did she herself know or
believe about it? But at length she solved the vexed problem by resolving to
teach them "historical Christianity," as she called it, leaving them free to
choose their own religion as they grew up. But even for this she had to
qualify herself, and with her usual whole-heartedness she threw herself into
a most careful and conscientious study of the Bible, especially of the New
Testament.

And then there arose before her, dim and shadowy at first, but ever
gaining in strength and light and beauty, the blessed picture of the Incarnate
God,—of Him who is not only the light of the New Jerusalem, but the
sunshine, the glory of every faithful soul in this vale of tears. "I resolved,"
she says in her memoirs, "to obey our Saviour's touching advice: 'My
doctrine is not Mine but His that sent Me. If any man will do the will of
Him, he shall know of the doctrine.' Consequently I began to act as if I
really believed in Him. I at once compared my principles and actions with
His teaching; and how much did I not find that required attention,—many
things that before had hardly seemed to me to be faults! I had prayed before
only rarely, now I began to pray frequently; and so often were my petitions
answered that I became incapable of doubting the efficacy of prayer.
Certain doubts against Christianity also were gradually cleared away."

During this time of spiritual growth she was attacked by a dangerous

and tedious illness, during which she was forbidden to exert herself in any
way; even the children's education had to be entrusted to other hands.
Hence she had plenty of leisure for quiet reflection, self-examination, and
above all prayer. And so it came about that on the Feast of St. Augustine,
which happened also to be her birthday, Amalie's eager, troubled spirit
found joy and peace in a very humble confession—her first since the old
days of childhood. In the saintly Dr. Overberg she found not merely a
confessor, but a spiritual father,—"some one who," as she so well expresses
it, "would care for me sufficiently in spite of all my unlovableness, out of
pure Christian zeal; one who would look after me spiritually, train me,
correct, comfort and exhort me."

Soon afterward she wrote to Mitri, somewhat wistfully: "Dear child, I

am obliged to grieve you so often because I must wish and will for you
what till now you have not known how to wish and will for yourself; and I
have had to keep you from what you most eagerly desired. Believe me, my
dear son, this constant thwarting of your wishes is the hardest of my duties;
for it seems to me as though thereby I might lose your love and confidence.
And yet some day—perchance only after I am in my grave—you will learn
to bless me for this strictness." And the day did come; for in far-distant
America the grand old missionary would at times, with tears in his eyes,
talk by the hour in glowing words of his "glorious mother."

Amalie's children soon followed her example in submitting themselves

to the Church. On Trinity Sunday, 1787, they were both Confirmed; they
were now seventeen and eighteen years of age.

Prince Gallitzin seems to have manifested no displeasure at the religious

conversion of his wife and children. As his son was receiving the liberal
education befitting a youth of his rank—an education that included French,
music, riding, fencing, dancing, and the more serious studies requisite for
the military profession,—the father was satisfied, and had sufficient good
taste and feeling to be glad that to all these things should be added
innocence of life and high principle. Seven years earlier Amalie had
considered the children old enough to profit by travel; and Demetrius in
later life would recall with interest the visits paid with his mother to the
Stolbergs at Eutin, to Jakobi at Düsseldorf; above all to Weimar, the Athens
of Germany, where the noble Herder seems to have attracted the lad more
than the great Goethe himself; though Goethe was a sincere admirer of the
Princess.

There is an account of an interesting interview between Amalie and

Goethe in after years. She, full as usual of her beautiful, earnest zeal for
souls, invited Goethe to her house at Münster,—an invitation gladly, though
perhaps a little timorously, accepted. The great man probably guessed what
he was "in for," and showed no resentment when the Princess began, after
the manner of the saints, to speak to her guest of the judgment to come. The
next day, when he departed, she accompanied him a stage or two of his
journey, still speaking to him with that wonderful absolute conviction which
invariably commanded respect, often admiration, and not infrequently
brought about conversion. Alas! in the case of Goethe it was to bring forth
only the first two of these fruits.

But such pleasant journeys in the Fatherland were considered

insufficient for the liberal education of the children of the upper classes of
those times. As Demetrius grew older, Prince Gallitzin did indeed talk of
sending him straight to St. Petersburg to join the army; but his mother was
opposed to this plan. Her Catholic heart, no doubt, shrank from exposing
her son, whom she considered very unformed, very young for his age, very
"infirm of purpose," to the corruption of Russian high life. Moreover, her
motherly vanity wished to see him more polished, less angular; and so a
distant voyage was discussed.

Till now there had been but one place where "golden youth" could
receive its extra coat of gilding; but, happily, Paris, the gilder's shop, could
not then be thought of,—it was in the throes of that terrible revolution of
which no one could foresee the end. An alternative was decided upon, in
which we can not fail to see the guidance of Providence. The Gallitzins
determined to send their son to America for two years,—why it seems a
little difficult to say. Probably the Princess, who looked upon Mitri as an
idle dreamer and somewhat of a weakling, judged that having to "shift for
himself" and stand alone for a time would strengthen and develop his
character.

A young priest named Brosius, tutor in the Droste family, had just
decided to go to America as a missionary. This would be an excellent escort
for Demetrius, whose two years in America were to be spent in making
himself conversant with the language, laws and habits of this interesting
and most flourishing country. Prince Gallitzin was an admirer of
Washington and Jefferson, and in his letters to his son bids him try for
familiar intercourse with such great men. His mother, too, furnished him
with an introduction from the Bishop of Hildesheim and Paderborn to the
celebrated John Carroll, first Bishop of Baltimore,—indeed in those days
the only Catholic bishop in the whole of the United States.

Demetrius set out on his long journey in August, 1792. His departure
furnishes a curious anecdote. Had the sensitive and high-souled youth of
twenty-two summers some presentiment that, once gone, he would never
return; that this was a last solemn farewell to home, to friends, to country,—
in fact, to all human brightness? At any rate, his resolution failed him; and,
with what his mother considered characteristic indecision, he began to
discuss whether the journey had not best be given up, after all. The moment
was certainly ill chosen: already his mother and he were walking arm in
arm to the quay at Rotterdam, whence a little boat was to take him on board
the great ocean vessel. For a few minutes Amalie said never a word; then,
with flashing eyes, she exclaimed, "Mitri, I am most heartily ashamed of
you!" and the next moment Demetrius found himself floundering in the
water. He was quickly picked up by the laughing sailors, who at a sign from
his mother rowed him swiftly away.

The dear old priest, Father Gallitzin, when he merrily told this tale
against himself forty-two years later, would not be positive that the
"accident" had not perhaps been occasioned by a quick, involuntary
movement on the part of his mother, causing him to stumble and so fall into
the sea; but he very much inclined to the opinion that she had purposely
given him this wholesome ducking.

II.—AMERICA.

It is strange that Gallitzin's sudden immersion should have effected as

sudden a change in his character. Up to then he was the refined, romantic,
purposeless youth; henceforth he is a man of energy and action—devoted,
self-sacrificing, ready to do and dare anything in the great cause to which
he was about to give his life. Almost the first news received in Germany
from our traveller was the very astounding intelligence that he had resolved
to leave all things and settle down in America as a poor, despised
missionary of the Cross of Christ.

Mitri, her own beloved Mitri—dear and good, it is true, but somewhat
of a "softy," a purposeless dreamer,—now a priest, and above all a
missionary! His mother could hardly believe her senses. This was the son to
whom but a few years before she had written: "It is a wretched thing that a
youth of eighteen should be a child. He can not, of course, as yet be a man;
but he must be a youth and no longer a child, if he ever means to be a man."
 And now Princess Amalie had a hard time of it. She was a chronic
invalid, a great sufferer. With all her seeming harshness toward Mitri, she
loved him dearly and well. Yet she had to bear not only his loss, but to be
blamed by her husband and all her relatives for being in the secret,—for
having known "all about it" throughout. And when able to disprove this
assertion, she was still accused of having, through her exaggerated piety,
been the means of putting such high-flown ideas into the young man's head.
The Prince was the first to recognize his mistake and to write a generous
letter to his wife, freeing her from all blame; which, considering his
grievous disappointment, was most creditable to him.

The Gallitzins were indeed in a very awkward position. As Demetrius

held an ensign's commission in the Russian army, and was due in St.
Petersburg at the end of two years at the latest, his father now wrote to him
entreating him, almost commanding him, to return; for he foresaw clearly
enough what a refusal would entail. According to Russian law, he would be
disinherited for becoming a Catholic priest; but besides this he would,
because of his neglect to take up his commission, be looked upon as a
quasi-deserter, and be banished from the empire as a rebel.

It was now that the full beauty and magnanimity of Amalie Gallitzin
were seen in their true light. Her absolute unworldliness, her reverence for
the slightest whisper of the Divine Voice were so great that never once did
she seek to turn Mitri from his purpose, beyond quietly laying the state of
the case before him for his own judgment. In spite of worry and opposition
and a good deal of secret heartache, in the depths of her great soul she
rejoiced and gloried in the vocation of her son.

When the Princess had given Mitri the Bishop of Hildesheim's

introduction to the Bishop of Baltimore, she no doubt imagined him one of
those dignitaries of the Church, such as they were in Germany—a temporal
lord, a man of vast influence, who lived in a palace and had a large
seminary and other ecclesiastical establishments under his control. How
different was the reality!

John Carroll had been named Bishop in 1790, two years before
Gallitzin's arrival. He belonged to one of those honorable families that had
come over to America in Lord Baltimore's time and settled in Maryland.
His cousin Charles was a true-hearted patriot, who had signed the
Declaration of American Independence. Demetrius found Bishop Carroll
living a life of truly evangelical poverty and hardship. Beyond a small
private fortune, he possessed no means except such as, with some difficulty
he derived from Europe; for no endowment went with the episcopal dignity.

Carroll had received his ecclesiastical education in France, where he

had formed many friendly relations. Hence when the revolution broke out
several distinguished French priests came to America and offered him their
services. Among these were the Abbé Dubois, who died in extreme old age
as the first Bishop of New York; Flaget, Bishop of Louisville; Bruté,
afterward Bishop of Vincennes; and Nagot, president of the famous
Seminary of St. Sulpice in Paris. When first this little band of devoted men
came to the new country, they had to earn their daily bread by giving
French lessons; and only after mastering the difficulties of the English
language were they able to help Bishop Carroll in the care of souls.

The Abbé Nagot soon founded an establishment for training youths for
the priesthood; it was on so modest a scale and so humble in its beginnings
it could hardly be called a seminary. Among its candidates for the
priesthood, Stephen Badin was the first and Demetrius Gallitzin the second.

At first, of course, Gallitzin took up his abode in the quasi-seminary

simply for convenience' sake—as a visitor,—for Brosius, his travelling
companion, had been sent off to another mission; so he was alone. But he
had hardly been Abbé Nagot's guest for two months ere he wrote a letter to
Münster, in which he said that he had dedicated himself, soul and body,
with all that he had and all that he was, to God's service and the salvation of
his neighbor in America; and that what had led him to this resolve was the
urgent need of workers in the Lord's vineyard. He saw that priests in this
country had often to ride for forty or fifty hours or more to administer the
Sacraments to the faithful. He could scarcely fear that any one would doubt
the sincerity of his vocation, considering the prospect of very hard work
which it entailed.

This was indeed true. Mitri had well counted the cost; for was he not
living in the heart of the painful but glorious self-immolation which
characterized those first Catholic missionaries? There was nothing feverish
or spasmodic in his resolve: the sacred fire had been quietly kindled in his
heart; little was said by him at any time, only much was done.

The young man was to receive no outward encouragement. The letter to

which I have just referred was written to his confessor in Münster,—a good
man, a Franciscan friar, but a man of the eighteenth century. He seems to
have been too much alarmed to reply. Only after a second letter from Mitri
had made it clear that his advice was no longer needed, and that the decisive
step had already been taken, did he pluck up courage to write. In a long-
winded Latin epistle, full of platitudes, he, a son of St. Francis, dared not
positively say, "Give up this high-flown nonsense and return to your
family"; but he said that it was Mitri's duty to consult his father, and to do
nothing till he had obtained his consent. Alas for the friar if his blessed
founder had followed such advice!

Demetrius had, of course, written to him in confidence, with the express

recommendation to say nothing even to his mother for the present; for he
had made up his mind not to proceed in the matter till he had waited a
reasonable time for a reasonable answer. The reply failed to come; and
when at length the friar did write, it transpired that Demetrius' first letter
had been handed to him by the Princess herself, who said she had received
but a short, unsatisfactory letter from her son; and as the Father's seemed to
be a longer letter, she asked him if he would read it and tell her what her
son wished or was doing.

"As I had forgotten my spectacles," the worthy man writes, "Dr.

Overberg, who was also present, offered to read the letter aloud, which he
did from beginning to end. How I felt during the reading and how overcome
the reader himself was you can not well imagine. What deep sorrow filled
my heart as I saw your mother look so sad and anxious! Herr von
Fürstenberg was absolutely silent. Oh, how I sighed when I noticed that I
had been the innocent cause of so much sorrow!"

The poor young student, so far from receiving encouragement, was

disturbed by long letters from all sides, seeking to change his purpose. Even
good men could not appreciate the heights of such a vocation as this. Such a
new experience in the even tenor of the dear old Münster existence puzzled
the saintly Overberg himself,—who, however, soon came to Gamaliel's
conclusion—"If it be of men it will come to naught; if it be of God no one
can resist it,"—and contented himself with merely exhorting his young
friend to prove his own heart earnestly, and not to be in too great a hurry to
take any irrevocable step.

The excellent Von Fürstenberg winced at the scandal of the Cross,—at

the trials and humiliations of an unknown missionary in a strange land. If
Mitri really wished to be a priest, he wrote, why not return to Europe, where
such a vocation could at least be carried out in a manner suitable to his rank
and position? It can, therefore, be no matter of surprise that Mitri's
Protestant relatives should be furious. His uncle, a Russian general, wrote
that he considered certain enthusiasts must be to blame for making his
nephew forget his rank and family, as well as all sense of fitness and
propriety, to embrace "a state of shame and disgrace."

In the meantime, as Gallitzin's German biographer writes, "his mother,

though she was the hardest hit and had to bear the brunt of the storm,
behaved much the most sensibly. She wrote immediately to the Abbé
Nagot, the Bishop of Baltimore, and Herr Brosius. And when, through their
answers and the letters of her son, she felt assured that it was a true
vocation, she was unconcerned as to the worldly consequences of so
unusual a proceeding, and exulted in the happiness of being the mother of a
young man so superior to the colorless, commonplace personalities of these
times as to have been capable of choosing such a state of life."

Prince Gallitzin (or Herr Schmet, as he was called) was all the while
quietly pursuing his studies at Georgetown, to which place the little
seminary had been removed from Baltimore. Humility had doubtless much
to do with the ugly alias to which Gallitzin persistently clung; but in the
first instance it had been motived by a little human prudence. A prince is
often fleeced; and Mitri's father had wisely suggested that the American
tour could be made equally pleasant at half the expense if the young man
travelled as plain Herr Schmet.

In 1793 his mother writes: "The greatest—nay, the only happiness that
can rejoice the heart of man here below is to be able to put himself just
there where God would have him be, and then to fill that post worthily and
well." She goes on to assure him that all the reproaches and
unpleasantnesses she may have to bear on his account will be accepted
cheerfully; and that she can conceive no greater delight, no more splendid
reward for all her sorrows and cares than to see the son of her heart standing
at God's altar. Only two things would she ask of him: first, not to hurry—
carefully to examine his own heart before taking the irrevocable step;
secondly, to promise her to keep his freedom—not to bind himself by vow
to the American mission; for, though determined not to keep back anything
in her sacrifice, she could not as yet face the thought of never seeing her
only son again.

Gallitzin's friends were of opinion that by a timely, merely temporary

return to Europe, some settlement might be made with the Russian
government so that at least part of his inheritance might come to him.
However, a request for his return had been anticipated by Demetrius, who
had at once written to say that he renounced all claim to his inheritance. In a
letter to Amalie the elder Gallitzin explains that the mere fact of their son's
having become a priest disinherited him according to Russian law. And he
adds:

"All that I have will consequently go to Mimi, whom, however, I know

to be honorable and generous, so that her conscience would never allow her
to rob her brother in order to enrich herself.... If you wish you may send on
this letter to Mitri. It will save me the pain of writing to him myself. I must
add, however, that, in my opinion, if a nobleman renounces the profession
of arms to which he is destined by his birth and enters the Church, he can
do no less than become either a missionary or a monk, if he wishes to prove
to the world that the career to which he was entitled was abandoned neither
through cowardice nor ambition."

III.—THE FOUNDING OF LORETTO.

In March, 1795, Demetrius Gallitzin was ordained priest, and at once

set to work; for in April we already find him at Port Tobacco with another
missionary. The self-forgetful zeal and splendid spiritual gallantry which
were to characterize his long and arduous apostolical career at once showed
themselves. In the very first month of his new labors there was a letter from
Bishop Carroll bidding him moderate his ardor and spare his strength more;
for it had reached his Lordship's ears that the young priest would often
travel unconscionable distances in his love for souls, even "in weather unfit
for a dog." Bishop Carroll knew only too well from personal experience
what sort of entertainment awaited the weary missionary after a journey of
this kind. So Gallitzin was ordered to return to Baltimore for a while to take
charge of the German Catholics, who were clamoring for a priest
conversant with their language.

Gallitzin remained for two or three years, first at Conewago, a

settlement composed mainly of Germans; and then at Taneytown,
Maryland, which had an exclusively English-speaking community; so that
he had to resort to this language, which he soon learned not only to speak
but also to write with singular ease and purity. Indeed toward the end of his
life his German grew very rusty. After all, French had been the fashion at
home; and there was now a strong feeling that Gallitzin preferred the
English and Irish sheep of his flock to his own country people. If so, it was
not unnatural: the Irish and English emigrants were often excellent
specimens of their countrymen; whereas in those days the settlers from
Germany were frequently the reverse. But this is anticipating.

He had not been long at Taneytown before he and his church-trustees

fell out,—a thing at that time so common that it would not be worth
mentioning, says his biographer, had it not been the occasion of making
Gallitzin first think of founding an independent colony established on
entirely Catholic lines.

In the year 1798 Bishop Carroll wrote to inform him that some of his
flock had been complaining of his harshness and high-handedness. The
good Bishop knew how to take such an accusation with a very large grain of
salt; still he thought it well to remind his ardent missionary to temper zeal
for God's glory with gentleness and forbearance toward his neighbor. The
advice was given in the most paternal spirit; and it may well have been that
Gallitzin, with the blood of many a Russian despot in his veins, should
sometimes have found it difficult to accommodate himself to the ways of
American democracy. But he was singularly clear-headed as well as far-
seeing; and not many years were needed to prove to the rising episcopate
that he had been contending for something worth a contest—the freedom
and independence of action of the clergy, without which a priest's position
in regard to his flock becomes false and untenable. The trustee system,
which answers among the various Protestant sects, does not work well in a
Catholic parish. The priest's position is that of the spiritual father of a
family, not that of a salaried preacher to a congregation of critics.

It may here be objected that trustees were useful in the erection of

churches, founding of missions, etc. Even in such cases it is not clear that
the system worked well. In a new country, where speculation was the order
of the day, sharp practice might be resorted to in the building of a church or
school as unscrupulously as in that of a theatre or factory. Sacred buildings
would be erected with borrowed money, which might be reclaimed by an
unfortunate speculator at a moment when it was impossible to pay back the
loan; and thus a church might come under the hammer, without any regard
to its holy character.

Pews—of the old-fashioned kind, provided with lock and key—filled

the churches, and were let to the highest bidders by auction. To Gallitzin,
such a system, which left the poor no alternative but to be jostled in the
doorway or to stop at home, was an abomination. He also strongly resented
trial sermons, such as are usual among Presbyterians, where the
congregations are free to choose whichever candidate has pleased them best
by his discourse. Gallitzin could not and would not be a parish priest under
such conditions. It was not for this that he had left home and country and
fortune and honors.

In his old age he was asked how the strange idea had ever entered his
head of wandering forth into the wilderness to found his Catholic colony,
from whence at first he had had to send no less than fifty miles to the
nearest mill, and twice as far for coffee, salt, sugar, and other necessaries.
He replied: "I migrated to get away from trustees, pew-renting, and all the
other evils connected with the system; and there were no means of escape
but to devise another system with laws of its own. Wherever the work had
been already begun, it was spoiled because Catholics had always copied
Protestants. I recollect going to Philadelphia to pay Brosius a visit and to
see what the place was like. While saying Mass in the church belonging to
the Germans, I heard a constant rolling and banging, with shouts and loud
speaking. When I asked what it all meant, I was told that there was a cellar
under the church which had been let by the trustees to a wine and spirit
merchant. 'Well, well,' I said to myself, 'and has it really come to this?
Never will I enter that church again.'"

The idea which soon shaped itself in his mind was to found a little
Catholic community in the far West. The "far West" in those days was
Pennsylvania; for anything still farther was as yet a complete wilderness,
infested by Indians and wild beasts. A small colony had some years
previously settled in the present St. Vincent, and thence a few families had
pushed on about fifty miles to the northeast into the Allegheny Mountains.

Gallitzin, who had occasionally visited these people from Taneytown,

decided to cast in his lot among them, and accordingly wrote to the Bishop
for the necessary permission. In his reply the Bishop expressed great
surprise at so strange a request, and doubted whether Gallitzin would have
strength for so arduous an undertaking. However, he added: "I will grant
your petition, and heartily agree to your evangelizing from thence the
districts you mention—Huntington and other places lying nearer to the East,
and consequently to civilization."

In the August of 1799 Gallitzin and his flock set out for the new
mission, in which the indefatigable pastor was to labor for forty years, and
where he was to find his last resting-place. Several respectable families, all
Catholics, accompanied him; these were people who were too poor to
acquire land in already civilized districts.

A journey of this kind was in those days no light matter; for roads were
altogether wanting. Women, children and baggage went on pack-horses, or
in carts and sledges drawn by oxen; the men acted as pioneers, clearing the
way for the caravan to follow. Only short distances could be travelled in
one day, and at night they had all to camp in the forests.
 An Irishman of the name of McGuire had left a rough tract of land to
Bishop Carroll as church property; this the Bishop now handed over to
Gallitzin, who, besides, bought out of his own fortune another large piece of
ground, which he let to his poor parishioners on most easy terms. Indeed for
many plots he never received a penny.

The first buildings erected in the speedily-cleared settlement were two

modest log edifices,—one the church, the other the presbytery. On
Christmas night, 1799, the first Mass was said in the new church. Fervor
was great: no one thought of sleep; all had been made as festive as possible
with evergreen decorations and as many candles and tapers as could be
mustered in the wilderness. "Thus," observes Gallitzin's biographer, "it
came to pass that on a spot where but a year previously had stood a
primeval forest, a handful of wanderers of various countries and tongues
found a home under the care of an exiled prince; and where formerly at the
solemn midnight hour no sounds had been heard but the howling of wolves,
now resounded the glad song of the heavenly hosts: 'Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace to men of good-will!'"

The same writer proceeds to draw a pretty picture of the devoted part a
priest like Gallitzin is bound to play in a settlement as yet without police,
magistrate, doctor, or lawyer: "The love of Christ urges him; he is not
satisfied with just fulfilling his priestly duties, such as preaching at stated
times, and then treating the hundred little things of daily life that affect
humanity with proud disdain, as much as to say, 'That is no affair of mine.'
On the contrary, he enters into all his people's interests, is easy of approach
to all. He writes their letters to Germany, Ireland or France; and when he is
on his missionary rounds he carries back the answers from distant postal
stations. He is not too grand to bring the women folk the little necessaries
which can be procured only at a great distance and which others might
easily forget—some pepper or a packet of needles, and so forth. All this
begets appreciation ending in unbounded trust and affection; and as the
priest in a new mission of this kind is generally the only educated man, he
is soon all in all to his parishioners. He has become a centre of unity, about
which the most heterogeneous elements gather in love and obedience; and a
patriarchal form of government is once more possible."
 It must be admitted that in his great generosity Gallitzin spent more
money than was wise upon his beloved settlement; yet he had good reasons
for thinking himself wealthy. So long as his mother was able she kept him
liberally supplied with money for all his good works, even at the cost of
considerable self-sacrifice. At the death of his parents the fortune would be
his sister's, and she had solemnly promised that she would "share and share
alike" with her brother.

His father never sent him any money, but occasionally wrote to him. In
his last letter he says, wistfully: "We are both getting on in years; your
mother is, moreover, broken by ill health.... There is no time to lose if you
wish to see us once more. Besides, your presence here is necessary, in spite
of your deed relinquishing all claim to my fortune; for unless the precise
legal formalities are observed, the inheritance may be lost to Mimi likewise,
and go to the next of kin."

But it was impossible for Gallitzin to leave. Not only was he absolutely
essential to the life and social well-being of his model little colony, but it
would have meant much spiritual loss as well; and the brave priest decided
to remain at his post. Not without sacrifice, however,—heroic sacrifice. In
1803 he wrote to his mother that he had been hoping to find a substitute so
as to be able to go to Europe; he had always feared this might be
impossible, but of late years his work had increased to such a degree that he
began to doubt whether he should ever see Münster and his dear mother
again.

"I dare not," he writes, "trust myself to think about it; for when I do my
heart trembles, and I feel as if I positively must see you once more.... But
God knows what is best under the circumstances and most conducive to His
honor.... The number of priests here seems to decrease, while the number of
Catholics goes on increasing. I know you are perfectly resigned to the will
of God under all circumstances—indeed far more so than I am,—and that
your one real desire is to meet me safe in the bosom of our Heavenly Father
when the gates of death are passed."

In March, 1803, Gallitzin's father died, leaving no will. The Princess

hoped against hope to secure something for Demetrius, and once more
asked him to return, if it were at all possible. He thereupon visited Bishop
Carroll, and laid the whole state of the case simply before him, ready to
abide by his decision. His Lordship came to the conclusion he ought not to
leave; and Gallitzin returned to his beloved flock once more, never to leave
them again even for so short an absence.

That his noble mother understood and approved of his decision was
shown in a very acceptable form. First arrived a substantial cheque, then a
large box containing books, rosaries and pictures; another with a quantity of
linen for himself and his poor parishioners, all worked by herself and her
friends. Long years after, an aged woman showed Gallitzin's biographer,
with great pride, a dainty christening robe, and told him it had been made
by the pious mother of their own blessed Father. "I was baptized in it, and
every one of my children; and I now keep it as a sacred relic for my
grandchildren."

Another still more acceptable present did the Princess send; this was a
complete set of church vestments made by herself, her daughter, and the
Countess Stolberg. Gallitzin was particularly fond of the alb, which was a
masterpiece of needlecraft. He wore it on all great feasts; and, according to
his wish, he also wore it when laid in his grave.

Gallitzin, as he quietly travelled back to his little colony after his

interview with the Bishop, never dreamed what bitter crosses were in store
for him. He knew he had turned his back upon all that makes life pleasant—
upon love and sympathy and congenial friends; he had embraced a life of
hardship; he was to spend himself and to be spent among rough, uneducated
strangers, unable to appreciate or to understand him. But beyond all this,
persecutions, opposition, ingratitude and calumny were to tame his ardent
spirit and bring it captive to the Cross of Christ. Indeed, so relentless was
the storm, so fierce the persecution, often from those who owed him
everything and who ended by loving him enthusiastically, that we can only
account for it by saying that the devil, seeing the good that was being done,
raged against its author with full fury in the expectation of driving him to
despair.
 IV.—LAST DAYS.

As Gallitzin's settlement increased and prospered and he had plenty of

land, he determined to found a little town, and for that purpose encouraged
workmen and tradespeople to come to him; and thus was founded the little
town of Loretto.

No sooner, however, had the zealous missionary founded his town than
a speculator arose ready to "undercut" him in every way. He also started his
opposition town, which, as he was an Irishman, he called Münster.
Unfortunately, a German tailor, after deciding to settle at Münster, changed
his mind and came to Loretto. This was taken in very bad part by the
Münster worthies. Their ringleader was only a nominal Catholic; he gave
such bad example that Gallitzin, as his pastor, could not leave him
unreproved. The wretched man was now able to make himself out a martyr.
He "talked big" of priests who loved power and gold, and were ever ready
to tread a poor but honest enterpriser underfoot. The laxer members of the
community, who had chafed against Gallitzin's high moral code, soon
joined the malcontent party; to this were also added certain ambitious
people who had hoped to be church-wardens, trustees, and so forth, and
who resented Gallitzin's keeping the reins of government in his own strong
hands.

At this most inopportune moment there appeared on the scene a priest

of whose past Gallitzin knew far too much to be able to entrust him with
any ecclesiastical duties. On the other hand, the Prince's high sense of honor
and charity made him unwilling to expose the poor man's history. His only
return for Gallitzin's clemency was to stir up the people, and represent
himself as persecuted on account of the parish priest's jealousy and avarice.

And as if all this were not enough, a Westphalian turned up who had
known Gallitzin in Münster. He was a lazy ne'er-do-well, who thought it
would be very fine to live at a rich prince's expense. After treating him with
great kindness and giving him the chance to work, Gallitzin, finding him
incorrigible, was finally obliged to send him away. Then the man spread the
most odious calumnies against his benefactor, hinting this, asserting that;
asking if it were "natural" that, if everything were all right and square, a
Russian Prince of large fortune should be called "Herr Schmet" and bury
himself in Loretto. For once the wretch had surmised correctly: no, it was
not natural.

Gallitzin was too high-souled to take notice of this dastardly mud-

throwing. As usual, the pastor continued to go about "doing good"—calm,
fearless, kindly,—and that at a time when, at length, he was in danger of his
life. One day he was seized upon by a set of roughs bent on extorting from
him all kinds of concessions which would have done away with his
influence forever. As he remained firm, they became so threatening that he
sought shelter in his chapel, where he would have had to sustain a regular
siege but for the timely intervention of a certain John Weakland, known as
the tallest and strongest man within a hundred miles. Like most giants, he
was sparing of words, gentle and peaceable; but he was a great admirer of
Gallitzin, with whom he had travelled from Maryland.

As soon as John appeared, the roughs paused a little, thinking he

intended to beat about right and left with the monster staff he held in his
hand; but, far more wonderful, he made a speech. "In my day," he cried, "I
have fought with bears and other wild beasts, but up to this I have never,
thank God, injured any human being. Now things may be quite changed, if
you don't go home at once and behave yourselves. For whoever makes a
row near God's house or dares to lay a finger on the Lord's anointed, let him
look to it"—and he brandished his staff,—"for so true as I'm a living man
I'll dash his brains out!" The situation had required a master-hand. The
better-disposed now rallied round honest John, and but for Gallitzin's timely
interference the affair might have ended in bloodshed.

Bishop Carroll wrote private letters of comfort to his sorely-tried

missionary. He also wrote a public notice, dated Nov. 30, 1804, which was
nailed to the church door. It ran as follows:

"I think it necessary, dear children in Christ, to inform you, the faithful
of Reverend Mr. Schmet's community, that I am cognizant of the
differences that have arisen between him and some of his parishioners. All
the information I have obtained has convinced me that Mr. Schmet, in all
that has taken place, was never actuated by any other motives than those of
charity and zeal for the good of those entrusted to his care. Moreover, I
know that he is quite open to reconciliation: that he will be ready to treat all
members of his community with fatherly affection; and that it is their
simple duty to give proofs of their confidence and readiness to profit by his
pastoral care. Indeed they ought to be forever grateful to him for enduring
so many hardships for their sakes. Moved by the love of God and of their
souls, he has generously renounced great earthly advantages.

"✠J., BISHOP OF BALTIMORE."

Peace and order were now once more restored. Many of the offenders,
after begging Gallitzin's pardon, became his stanchest friends. It was
noticed that a person who refused to do this died not long afterward a
horrible death; whereas the good John Weakland died only fifteen years
after Gallitzin, at a very great age, leaving a posterity of over a hundred
souls. He was followed to the grave by a great-granddaughter carrying her
child in her arms.

But now another ordeal began for Gallitzin,—one that was to continue
to harass him for thirty long years. After his father's death his mother found
herself involved in a tedious and expensive lawsuit, to obtain her just rights.
She won the lawsuit but died before reaping any benefit therefrom; her
daughter Mimi now came in for the fortune. During the last ten years of her
life, despite all her efforts, Amalie had not been able to help her son as
much as formerly. But he, counting on her ever-ready purse, and upon his
sister's repeated promises as to the future, had not only conceived great
plans, but had unfortunately begun to carry them out. And as the weary
months went by and brought no remittances from Europe, his poverty
increased till at times he had barely enough to keep body and soul together.
To one of Gallitzin's temperament that, however, was not the sting of the
trial: the real sting was to see his noble daydreams—that had been so
practical, so excellent as well as noble—doomed to disappointment, and
himself reduced to the humiliating position of a seeming foolish enthusiast
who had begun to build ere counting the cost.

In 1806 Princess Amalie Gallitzin died. Bishop Carroll, Mimi Gallitzin,

and Count Stolberg all sent letters to Demetrius to tell him the sad tidings.
Count Stolberg wrote thus:
 "Blessed and praised be Jesus Christ! She is doing this, dearest Mitri! ...
She is blessing and praising Him better far than we can ever do. But yet we,
too, must, to the best of our powers, praise Him—and not in a general way,
for that is a matter of course, and something we ought to do with our every
breath, but in a special manner,—for having so unspeakably blessed your
saintly mother. She was like Him in suffering, to be the more like Him in
glory. I need not tell you ... what an angel your mother was; but in my deep
sorrow I feel I must tell you that ever since I have known her I could never
think of the bond which God, in His mercy toward me, had created between
her soul and mine, without being filled with a sense of intense reverence,
heartfelt love, and deep happiness. My soul is very sorrowful, and yet my
spirit rejoices at the same time that she has reached the goal; and I know
that she continues to help me by her powerful intercession. Rejoice, dearest
Mitri, in being the beloved son of a saint; rejoice to have been the cause of
so much consolation to her; rejoice to know that she is still blessing you
with the unspeakable love of a mother!"

Amalie Gallitzin was buried as she had wished it,—not with any pride
or ostentation, in some grand vault, but in the little churchyard of
Angelmodde, among the poor she had loved so well. A large crucifix
throws its hallowed shade upon her humble grave, and on the base of it are
inscribed these words:

"'I count all things to be but loss for the excellent knowledge of Jesus
Christ my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count
them but as dung, that I may gain Christ.' (Phil., iii, 8.) Thus felt and lived
the mother of the poor and the oppressed, Princess Amalie Gallitzin,
Countess von Schmettau, whose mortal remains rest at the foot of this
cross, awaiting a glorious resurrection. She died the 27th of April, 1806, in
the fifty-eighth year of her age. Pray for her."

Bishop Carroll, writing to Gallitzin, said: "It is not only because she was
your mother that she was dear to me, and that I get others to pray for her,
but because she sought ever to promote the welfare of religion with zeal and
earnestness in this diocese. I can only offer you my deepest sympathy on
being deprived of a mother who was so much to be revered, and who in the
hands of God was the means of procuring you so many precious graces."
 A kindly French proverb says: "To know all would be to forgive all."
We must not, therefore, judge too harshly of the conduct of Gallitzin's sister.
She found it far more difficult to get her rents paid, owing to the distracted
state of Europe at that time, than her brother could well imagine. When he
heard that the Russian government had recognized all her claims, he
naturally expected to receive the half of the large fortune that had always
been promised him. Instead of this small doles of money occasionally
reached him with long excuses; she may, indeed, have been an
inexperienced business woman. But after a while, at the age of forty, she
married, and then she seems to have felt it quite out of her power to help her
brother at all.

Dear old Overberg finally came to the rescue. Amalie had left him a
valuable collection of rare gems to be sold if necessary in aid of his many
charities. With characteristic disinterestedness he resolved to send all the
money thus obtained to Gallitzin, and exerted himself to find a suitable
purchaser. The King of Holland bought the collection; and, remembering
his friendly relations with the Gallitzins in other days, paid a truly regal
sum. It is one of the pathetic sides of life that as age advances, our hopes
and wishes grow smaller and smaller. The ardent missionary, who in his
generous youth had dreamed such great and noble things that were to be
achieved with his large fortune, ended in only longing very wistfully that he
might die free of debt; for he felt debt as a kind of stain upon his priestly
character. And this wish was granted him.

By the time Father Lemke, Gallitzin's devoted helper and biographer,

arrived at Loretto the grand old missionary was showing a few signs of
failing health; but he was still upright, active, energetic as ever, in spite of
his thinness which amounted almost to emaciation. No longer able to travel
on horseback owing to an injury to his leg, he went about in a strange old-
fashioned sledge, in which were packed all the requisites for saying Mass at
the stations he visited. His clothes were of the poorest and almost
threadbare. Father Lemke at once felt he had to deal with a saint, and
valued the privilege accordingly. But, it was hard and at times futile work to
induce the old Father to rest and to take things a little easier. He was wont
to say that as in these days there was little opportunity for a missionary to
glorify God by a bloody martyrdom, he was at least allowed to wish that he
might drop down dead in the harness like a worn-out old cart-horse.

To his countless other labors Gallitzin added that of writing. He wrote

some excellent though simple controversial treatises, always in that
remarkably pure English he had so easily mastered.

Of course Father Lemke thought that Gallitzin would keep him at his
side to relieve him from the strain of excessive work. But, to his dismay, a
few days after his arrival Gallitzin sent him a considerable distance, to a
small station badly in need of the ministrations of a priest; giving him
permission, however, to return to Loretto once a month to help him over the
Saturday and Sunday.

The winter of 1839 and 1840 was a particularly cold and trying one, and
Father Lemke was obliged to travel great distances during Lent, that not one
of the scattered flock might be without the means of approaching the
sacraments. As ill-fortune would have it, he met with a serious accident,
which made it at last impossible for him to put his foot to the ground. It was
just at this most inopportune moment that news reached him from Loretto
that Gallitzin had fallen ill; that he had just managed to say Mass on Easter
Sunday, but had been unable to preach, and had been obliged at length to
take to his bed.

Father Lemke immediately sent a messenger to Loretto, who came back

with the news that he had seen the dear old man; that he looked very ill, but
that he had said Father Lemke was not to dream of coming, but was to take
good care of himself; that if there should be any danger he would be sure to
send for him. But a friend had whispered that the saintly Father was really
very ill, and that it would be well if his coadjutor lost no time in coming.
Not long after Gallitzin's old sledge arrived, the driver bringing a petition
from the doctor (who loved the old priest as his father) to come at once, as
there was but little hope. In spite of his own sorry plight, Father Lemke
immediately set out upon the journey; and on arriving found that the doctor
was only waiting for his coming before performing a necessary operation.

Gallitzin required but little preparation. He was perfectly resigned to the

will of God,—ready for anything. "I have made my will," he said. "I do
hope that I can depart in peace so far as that is concerned, and that everyone
will receive his due, and that there will even be a trifle over. Now my only
desire is to receive the last Sacraments, and then you may do with me
whatever you like."

After midnight Father Lemke said Mass for him in his room, during
which he received Holy Communion with most intense devotion. The
operation brought some temporary relief; but the whole system was so
thoroughly worn out his community realized they were to lose their dearly
beloved Father and friend.

The news spread like lightning that he was dying; and from all the
neighborhood there poured into Loretto a very stream of pilgrims, old and
young, all anxious to see him once more and to receive his blessing. So
great did the numbers become that it was found necessary to prevent their
entrance into the sick-room. But this had to be done with the utmost
caution; for the dying man himself seemed pleased to see them all, and had
a sweet smile and a kindly word for every comer.

But at length a man came for whom Gallitzin had no smile. He had
repaid all the good priest's kindness with extreme ingratitude, and had of
late years given way to intemperance and other evil habits. Him the dying
priest looked at sternly, while he lifted up a warning finger. This silent
sermon had a wonderful effect: the prodigal fell upon his knees, and,
weeping bitterly, confessed his wickedness and promised to amend. He kept
his promise. And Gallitzin, on his side, did not forget him; for on the day of
his death, after having a long time lain still and unconscious, he whispered
this man's name. It seemed to pain him that he had not left him anything, as
he had to his other former servants. Father Lemke caught these words:
"Poor scamp—if it could still be done—not forget him." Father Lemke, of
course, respected the dying wish.

Two days before his death Gallitzin had the consolation of a visit from
another priest, an old friend of his—Father Heyden, of Bedford. On the
evening of the 6th of May the end had come. Father Heyden said the
Prayers for the Dying, while Father Lemke held a lighted candle in
Gallitzin's hand. As the prayers ended Father Lemke felt that the pulse had
stopped and another beautiful soul had flown to the Feet of its Redeemer. A
bystander, gazing at the dead priest, exclaimed: "Does he not look like a
grand old conqueror who had just won his victory?"

The testimony of one of his fellow priests is too beautiful to be omitted.

Writing three years before Gallitzin's death, he said: "I do not see much of
the venerable Father, for I live twelve miles distant. Besides he has lived, so
to speak, alone, for forty-two years, and he is reserved and self-contained.
But he is the noblest, purest, most Christian man I ever met. He requires to
be well known.... Now that I live without any consolation, and have, thank
God, gained sufficient mastery over self no longer to wish for any
consolation that this world could give me, I believe that He will come to
comfort me who alone can give comfort worthy of the name. We have
abundant proof of this here. For have I not Gallitzin before me? He gave up
everything—everything; and, best of all, he gave himself. Therefore he now
goes about enshrouded in an abiding peace, and an angel looks out of his
calm eyes; and I feel that at any moment he could lay himself down smiling
to sleep his last sleep like a weary child. Can anything higher or better be
striven for or attained?"
 Gallitzin's funeral told something of the universal veneration in which
he was held. In spite of bad weather, mourners came a distance of forty and
fifty miles to pay him the last tribute of love and gratitude. It would have
taken but a few minutes to convey the body from the presbytery to its
resting-place; but his friends had a pretty thought. They carried their dear
Father through the gardens and fields and meadows, and lastly through the
little town—all of which had been his creation, his life's work,—that he
might once more bless it all and dedicate it anew to Him to follow whom he
had, in the most literal sense of the word, "left all things."
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROYAL SON
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