Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/82

72 not brain. No! Bigot! Stupid! Myself, I am a Liberal. But zees man, zees Pawp who is goin' come 'ere, I like 'eem! Ees a good man. 'E liberal inside. 'E frien' of ze King; I hear they eat dinner sometime long ago, an' make good frien' togeth'. Good man; not meddle politic, only preach; talk only spirchal power, no temporal. 'E belief all real Christian Kingdom ees spirchal; preach ole Christian doctun. Ev'rabod' like 'eem, excep' only some cardinals. If 'e goin' be temporal, come out Vatican, try to get temporal power, I be firs' to 'ate 'eem; I be ze firs' to 'it 'eem—I knock 'eem down! I am a Liberal! No bigot! You expec' me go to confessional? Tell my troub' to priest? Pouf! Alia! Whoo! You no fool zees chick! Ha, ha! You 'ear? 'No fool zees chick!' I been America; I know ze slank. Bell-boy teach me. Yes! Been at Cincinnat'! See!" He laid violent hands upon the collar of his coat and threw it forward to expose the trade-mark of a Cincinnati clothing-house sewn into the lining of the collar. His attitude may be easily translated to the familiar. It was: "Behold the birthmark! I am your father, the Duke."

"Only three time I wear 'eem," he continued. "That 'ow I know you. My clothe' made in Cincinnat'. I see you far back in crowd. 'Ha! Fine lady,' I say, 'good family. American! Cannot see.' I bring you good place. I would lay down my life for American! I am gentiman—gentiman troo and troo!" His voice shook; he hovered on the verge of pathos, but suddenly adopted the gallant as more becoming. He placed his left hand upon his right chest, bowed, and repeated:

"Gentiman troo an' troo! You see, I say it from my hearts, weetha my 'and on my hearts!"

A bell within the palace tinkled. There had been an agreeable sound of chatter, sounding from everywhere in the court, but the bell was a signal for the mere murmur to heighten in pitch and rise to a sudden resonant noisiness, which was like the coming of heavy April rain through sunshine to fall on a tin roof. It increased again, like a quick rattle of hail, as, with a wide flash of brass and silver, the instruments rose simultaneously to the mouths of the musicians. The Papal Anthem leaped out jubilantly from the horns; a kind of reverent quickstep it is; and the great melody of it took its way through the clamor of the ten thousand, like a soul-stirring procession passing down a shouting street. Another bell was struck. At that, into the anthem there broke a deep and splendid roll of drums. These were the heralds of the coming of the presence. They rolled out their long salute, while a dozen stately and glittering officers filed slowly out upon the platform and ranged themselves in a semicircle, flanking each side of the dais. They were followed by as many ecclesiastics in purple and red; and now the clamor of the crowd grew into an uproar, then suddenly rose to thunder as there appeared a single figure, all in magnificent white, amidst the mass of red and gold and purple. There was a storm of hats and handkerchiefs on the air, and the cheering filled the court like a solid as the Pope passed to his throne. The officers and ecclesiastics knelt as he went by them; and to the young Americans, who had, all at once, found inexplicable tears in their eyes, it seemed quite natural that these dignitaries should kneel.

For Pius X. has the effect of pathos; perhaps it is the transparent and touching quality of the simple goodness that is in his face. Many a town in the United States has been blessed with a citizen (but usually not more) whose look was of this type; a strong and kindly "Uncle Billy Jackson," an old fellow carrying the radiance of a life spent in good works, the service of those in need; one whose hale greeting on the street made the recipient better and gayer all day; that rare thing, a genial philanthropist, whose heart and hand and scanty store were not for the orphan alone, not for the unhighly-educated alone, but for all who lacked, or sinned, or mourned; for the grieving child, the lame dog, the drunkard, for the stranger fallen sick. Looking upon the Pope, one feels the great pity of it that the man should be a prisoner; for a prisoner he is, not merely out of sentiment, as so many lightly think, or voluntarily, or because of his own sense of right, not even because it is his policy; but because the policy of the powers of his organization confine him.