IN THE NEW ENGLAND ATMOSPHERE -1851-1853 541 



sented; and, on my return to the hotel, my father was 

 greatly encouraged as to my religious development when 

 I gave to him a synopsis of the whole sermon from end to 

 end. 



Next day there resulted a curious episode. Notices 

 were posted throughout Saratoga that Father Gavazzi, the 

 Italian patriot and heretic, famous for his oratory, would 

 hold a meeting in the grove back of Congress Hall Hotel, 

 at three in the afternoon, and would answer the arch 

 bishop s argument. When the hour arrived an immense 

 crowd was assembled, and among them many Catholics, 

 some of whom I knew well, one of them a young priest 

 to whom I had become strongly attached at school. Soon 

 appeared the orator. He was of most striking presence 

 tall, handsome, with piercing black eyes and black hair, 

 and clad in a long semi-monastic cloak. His first line of 

 argument was of little effect, though given with impas 

 sioned gestures and a most sympathetic voice ; but soon he 

 paused and spoke gently and simply as follows: &quot;When 

 I was a priest in Italy I daily took part in the mass. On 

 festivals I often saw the fasting priest fill the chalice 

 as full as he dared with strong wine; I saw him pro 

 nounce the sacred words and make the sacred sign over it ; 

 and I saw, as everybody standing round him clearly saw, 

 before the end of the service, that it flushed his face, 

 thickened his voice, and enlivened his manner. My fel 

 low-Christians &quot; (and here his voice rang out like a trum 

 pet), &quot;who is the infidel, who is the blasphemer, I who 

 say that no change took place in the wine before the priest 

 drank it, and that no miracle was performed, or the man 

 who says that his fellow-man can be made drunk on the 

 blood of the blessed Son of God?&quot; 



The effect was startling, even on Protestants: but on 

 the Roman Catholics present it was most thrilling ; and I 

 remember that an old Irishwoman, seated on the steps of 

 the platform as these words were uttered, clapped her 

 hands to her ears and ran from the place screaming. I 

 must confess that my sympathies were with her rather 

 than with the iconoclast, despite his gifts and graces. 



