LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.
FROM THE FRENCH.
March 21, 1869.
What a day, dearest! At High Mass the Passion was sung as in the Sistine Chapel. What memories it awoke within me! It was wonderfully beautiful, and every word found an echo in my heart. O flowery Easter! the children’s festival, how I loved formerly to see its return. It was spring, bright days, verdure and flowers; but this year we have a sort of recommencement of winter instead of spring; for some days we have had snow and stormy gales, which have made it sometimes impossible to go out.
René has been reading us a beautiful fragment of the Monks of the West on religious vocations; Gertrude had suggested this reading. My mother wept, and I envied the heavenly calm of the happy Gertrude.
The beautiful new-born has quite the air of a seraph; he is so fair, rosy, and silent. Adrien will be his godfather, and the honor of godmother, dear Kate, will devolve upon your Georgina. “This little last one,” Johanna said to me, “shall be quite your own, dear sister!” How good they all are! Brothers and sisters so united and happy together! The baptism is deferred, that it may take place in Brittany, and we shall have Margaret. How I love this beautiful little soul over which I shall have sacred rights!
Berthe regrets her Mad, whom Thérèse misses sadly.
22d.—The Père Meillier preaches the retreat—two sermons a day.
This morning upon the retreat itself: “I will lead her into the wilderness, and there will I speak to her heart. Perfection, according to St. Bernard, is an ardent zeal always to be advancing. During this retreat God desires to soften, detach, and fix our heart. We must be converted. Conversion is turning again to God. The means of conversion are time, grace, and will. The time God gives us; he himself says this: ‘Behold, now is the acceptable time, now is the day of salvation.’ Grace—this is given to us in superabundance. The will must come from ourselves; St. Bernard says that this will must be constant, courageous, and sometimes heroic.” He ended by exhorting us “not to resist God, who is standing at the door of our heart, who knocks and waits”; and faithfully to follow this retreat. “I know neither the day nor the hour, but there will be a moment in which God will speak to you; and beware, Christian souls, lest Jesus pass by and return no more!” At three o’clock on tepidity, its causes and its remedy, the whole very practical and very holy.
The same agreement as last year between René and me. Little Alix accompanied me on a visit to the worthy Mr. Crossman, as the children call him. Finding him more calm than usual while I was dressing his leg, I was inwardly congratulating myself, when an energetic oath, and a sudden movement more energetic still, repulsed and overthrew me: and a scene of
anger followed, which made Alix tremble like a rose-leaf in a storm, and I tried in vain to appease the sick man. What is to be done to-morrow? God will help me.
23d.—Letters. Marianne is anxious. Picciola eats nothing and scarcely sleeps. “It is my belief that she is home-sick.” Anna is constantly improving in health, and the doctor forbids them to go away. Oh! how I fear the future. Marcella is radiant: “Dear Georgina, how grateful I am to this warm sun, and the vivifying breeze which Anna breathes in with delight! No more fever, no more pallor; not that her cheeks are rosy—my darling would need rouge for that—but her whiteness is living, and I like her thus. But what should we have done here without Lucy and Picciola and this kind Edouard? What gratitude my heart cherishes towards yours for this arrangement!”
Mistress Annah says that Edith will be completely cured when we see her again. Mary and Ellen are much beloved in the village.
Margaret shudders at the slightest indisposition of her baby. O these cradles, these dear cradles!
This evening at the piano I thought of Picciola, whom my love has made mine, and was singing this plaintive entreaty, which Edouard last year repeated with so much feeling:
“Reploie, enfant, tes ailes de colombe,
Sous ma caresse, ange, ouvre tes beaux yeux;
Si tu savais comme est froide la tombe!
Va, le bonheur n’habite pas qu’aux Cieux!
Pourquoi sitôt vouloir quitter la terre?
Dans le Ciel même est-il rien d’aussi doux
Qué les baisers dont te couvre ta mère
En te berçant, le soir, sur ses genoux?”[185]
Adrien joined me, and, in a voice more thrilling, harmonious, and touching than ever, he sang the succeeding strophes. I accompanied without seeing; strange lights passed before my eyes, and when he sang:
“Mais Dieu fut sourd: la fleur était éclose.
… Un ange aux rayons d’or
Un soir, dit on, cueillit la frêle rose,
Puis avec elle au Ciel reprit l’essor!”[186]
I burst into tears with such an explosion of despair that Adrien was alarmed. Kate, could it be possible that God would not leave us this child, almost worshipped as she is? “How susceptible you are, dear little sister!” “Oh! it is nothing”; and I went to my room. I opened a book, just at these words of M. Landriot: “You suffer; the hand of Christ alone is sufficiently light and yet powerful to heal the wounds of your soul.”
Instruction this morning on the besetting sin, which must be extirpated, and against which we must fight with a firm and determined will; at three o’clock, first on susceptibility, and then on piety. “Christian piety is a religious sentiment and a devoted zeal for everything which regards the glory of God, our own interests, and the good of our brethren.”
I had prayed so much to ask for some relief to my sick man that my visit passed off very well. I was alone, for fear of any misadventure. Mr. Crossman consented to some reading, and his daughters answered to the recitation of the Rosary. This man is an enigma to me. I have sent him the doctor.
24th.—Instruction on discouragement, for which the remedies are mistrust of self and confidence in
God. “Do you fear a creature?” said a saint. “Flee from him. Do you fear God? Throw yourself into his arms.” This evening, on the Sacrament of Penance—the dispositions that one ought to bring to it; the conduct requisite with regard to it: first, a great faith, a sincere humility, a spirit of reparation; secondly, to know how to pray and reflect, to speak, to listen, to be silent, to thank, and to remember. These sermons are essentially practical and such as one is glad to hear at least once in one’s life. The Père Meillier is truly a discerner of souls; he speaks of them with wonderful insight.
“Your sick man is half mad, madame!” At this agreeable announcement I hurried away to the poor man, who appeared to be touched by the constancy of my visits. I have been so happy as to get him to make his confession whilst he is still in possession of some gleams of intelligence. The mother is no longer able to leave her bed. The eldest child is sixteen years old; everything depends on her, and the dear soul loves God. My Kate will follow with pleasure the account of my week; besides, I talk confidentially to none but her. My mother never leaves Johanna, Gertrude is given to silence, Berthe is gone out; no news to-day of the exiles.
25th.—Thérèse, Marguerite, and Alix have given themselves up to me for the day. We have seen fifteen chapels; at dawn we accompanied the Blessed Sacrament to the poor family, where the two sick people received the Bread of the valiant and strong, the Bread of angels, the Bread of wayfarers, the Bread of the children of God. At three o’clock, sermon on the visit to the Blessed Sacrament. “To
make this visit is a proof of faith, of understanding, and of affection.” This evening heard the magnificent singing of the Stabat Mater and a sermon on the holy sacrifice of the Mass.
Letters from Brittany—the Saint of the coast: “I believe that my departure is near, and that you must not delay, dear friends, if you would give me the consolation of hearing those whom I love pray by my bedside!” My mother is much impressed. What is to be done? René says it is for Adrien to decide. “I think it is especially Georgina whom our saint asks for.” “It is so,” replied my mother. “René and Georgina shall go on Monday.” As every one approves of this, it will be so, I suppose. Death again!
Marcella writes—kind and pleasing details. And Picciola? O my God! thou who on this day didst give to us the greatest pledge of love, thou who hast loved us even to the end, hear my prayer! What a night is this, and fraught with what memories! At this hour was that discourse uttered at the Last Supper, and the Eucharistic Passover instituted, which will be our strength and consolation even to our last day!
26th.—“Very strange are often the destinies of men and the decrees of God. With some the thread of life snaps, even though it be woven of pure gold and shining silk; with others suffering and sorrow cannot succeed in breaking the dark thread which they pass through their cruel hands.” I read this after having heard the unfortunate wife of my sick man complain that she had been “forgotten by death.”
Twice made the Way of the Cross, was present at the Offices, heard three sermons: this morning on our
Lord’s sufferings; at three o’clock on the Seven Words of Jesus on the Cross; this evening the Passion, our Saviour’s sufferings in his mind, his heart, and his body.
27th.—Meditation on contrition and satisfaction; conference on the love of God. O love! This is the subject above all others which dilates the soul, illuminates and fills it. Who will grant that I may love perfectly?
Marianne mentions a slight improvement in the general state of Picciola, who does not complain, allows herself to be taken care of, and is as much as ever like an angel. I am alone in the preparation of surprises, or, at least, in their purchase. Berthe and Gertrude have worked with me. I am impatient for Monday. Supposing the saint should fly away without waiting for us!
28th.—Alleluia, dear sister! Oh! what a delicious awaking. The singing of the Alleluia by René long before the dawn, then all the greetings after the Mass of Communion, and the joy of the little girls, and the delight of the good abbé, upon whom were showered surprises, and Johanna’s joy at seeing me do honor to the first Alleluia of my godson! O the beautiful, beautiful day! And our poor, and Benoni, and High Mass followed by the Papal Benediction, Vespers, sermon: “He is risen!” “We find proofs of our Saviour’s resurrection in our faith and in our works.” Benediction ended about six o’clock.
Long and charming gazette from Edouard. The doctor has fixed the return for the 3d of May. Thus they will be on their way home in a month. May God bring them back to us! Dearest, I am sending to the post; pray, pray, pray! Send us your good angel,
and have a Mass said at Notre Dame des Victoires for our saint. It seems to me that I am going to be present at the death of a sister. How I should like you to have known her. René joins me in every line I am writing; my mother sends you her blessing. All, together and individually, send you their greetings. Christ is risen. Alleluia!
April 3, 1869.
Dear Kate, she is here still, living, smiling, always amiable, always holy, notwithstanding her weakness. “I think that at your prayer God has renewed the miracle wrought by Elias for the widow of Sarepta; for the oil of my lamp must have been exhausted long ago.” We speak of God and of the poor, her two last affections. She has not left to the last moment the disposal of her goods. Her old castle goes to a distant relation who bears her name, her whole fortune goes to relieve the distressed, and she leaves to us her works of art—a curious and remarkable collection made by her father, and which it was not her wish should pass into the hands of the indifferent. O Kate! souls like hers should live always upon earth for its edification.
René is writing to you; I enclose also a letter from Marcella.
God guard you, dearest sister!
April 5, 1869.
It was true, the oil of the lamp was exhausted. What a good life and what a holy death! “Open the windows, if you please. Oh! what harmonies. What a beautiful procession! What a splendid crown! Adieu, and thank you! Jesus! Heaven!” And this was all. It was yesterday.
The day before I entreated our saint to ask of God that he would
leave us Picciola. “Will he do so? There was heaven in the look of that child on the day of her First Communion! Dear Georgina, love above all the good pleasure of God!” I write to you from the side of this bed converted into a chapel. The earthly covering is there. I have shed no tears; my soul is in a state of joy such as I never before experienced. The saint had said to me: “If I am happy, I will cause you to feel it!” We have written to the relative and to the other friends. I shall not send this letter until the day after to-morrow.
April 7.—All is over. The burial vault has received the coffin, the friends are gone away again, the relation, an eccentric personage, is preparing to do the same, and so also must we. I could have almost wished to remain again to meditate, in this chapel where our saint has so often prayed, on the latest teachings which escaped her dying lips. The relative authorizes us to take away the “gallery” whenever we like to do so; even adding, with a certain politeness, that we might look upon this dwelling as our own.
They are waiting for us at home, and I am wishing for news from Hyères. Quick! we are going to retraverse our Brittany and return to our Penates.
Adieu for a little time, dear sister!
April 12, 1869.
What haste we have had to make in order to be here at Orleans in time for the golden wedding of Pius IX.! Magnificent Mass at St. Pierre du Martroi. The interior of the ancient church disappeared beneath hangings of velvet; above the altar shone the triple-crowned tiara. The Abbé La Grange said the Mass and made a beautiful address:
“Believe in the church, in her divine constitution, in her divine mission, in her splendid and incontestable immortality.” Admirable and elevating singing—the Tu es Petrus and some fine strophes for the occasion; then High Mass at the cathedral, also richly adorned and resplendent, with a multitude of people. There again was heavenly singing—a remarkable Sanctus, and, after the Mass, the Te Deum, that immortal hymn of thanksgiving. Sermon, procession, benediction. At six o’clock we came out of Sainte-Croix. What a day! How I love these splendors of the divine worship, this harmony of souls, these hymns, the fragrant incense, all this grand and admirable ensemble which Christianity alone can offer!
You may imagine the reception we met with on reaching home, and with what interest our account was listened to. The news is encouraging from all directions, I hope, I hope! When I think of the sadnesses of this world and all the bitternesses of life, I say with St. Stanislaus Kostka: “I am not born for present things, but future.” How much there is that is consoling in this thought!
My poor old Crossman is suffering greatly, and his wife is at the point of death. Tell me, dear Kate, how is it that I see so many dead? Let us rather speak of life and its expansion; let us speak of Karl, whose kind and fraternal pages reached me this morning. How he longs for the priesthood! What a thirst he has for souls! Already in desire he springs on unknown shores, and even goes so far as to dream of martyrdom. O holy ecstasies of love! What joy it must be to conquer the infidel, and to receive these disinherited ones to the table of the Lord! “The love
of one alone sheds itself upon all the beings who dwell by his side, ennobles them, and gives them understanding and strength—unrivalled and precious gifts which no other power in the world would have been able to bestow.”
The Abbé Baunard has written the Life of the Apostle St. John. A large heart, a lively faith, and great talents are needed in order to write the life of a saint; and as the author of whom I speak has all these, his work must be admirable. The introduction appeared in the Annals: “It is a book of piety. I address it to Christians and to priests—the priesthood has no higher personification than this apostle; to virgins—John was a virgin; to mothers—he merited to be given as a son to the Mother of God; to the young—he was the youngest of the disciples; to the aged—this is the appellation he gives himself in his Epistles; to contemplative souls—he was on Thabor; to those in affliction—he was on Calvary; to all who desire to love their brethren in God—charity can have no fairer ideal than the friend of Jesus.”
Good-night, dearest; my eyes are closing.
April 18, 1869.
Dear Kate, a requiem! I have just been to pray by those two death-beds—for both are dead, piously and tranquilly; he asking my pardon for his fits of anger, and she praying for her children. I have promised to take charge of the latter; so behold me the mother of six children! René always approves. But we cannot abandon these dear young creatures to take their chance in this great town, and my mother advises that they should be sent into Brittany, where the Sisters will find them useful employment. I want your opinion,
dear Kate; they belong in some measure to you also, since it is to your pious lessons that I owe my love for the blessing of the poor.
Gertrude yesterday showed me a letter from a friend asking prayers: “My Uncle Amédée is dead from an attack of apoplexy. It is fearful to say and to think of. Was his soul ready? O these unforeseen strokes of death! how terrible they are. Extreme Unction was all that could be given him. My aunt was in a pitiable state, throwing herself upon the corpse, speaking to it, … finding it impossible to realize that death had come between her and her happiness, and that he whom she so loved will answer her no more! I have a feeling of trust that at the last moment a ray of mercy and love may have illuminated his soul. No, it is not possible that our God, always good, always a Father, will not open his heaven to these poor fathers of earth who have given up to him the best part of themselves, the soul of their soul—the child who should close their eyes!”
This departed father gave to God his only daughter—entered, like Hélène, into Carmel. How necessary is faith under trials such as these! The young wife who wrote these lines is the intimate friend of Hélène, and it was her marriage that I mentioned to you two years ago. Can it be? Two years ago already!
Long drive with René into the country.
Dear sister, let us love God!
April 26, 1869.
Adrien has lent me Rusbrock the admirable. Thanks for pointing it out to me, dear Kate. How beautiful is this loftiness! It is like a Sinai. I read a few lines, and
then close my eyes and let my mind ruminate upon this teaching. Oh! how favored is France to possess writers so great. Alas! that so many of these should be on the side of evil, and that the readers should be so numerous of the myriads of impious works which fear not to display themselves in the light of day!
What do you say of the enthusiasm of Catholics for the Jubilee of the incomparable Pius IX.? Is it not of good augury for the Council? I am thirsting for Rome, but we shall not pass the winter there, as you hoped we should; my mother could not return thither without indescribable suffering. It was in the Catholic fatherland that René’s father felt the first approach of the illness which was prematurely to carry him off, and he died at Pisa. The violence of my mother’s grief was such as to make her friends despair of consoling her, or even of preserving her life. God calmed the anguish of this broken heart, but it would be imprudent to expose her to fresh emotion. She loves Italy, and listens when I speak of it, but she never speaks of it herself. This dear mother, so affectionate and so loved, yesterday made me a present of a delightful volume: La Maison (“The House”), by M. de Ségur. It is poetry—charming, Christian poetry—which makes the tears come into one’s eyes. The House—a title full of promise!
“Quel ciel valut jamais le ciel qui nous vit naître?
Ce toit, ce nid chéri, ce paternel foyer,
Qu’on aima, tout petit, avant de rien connaître,
Et que jamais, au loin, rien ne fait oublier?”[187]
There are pages in this book which you would not be able to read without a certain emotion. It is the history of Sabine, a Nun
of the Visitation. Adrien read us this exquisite little poem; my mother and I wept, Gertrude looked at the crucifix, and René at the portrait of Hélène. A poignant sorrow seemed to sigh in the voice of Adrien.
My godson is charming. The choice of his name is left to me. As he was born on the 19th of March, he has a right to the name of Joseph. I should very much like to call him Guy—a pretty Breton name. Say, Kate, if this would not be nice: Marie-Joseph-Anne-Adrien-Yves-Guy?
Adieu, beloved sister!
April 30, 1869.
The exiles return to-morrow, dear Kate. What overpowering joy, and yet what dread! If this winter’s absence should not have cured our invalids! O my God! I give up my will to thee. I am just come in from Notre Dame des Miracles: I shall melt away in prayers. Thérèse smiles like the angels. Alix and Marguérite have bought flowers for their friends. A hundred times a day I enter Marcella’s room to see that nothing is wanting there. How worldly I am with my agitations!
Since you approve, my godson will be Guy. How beautiful the little angel is, and how I shall enjoy showing him to-morrow! My mother continues to spoil me. I have just discovered a mysterious parcel on my dressing-table; it contains the history of St. John and the life of Madame Elizabeth, by M. de Beauchesne. What a pleasant surprise!
Do you know Mgr. Dupanloup will make the panegyric? He is going to Domrémy, there to inspire himself with the memories of Joan of Arc. Several bishops will be
present at the festival of the 8th of May. Nothing is said at present about our departure, but I am burning to see you, dear Kate.
My six children will go with us into Brittany. I make them long and frequent visits.
Edouard’s latest gazette quoted the following fragment from Alphonse Karr, which is easily to be explained by the frivolity of the times: “If a very beautiful dress were invented—a dress of fairy-like splendor, but which might only be worn in going to execution—there are women to be found who would quarrel with each other to wear this dress.” Do you believe this, dearest? Raoul declares it to be certain. Adrien and René have a better opinion of us.
Margaret wishes she were farsighted enough to see as far as here—the dear, inquisitive one! She has been spending three days with Edith, and speaks to me warmly of my home—“Georgina’s house.” Ah! yes, home, home—the terrestrial Paradise, and, as a poet has said, “The urn into which the heart pours itself.”
May 1.—It cost me something to end my letter before the arrival: they are here, dear Kate, all cured, as far as I can perceive. O the pleasure of expecting them! Then the cries of joy; the questions, crossing each other; the petulant Lucy bounding up the stairs to embrace my mother first of all; the emotion of Marcella on showing me her child well and, the doctor says, “out of danger,” and my tears on the brow of Picciola! How we had missed them!
The day has passed away like a dream. I hasten to send this to the post, that you may thank God with us. Laus Deo always and for ever!
Love from all to my Kate.
May 4, 1869.
Have returned to my former pleasant way of life with Marcella, my true sister; but the shadow is still there. The doctor said to Marianne: “Be very careful of this beautiful child; I do not answer for her chest!” It is as if I had heard a funeral knell. She is so smiling and pretty, this “little saint of the good God,” as she was called in the south. Yesterday, as I watched her playing with Guy, Berthe said to me: “Don’t you perceive something extraordinary about Madeleine—something that is not of this world?” I turned pale; had she also a presentiment? Picciola advanced towards us, and we said no more; but this morning the dear innocent said: “Would you believe, mamma, that I have still gone on growing?” “In wisdom, I will answer for it,” declared Adrien. “O uncle! you are jesting. I mean in height.” “You are growing too much, darling,” answered Berthe; “you must let yourself be taken care of, and kiss me.” The poor mother, I fear, is aware.… Oh! pray with me, Kate. Just listen to this revelation made to me by Marianne: “For certain, madame, there is something extraordinary in this; never a complaint, and yet she must suffer, the dear darling, the doctor assured me. When I questioned her one day when she was paler than usual, she answered: ‘O Marianne! on the contrary, it is well, very well!’ and she looked up to heaven.”
What do you think about it, dear Kate? The words of the Saint of the sea-shore are always sounding in my ears. Oh! that God may spare her to us, this flower of innocence and purity. She has resumed her studies. Her memory is marvellous; she is first in every branch of instruction.
I love her more dearly than ever; it is settled that her hour of manual occupation shall be passed in my room. I have not yet confided my fears to Marcella; I leave her to her happiness.
“Un malheur partagé ne peut nous secourir.
Car on souffre surtout dans ceux qu’on voit souffrir.”
Hélène has written to her mother. One might be reading St. Teresa. Gertrude is worthy of such a daughter. I have spoken to you of the way in which she despoils herself; this self-spoliation is now as complete as it can be. Her room has the aspect of a cell. I must appear very worldly to her, with my fondness for beautiful things. I have felt tempted to ask her this, but have resisted the temptation. Would you believe that she has made a vow not to see again either her sons or her daughter? “There is too much for nature in these meetings!” What energy, and this with a so great tenderness of heart!
Let us love each other, dear Kate!
May 10, 1869.
What rejoicings, dearest! On the 7th the magnificent torchlight procession, the illumination with Bengal lights, which never succeeded so well; the interior of the city resplendent with lights; the assembled bishops blessing the multitudes—what a fine spectacle! Mgr. de Bonnechose, Mgr. de la Tour-d’Auvergne, Mgr. Guibert, Mgr. Meignan, Mgr. Gignoux, Mgr. Foulon, Mgr. de Las Cases, Mgr. La Carrière, Mgr. Pie, etc., etc.—it was splendid! On the 8th, the panegyric, which I send you, in order that you may judge of it better than from my account. For two hours, Monseigneur held his auditory under the charm of his words;
he showed us the saint in the young girl, in the warrior-maiden, and in the victim. Then the procession. On the 9th, grand festival at Sainte-Croix—anniversary of the dedication of this cathedral. On that memorable day, when the bishop raised his hand to give the blessing, a mysterious hand appeared, blessing also, since which time the arms of the chapter have been a cross surmounted by a hand surrounded by rays. This celestial hand is also painted on the vaulted roof above the altar, and I had often wondered what it meant. I am no longer surprised at the attraction I feel towards Sainte-Croix. God loves to be worshipped there. Mgr. de Bourges officiated at High Mass, and also at Vespers. He is singularly majestic. People were crushing each other to see him. The ceremonies were too magnificent ever to be forgotten; it is impossible to imagine anything like them. Oh! what joy to be there, all together, mingled in this assembly of brethren.
What month can be more pleasing to our hearts than this month of May, gathering into itself, as it does, the most delightful festivals? It seems to me that with the passing breeze a thousand memories revive within my soul: my childhood, which devotion to the Blessed Virgin clothed in so much poetry; this beloved month, when my mother used to assemble us every evening, with the village girls, to pray and sing; the flowers which we had valiantly conquered or begged, and whose fragrance filled the oratory; the symbolic tapers; we ourselves quiet and recollected, but so light-hearted that an unknown word in what we were singing would make us laugh to ourselves; the sun shedding floods of gold on this
charming scene, playing over the white Madonna, on the lilacs and roses, on the golden locks and the brown, on the rosaries and blue ribbons. How far off is that time!
Read with the children the journeys of Captain Hatteras. Truly, there is something to be gleaned everywhere, if only one knows how to see it. Only imagine! in the midst of these adventurous men there is a worthy doctor, Clawbonny, always doing the things which are most disagreeable to himself. Why was he not a Catholic? Nothing would then have been wanting to him; while this book is cold—cold as the North Pole.
Picciola is always pale. I proposed to Berthe to take her to Paris. “Do you think there may be danger?” and her voice trembled. What was I to answer? I have a conviction that she is mortally affected, and nothing can do away with this conviction. My answer was, “I think it would be as well to consult some one there.” I am to take her with me, therefore, and you will see this angel before she departs to heaven. All about her is heavenly. She is a sunbeam, a luminous flower, a living soul; and this blessing has been lent us for a day!
Margaret will be in Brittany about the 24th of June. My mother speaks of leaving towards the end of the month. I want to give you a fortnight; I need a large provision of courage. Anna is charming, wonderfully stronger: it is like a miracle.
Let us pray, dear Kate—I do so long for her to live!
May 19, 1869.
One word only, after nine days, my dear! Get for me fifty Masses
said at Notre Dame des Victoires. The poor have been occupying me during all this time. René has asked me to be his secretary, in order that some important business may be the more promptly despatched; and it is so great a happiness to me to oblige him.
We go to Cléry to-morrow, weather permitting.
Tell me still to hope, dear Kate!
May 26, 1869.
Mistress Annah is truly the most devoted soul I know. Mary and Ellen have had the measles, and she alone has nursed them. Edith has an attack on the chest—not very serious, happily—caught in the exercise of charity; and it is again our dear old friend who is at her bedside. Lizzy writes me word of all this. Little Isa is pretty and good; the saint Isa is always singing her Te Deum.
René gave me a new book yesterday: Elizabeth Seton, and the Beginnings of the Catholic Church in the United States, by Mme. de Barberey. I have glanced through it, and find it admirable. I shall speak of it to you again.
We shall be in Paris on the 1st of June—René, Marcella, Picciola, Anna, and I. Rejoice, dear Kate! Moreover, there is some thought of our staying in Paris for the winter, and it is possibly an almost eternal adieu that we are about to bid Orleans. Johanna wishes to be nearer Arthur. You may well suppose that I make every effort to incline the balance in this direction; but my mother says sadly: “Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof: it is useless to plan so much beforehand.” It is an affection of youth—projects reaching out of sight, illusions, dreams, as if life were to last for ever!
Picciola is always calm. I often surprise her looking up to heaven, and lately I heard her say: “How happy it must be on high!” Oh! the Saint of the sea-coast was right: there is something of heaven in this child! Hope—hope ever!
Raoul, Berthe, and Thérèse start to-morrow with arms and baggage. Johanna and her household will follow shortly after. Long live Brittany! Mme. Swetchine used to say: “What evil can happen to him who knows that God does everything, and who loves beforehand all that God does?” When, Kate, shall I attain to this? That noble woman said again: “Our tears are the beverage which, with the bread of the Word, suffices to our daily necessities: our tears shed into the bosom of God. What should we be without them? It is, at the same time, the baptismal water of sorrow and the regenerating stream. Happy they who weep; happy when the Lord looks upon them through their streaming eyes; happy when his hand dries their tears!”
Kate dearest, my soul unites itself to yours, seeking strength to support this trial, if it is to be imposed upon me. And I shall not be the only one who suffers. I read yesterday these words, which seem made for me: “Do not loosen too much the reins from this strong and yet impassioned little heart; affections are sweet, but you know what Pascal says: ‘We shall die alone.’” When men fail us, as sooner or later they surely will, what matter? God remains to us. There is truly within us a source of mysterious sadness which makes us realize, perhaps better than any other reason, our condition as exiles. When life is sad and oppressive, repose uncertain—when happiness appears impossible—we weep,
were it even over the happiness of others, and love to prostrate ourselves before the cross with this admirable prayer of Mme. Swetchine on our lips: “My God, I throw myself, body and soul, blindly at thy feet!”
Dear Kate, may God and the holy angels guide us to you! My mother would like to see you, but she grows weaker in health; walking fatigues her. How I love you, my beloved sister! When, then, will heaven come for us all? How sweet it would be to go thither together! Death would lose its horror, if there were in it no more separation.
Good-by for the present, soon to embrace you, my Kate!
June 18, 1869.
I am, dear Kate, in all the joy of expectation; only two days, and Margaret will arrive. O human life, full of separations and of meetings again! Dearest, I feel you present with me, and you know whether I have not need of this. The sight of Picciola tortures me. These words of the medical celebrity are ever resounding in my ears: “An inexplicable malady, strange, nameless, without remedy!” Oh! let us supplicate Heaven—so young, so fair, so beloved!
Her increasing weakness has become evident to all, and everybody attributes it to a too rapid growth. No more study, no more any exciting occupation. She lets it be so, always smiling, giving herself to all, but reserving for her mother and for me the depth of her heart—a treasure which we are never weary of contemplating. Kate, I have the conviction that in asking the health of this child I am asking a miracle; but will not the love of Mary grant it me?
The baptism is for the 24th. Unite yourself with us, dearest.
June 21, 1869.
Margaret sends you a most affectionate greeting. What a delight to possess her! The baby is of dazzling freshness; Lord William is crazy about him. What a happy household! We shall keep them, I hope, all the summer. Marcella makes the delight, the joy, and the union of our interior. “Are you not afraid that she may leave you?” This question of Margaret’s greatly surprised me. “But why?” I asked. “Well, I do not know; she might marry, for instance.” What an idea! What do you say to it, dear Kate? Is this another dark speck on my horizon?
We shall make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint of the sea-coast. Margaret almost worships Brittany. Why does she not settle here entirely? Our poor received her with rejoicings. Her generous hand is always open. She has given me fresh news of the châlet. Edith is well; Mistress Annah is in her element, lavish of her time and strength. Lizzy is expecting a second treasure. The saintly Isa overflows with happiness, and her pretty little namesake has truly been given by God as the angel of consolation.
Bossuet has called friendship “A covenant of two souls who unite together to love God.” What a name, dear Kate, to give to this sentiment, which binds together all our souls here, and yours with them, in one and the same affection? Nothing, alas! is more rare than terrestrial happiness, and thus at each stroke of death I bow my head; it is an expiation! Nothing could be more pure and sweet and full of enchantment than our existence,
were it not that the mourning of the heart too frequently came to obscure it.
Picciola is weaving a garland of corn-flowers near my writing-table. Her waxen whiteness renders her almost transparent. How often I ask her, “Do you suffer at all?” and her answer is, “Oh! so little, so little!” We must not speak of it, for fear of alarming my mother. She does not cough, she has no fever. What has she? Gertrude shares my fears, and agrees with me that there is some mystery in this. What? Who will tell it us? Raoul and Berthe take every care of her, caress her.
Adieu, dear Kate!
June 25, 1869.
A brilliant baptism—something quite fairy-like, and which our Bretons will long remember. The old curé shed tears when he poured the holy water on the brow of the new Christian. Ah! my God, may he be thine for ever.
Margaret was beaming with pleasure at our all being together again. Her beauty exceeds all description, and eclipses that of all other women. Happily, our Bretonnes do not know what it is to be jealous. There was a ball, dearest—a grand ball—and the pretty feet of Thérèse and Anna still dance at the remembrance of it. Picciola was also there, whiter than her dress, with her loving gaze upon her mother. Oh! I do not deceive myself, Kate—death advances! I felt it yesterday. It was after the dinner; the guests were talking, and Mad quietly disappeared. I hastened to her room and found her kneeling on her prie-Dieu. “What ails you, dearest?” “Nothing, aunt; the noise wearies me; I want God.” These words moved the very depths
of my soul. Why, at this tender age, such aspirations towards the infinite, so many tears at the holy altar, such love of suffering? Blind and cowardly creature that I am, I do not wish this child to be an angel! Pray, dear Kate, ask strength for me! I have finished reading Elizabeth Seton. She is the Saint Chantal of America. This work is at the same time, in my opinion, very superior to that of the Abbé Bougaud because of the incomparable charm of the heroine. With that, it is another Alexandrine de la Ferronays. It seems as if I had had a vision: so much youth, innocence, love, and misfortune; Providence wonderfully directing this holy soul; these astonishing conversions and vocations taking place in America; the apostolic and eminent men; the events, so varied, from the Lazaretto of Leghorn to the valley of Emmittsburg. Oh! how wonderful is God in his elect. Fancy, dear Kate: a Protestant lady goes to Leghorn with her husband, who is in a decline. They are detained for a long time at the Lazaretto. Oh! you should read these pages. Elizabeth saw her William die in sight of that land which he had trusted would cure him! And she blessed God for all! A widow with five children, she quitted Italy after having had a perception of the truth; arrived at New York, she became a Catholic. Her family abandoned her. She opened a school, and, after many trials heroically borne, she founded a convent of Daughters of Charity. Become a religious, two of her children died in her arms. O these deaths!—the sweet little Rebecca saying: “In heaven I shall offend God no more! I shall sin no more, mamma—I shall sin no more!” It is
beautiful, all of it—beautiful! Thus will Picciola die, alas!
July 2, 1869.
Anniversary of the First Communion of the Three Graces. We have observed it as a solemn festival: general Communion, Benediction, largesses to the poor.
Write to me often thus, dear Kate. Your letter set me afloat again. I was nearly stranded. Oh! yes, God is good, a thousand times good, even in those things which we unjustly call his severities. Well, and what matters life? I say this, but an hour hence what shall I say? Human misery! It is the weight of the body which holds us back; we are too material, we live too much by the senses. Sursum corda! Would, Kate, that my life were a sursum corda continually!
Besides, can our angelic invalid make us think of anything but heaven? Her state is really inexplicable. The doctor at Hyères thought that the chest was affected, but we are assured that this is not the case. To all her mother’s questions Mad invariably answers: “I am not quite well—that is all; don’t be uneasy, dearest mother.” But day after day she grows more transparent, more delicate; and in watching her the same idea struck Gertrude and myself: she resembles the Angel spreading his Wings painted by Marcella. To console myself, I read the most beautiful of books,—the Gospel and the admirable Imitation. Dear Kate, tell me again to look up to heaven!
Madame Bourdon has written some noble pages upon Lamartine. Would you like to have the flower of them? “Never, perhaps, did any name of man or any human destiny, pass through more varied phases
than the name of Lamartine, or than the destiny of this poet, who lived long only to see the better how inconstant is earthly glory, and how quickly fade the palms awarded by men. Forty years ago the name of Lamartine expressed an ideal of poetry, purity, and sublime aspirations; eighteen years later the name of Lamartine personified the Revolution—moderate, perhaps noble, but always alarming to thoughtful minds and believing hearts. From the date of this epoch a shadow fell on the brightness of this name; poverty with its humiliations, old age with its feebleness, isolation engendered by political enmities, overwhelmed the poet and the tribune. He drank long draughts from the cup of bitterness. Now the cloud rises, and over the tomb of Saint-Point burst forth praises and applause, the regrets so long denied to the unfortunate man, the genius broken down beneath the troubles of life. But before man had returned God was there. He had purified, pardoned, comforted, and lulled to sleep on his divine bosom that poet’s brow which never should have known affronts.” “From the past of him who was a traveller, tribune, and statesman, the poet will remain after all the rest; and when our time shall have become history, Alphonse de Lamartine will take his place among sad and noble figures, beneath Homer and Dante, side by side with Tasso and Camoëns.”
Do you remember the beautiful verses by Elise Moreau on the death of Julia?
“Moi, je sais la douleur, inconsolable père,
Je suis jeune, et pourtant j’ai déjà bien pleuré.”[188]
How we shall miss this exquisite creature, too perfect for this world! O Kate! how I love her. She goes to God with so much candor, simplicity, and boldness—with the effrontery of love, as Father Faber expresses it. O powerlessness of affection! O weakness of that which ought to be most strong! O nothingness of all that is ourselves—to be able to do nothing, nothing, but offer barren desires and longings for those we love!
How right you are to remind me of the old proverb: Lock the door of your heart. I ought to open it to God alone; but this is perfection, and I am far from that.
Love me, dear Kate!
July 12, 1869.
The Prince de Valori has just published the Letters of a Believer (Lettres d’un Croyant). It is admirable. The last is on St. Peter’s at Rome: “This is the sole temple worthy of the Eternal; this is the marvel of all the marvels of art; this the monumental miracle of the faith, the miracle of Christian genius, the apotheosis of the transformation of stone into a chef-d’œuvre, into grandeur, elevation, and harmony, at the breathing of Bramante, of Raphael, of Michael Angelo, of Carlo Maderno, and of the Bernini. This, this is St. Peter’s of Rome, Paradise in miniature, the concentration of all that one can dream of grand and sublime; the incomparable mosaic in which is found all that is worthy of admiration in the temples and museums of the universe; the New Jerusalem, made of lapis-lazuli, jasper, porphyry, gold, silver, and precious stones; a city of altars and sanctuaries, of domes and canopies; a blessed city, whose streets are of precious marbles, where streams of
holy water flow, where the air one breathes is myrrh and incense, where is the King enthroned on the altars, and for his footstool the tomb of the apostles.
“St. Peter’s at Rome!—the greatest work of human architecture, before which Solomon’s Temple, Saint Sophia, Versailles, the Alhambra, Westminster, are mere nothings; monument of glory and immensity, in which there is neither fault nor defect; where Providence has willed that each of the great artists who wrought there should correct his predecessor, down to Carlo Maderno, who had the signal honor of rectifying Michael Angelo.”
Picciola is fading away, gently, gently, without one complaint. Who would have imagined that this healthy blossom would have faded away so soon? Her voice is feeble—feeble as a distant harp; but what eloquence there is in her look! Yesterday I had left her alone for a few moments with my beautiful godson; on coming back I stopped at the partly-open door. She was rocking the little darling on her knees, and saying: “Look at me well, little Cousin Guy, because soon I shall go away to the land from which you came. Before the leaves fall Madeleine will go away, but you at least, my little Guy—you will not weep for my departure. And I shall be the happiest!”
This morning I wanted to curl her beautiful hair. “You love me too much, dear aunt; but I also love you very much. When I am no longer here, you will love Alix instead, who is so pretty and sweet when she raises herself on tiptoe to try and kiss you.” She said this simply and seriously, and, as a tear fell from my eyes, she added:
“Then you do not wish me to speak to you of my death, that I may console you for my going away? But remember that the good God will let me see you from Paradise, and that I shall pray to him for you and for my kind Uncle René!”
Oh! how weak I am, dear Kate. Pray for me!
July 18, 1869.
Adrien read to us yesterday an appreciation of the works of Rossini by a poet—Méry. Picciola had laid her head on my knee and seemed to sleep. I have mentioned to you Adrien’s talent as a reader. He was reading the following passage: “In this Stabat Rossini has sung the graces of the Redemption, the joys of hope, the beams from the gate of heaven, opened by the Blood shed on Golgotha; he has scattered over this page of desolation all the flowers of the celestial garden, all the garlands of Sharon, all the vistas of the Promised Land; he has been mindful of that great Christian expression of St. Augustine, ‘Death is life’; he has written his divine elegy in the Campo Santo of Pisa, where the tombs are bathed in azure, crowned with lilies, and smiling in the sun. And now, after so many works accomplished, posterity will not ask whether Rossini could have done more; it will regard that which he has done as the most marvellous work of human genius.” Here the sweet little Mad raised herself up, her eyes beaming with a deep joy. Since then she has been frequently repeating, “Death is life!” Kate, Fénelon was right when he said that “nothing is more sweet than God, when we are worthy to feel it.”
Margaret is charming in amiability. But what a difference between last summer and this! We still
make parties to go on expeditions, but always with some pious end—pilgrimages, when we pray for our beloved sick one. Gertrude comforts me in the same way that you do, dear Kate. I see, I know, I understand that God wills it thus. But the time passes away. Mme. Swetchine wrote: “Time is the riches of the Christian; time is his misery, time is earth; time is heaven, since it can gain heaven. Time is the fleeting moment; time is eternity, since it can merit eternity; and it is time which endangers eternity. At once an obstacle and a means, it is in an especial manner a two-edged sword, powerless in itself, and yet the most powerful of auxiliaries, nothing is done either by it or without it.”
Picciola is like the Angel of Charity among us, it is to her that the good curé addresses his requests. And how well she knows how to ask! Oh! what are not children—the treasure of the house! Our casket was so rich, so resplendent, so precious, and now the fairest pearl, the purest diamond, is about to be taken from us!
I am writing in haste, my riding-habit over my arm; the horses are snorting in the court. It is at Mad’s entreaty that we are all going to a miraculous fountain near a chapel of the Blessed Virgin, at some little distance off. This child must have extraordinary courage to struggle as she does against her suffering, and to try to make us believe that it is nothing. Dear Kate, I repeat with you the Fiat of Gethsemani, and lovingly embrace you.
July 23, 1869.
Margaret appears to have been a prophetess, Kate. I have learnt from Edouard that the doctor of Hyères was not entirely disinterested
in his devoted attention: he would fain become Anna’s father. Although the thought of a separation had never occurred to me, I now perceive from this information the possibility of another future for Marcella. It seems that she has refused him; but the doctor does not consider himself beaten, and he has just installed himself in a little manor in ruins in our neighborhood. He has himself announced this to Edouard, who finds him very intelligent and likes him much. Marcella turned pale when Lucy communicated this piece of news to us all this morning: Anna appeared overjoyed. I do not know what to think.
Our excursion of the 18th led to an unexpected result: we found near the chapel two little girls in rags, their feet bare and bleeding. Their story is touching. Being left orphans, they set out on foot from the furthest part of Cantal to seek hospitality in Brittany from an uncle, whom on arriving they found was also dead. They have thus been wandering among the fields of broom, sleeping under trees, and have not ventured to ask for alms. Picciola embraced them as if they were sisters, placed them with a farmer’s wife, and has obtained leave from grandmother to bring them to the château. Adrien wrote the same evening to the priest of their parish. The answer is most satisfactory: the orphans belong to a great family now decayed, and are worthy of interest; their pastor was at Rome when the poor children lost their father and, with the inconsiderateness of youth, undertook so long a journey. The elder is thirteen, a graceful little fairy, with piercing eyes; the younger nine, as tall as her sister, which however, is not saying much.
“God sends you them to replace me,” said Picciola to her mother. Sweet angel! The nest is large enough to shelter two more doves; stay with us too! Berthe has had the poor little girls clothed, and has also adopted them. Thérèse and Picciola undertake to acclimatize them. “This is truly the house of the good God,” said Marianne.
Margaret loves France. With her, ennui is impossible. And how quickly she has become attached to Marcella! How well these two natures suit each other in spite of their contrasts! Dear Kate, this meeting again is a real blessing; I would fain live always thus. It is singular that our days are so full of charm, notwithstanding the uneasiness we are in on Picciola’s account. She also—she is too dear to die! Why cannot we accompany her all together, and pass without transition from meetings on earth to the meeting again in heaven?
Margaret receives intensely interesting letters from Rome; I should like to copy them for you. Have I told you how much Gertrude’s saintliness excites the admiration of our fair lady? Gertrude is become the guide and adviser of all; even my mother likes to be directed by her judgment. Her magnificent wardrobe is no longer hers; robes of silk and velvet—all are made into church vestments: impossible to imagine a more complete spoliation. She is uniformly dressed in black woollen; what a contrast to our worldly vanities! Her rooms, formerly so tasteful and rich, have undergone a radical transformation. She belongs to a princely family. Her tastes and habits were in accordance with her rank; her room was hung with crimson velvet, which is now replaced by a dark-colored paper, whilst the elegant furniture and superfluities have been banished to make way for the plainest articles she has been able to find. Adrien has sold his equipages to found a hospital. “Do you know, nothing would be easier than to transform this château into a monastery,” Margaret said to me. “Yes, in proceeding as Gertrude has done.”
Adieu, dear Kate!
TO BE CONTINUED.
“Fold, fold again, my child, thy dove-like wings,
Open thy fair eyes, sweet, ’neath my caress.
Ah! knewest thou the coldness of the tomb!
Nay, happiness dwells only in the skies!
Yet why so soon from earth wouldst thou depart?
Can there, in heav’n itself, be aught more sweet
Than kisses lavished by thy mother’s lips
While rocking thee at eve upon her knees?”
“But God a deaf ear turned; the flower unclosed.
… An angel, clad in golden rays,
One eve, they say, gathered the fragile rose,
And with her took his upward flight to heaven.”
[187] “What sky was ever worth the sky of our birthplace?—the roof, the cherished nest, the home, dear to us when quite little, before we knew anything, and which nothing afar off can ever make us forget?”
[188] I myself am accquainted with sorrow, inconsolable father. I am young, and yet I have already wept much.
DE VERE’S “MARY TUDOR.”[189]
There is nothing more unjust than the neglect sometimes shown to literary performances of the highest merit. But it is not always difficult to account for this. We have before us a case in point. Here is a drama on a subject of peculiar interest—a model of classic elegance, and exhibiting at once a dramatic power and a dignity of language which have not been surpassed, if equalled, since Shakspere. Yet this work has been suffered to sink into obscurity. Why? For the excellent reason, surely, that the Protestant author presents Catholic claims and personages with a very unusual fairness—a fairness, moreover, which was specially unacceptable at the date of the book’s publication, when the excitement over what is called the Oxford movement was at its height.
After the lapse of nearly thirty years, Sir Aubrey De Vere’s drama has a new field opened to it, and will not, we trust, be again ignored, but receive from critics and literary circles its full meed of praise. The occasion of its fresh appeal to public attention is Tennyson’s effort on the same subject. We read Queen Mary with our wonted relish of the melodious English and faultless diction for which Tennyson stands alone, and with full appreciation of the peculiar originality, which some call affectation, but to which, as we consider, he has more than proved his right; but were conscious throughout of a very undramatic
vagueness, and painfully sensible that a great poet had prostituted his genius to a most unworthy cause. When we came to Mary Tudor, how different our experience! We seemed to be reading the product of some erudite pen of the Elizabethan era, and even to be witnessing the play’s performance—the personæ speaking in the manner of their time, and standing before us as if actually on the stage. We found, too, the author’s intent very clear—namely, to draw the characters, both Catholic and Protestant, with perfect impartiality and in accordance with his information; and this not merely with a view to show that the right was not all on one side and the wrong all on the other (which, of course, is perfectly true), but rather, as it seems to us, to represent both parties as very much the sport of circumstances, and struggling for what each thought the truth. There is a mistake here, but an amiable mistake; and whatever prejudices lie at the bottom of it, they are the prejudices of the author’s informants, not his own.
He wisely divides his drama into two distinct plays of five acts each; and we purpose to make each “Part” the subject of a separate article. Indeed, we feel that, to do the work full justice, we ought to take a single Act at a time; for every scene will bear minute analysis. As it is, we must resist the temptation of quoting largely—a necessity the more to be regretted because the merit of dramatic poetry speaks for itself far better than the critic can speak for it.
Part I. opens with the death of Edward VI., and ends with the execution of Jane Grey. The plot is simple—as historical plots have to be.
In the first Act John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, contrives, with the help of Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, to work upon the conscience of the schoolboy king, till he signs away the throne to the Lady Jane Grey, wife of Guilford Dudley, Northumberland’s son. Jane has been nursing Edward, who has come to regard her as a sister. The Princess Mary, the rightful heir, has been kept from her dying brother’s side by a device of Dudley’s, who sends for her, indeed, at the last, but so that she arrives too late to prevent the signing. Edward attributes her absence, as also Elizabeth’s, to indifference. Jane Grey protests against the succession being forced upon herself, but yields sufficient consent to be implicated in the treason. Northumberland defies Mary’s claim, and the princess has to fly with her three faithful adherents, Sir Henry Bedingfield, Sir Henry Jerningham, and Fakenham, her confessor—a character depicted throughout as not only inoffensive but saintly; indeed, as Mary’s good genius, though, unhappily, too seldom successful in his influence.
Dudley goes, in the third scene, to visit Courtenaye, Marquis of Exeter, who is a prisoner in the Tower. The visit is solely for the purpose of making this man his friend and tool, to what end will appear later.
Act II.—Queen Mary, after reaching Framlingham by a perilous nocturnal ride, receives Elizabeth with truest affection, and then, together with her, goes to meet Sir Thomas Wyatt, Captain Brett, and
their insurrectionary followers. A parley ensues, in which Brett and Wyatt declare that their party has decided for Mary, but insist on her respecting their consciences about Church matters—although (of course) they refuse to respect her conscience. However, she shows so much spirit and majesty that half Brett’s men march with her to London, while Brett himself and Wyatt close the scene with a dialogue, in which they not only render homage to the royal lady, but acknowledge to each other the conviction that she “goes forth to conquer.” Meanwhile, Northumberland causes Jane Grey to be proclaimed queen in the Tower Chapel, where lies in state the deceased king’s coffin. To the omens which attend this proclamation, and end in breaking it up suddenly, is added the entrance of three couriers, one after another, to inform Dudley of disasters which necessitate his taking the field.
Act III.—We have Northumberland giving up the game and resolving to kneel for pardon: but all in a spirit of hypocrisy. Accordingly, he comes with his men to the queen on Wanstead Heath, and throws up his cap, crying: “God save Queen Mary!” But the queen is not deceived, and orders him under arrest. Jane and Guilford are next seen in the Tower, where Jane’s nobleness of soul shines out more attractively than ever. Mary, on the contrary, yields to a vindictive spirit in refusing the pardon her cousin so meekly implores. Fakenham’s benevolent attempt is fruitless. Jane is committed to the custody of her parents (who themselves have been pardoned), but separated from her husband and confined within the Tower. Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester—one
of the prisoners released by Mary’s triumph—begins his fatal influence on the queen. His character is drawn from the usual Protestant stand-point. He is Mary’s evil genius as much as Fakenham is her good one.
With the fourth Act comes the trial of Northumberland, Jane, and Guilford. Gardiner, as chancellor, conducts the prosecution. After splendid speeches on either side the prisoners are found guilty, and Mary passes sentence of death. But the queen, as she breaks up the court, betraying her fondness for Exeter, Northumberland, who has long been aware of the attachment, craves a private conversation with that favorite, and puts him up to making love to Mary and then obtaining his (Dudley’s) pardon. Accordingly, in the next scene Courtenaye proffers his suit, wins the royal hand and, with it, the traitor’s reprieve. But when, presently, Gardiner brings the death-warrant for Mary’s signature, and she bids him prepare a pardon instead, he tells her of Courtenaye’s private talk with Dudley after the trial, and how “a quick ear caught words” to the effect that it was the Princess Elizabeth he loved. So that the last scene of the Act is a very strong one: Mary coming unobserved upon Exeter as he woos the disdainful Elizabeth, and hearing him declare that he loathes her whom he needs must wed. The queen’s despair at finding how she has been deceived gives way to a burst of fury, in which she tears up Dudley’s pardon and signs his death-warrant, with the order that it be executed before sunset. The false Courtenaye, and Elizabeth with him, is sent at once to the Tower.
Act V.—The curtain rises on a prison chamber in the Tower,
where Northumberland, jubilant over his certain liberation, calls upon Jane and Guilford to rejoice at their renascent fortunes. The pure-souled Jane refuses the crown once for all, and endeavors to lead her husband and his father to proper gratitude for the reprieve. But in the midst of Dudley’s “merry mood” Fakenham enters with a warrant—and not the document so confidently looked for. It is now Northumberland’s turn to despair; and the struggles of his soul, at the prospect of speedy death, are depicted with great force. Hitherto, during his imprisonment, he has been pretending to let Fakenham convert him. Now he sees the necessity of conversion indeed, yet clings to the hope of respite as the gain of professing the true Faith.
At the scaffold Pembroke meanly stings him into rage; but this obnoxious person being removed, the arch-rebel seems to turn his attention in earnest to the salvation of his soul, and after a prayer, which sounds perfectly sincere, kneels to Fakenham for absolution, then hurriedly ascends the scaffold. The scene closes, and a cannon is heard—the appointed signal that the head has fallen.
The fate of Lady Jane Grey is next determined. Mary is strongly inclined to spare her. Gardiner is to blame for the adverse decision. Fakenham, however, obtains a promise that she shall be spared if she abjure her heresy. But Mary, in the fifth scene, shows a sudden tenderness for her doomed cousin, and, after a fit of raving melancholy, sends Fakenham in all haste to bring her. It is too late. Guilford has just been executed, and his widow is being led forth even while the queen demands her presence. The sixth scene gives us the parting
of Jane and her mother, and closes as the victim of another’s ambition heroically ascends the scaffold. In the last scene Mary reaches Jane’s prison to find her gone, and rushes to the window in the hope of signalling the executioner, but only in time to see him hold up the severed head.
* * * * *
We shall now introduce our readers to some of the best passages from this play. Our only difficulty will be to restrict their number within necessary limits, for there is not a page but invites quotation. Here is a fine bit of description to begin with. It is from the opening scene. Sir Thomas Wyatt is amazed to learn that the king is “sick to death.”
“Wyatt. How can it be? But one short month it seems
Since I beheld him on his jennet’s back,
With hawk on wrist, his bounding hounds beside,
Charge up the hillside through the golden gorse,
Swallowing the west wind, till his cheeks glowed out
Like ripened pears. The whirring pheasant sprang
From the hedged bank; and, with a shout, in air
The bright boy tossed his falcon; then, with spur
Pressed to his jennet’s flank, and head thrown back,
And all the spirit of life within his eye
And voice, he drew not rein, till the spent quarry
Lay cowering ’neath the hawk’s expanded wings.”
To us, this dash into description, at the very beginning of the play, shows how thoroughly our author feels himself at home. Had he not been a conscious master of his art, he would scarcely have made such a venture, for fear of exciting the suspicion that his talent lay in the direction of descriptive rather than of dramatic poetry. As it is, Wyatt’s burst of eloquence lends much to the easy strength of this first scene.
We are little prepared, however, for the daring feat of two heroines: each heroine enough to have the play to herself, yet neither overshadowing the other. So lovely is the character of Lady Jane Grey,
and so keenly are our sympathies enlisted on her side, that we are astonished to find any room left in our hearts for Mary Tudor; whereas, in fact, so royal the latter’s bearing, so truly is she “every inch a” queen, so indisputable are her rights, so outrageous her wrongs, that we end by seeing only her noble qualities, and even forgive her Jane Grey’s death.
The poet introduces Lady Jane at that post where woman is always “a ministering angel”—by the death-bed of her cousin, King Edward. She has been reading him to sleep, and he has just awaked.
“Jane. How fares your Highness now?
Edward. Thy sweet voice, Jane,
Soothes every pain. A film grew o’er mine eyes:
A murmur, as of breezes on the shore,
Or waters lapping in some gelid cave,
Coiled round my temples, and I slept.”
This gives our author an opportunity of bringing out Jane’s modesty and humility—the very un-Protestant virtues with which he has chosen to adorn his favorite heroine conspicuously.
“Jane. Ah, cousin!
Not in my voice the charm. Within this volume
A sanatory virtue lives enshrined,
As in Bethesda’s pool.
Edward. By an angel stirred.”
An answer no less just than felicitous.
Again, in the same scene, the guilelessness of her soul shines out in her protest against being made heir to the crown. The pretext put forth by Northumberland and Cranmer for persuading Edward to sign away the throne from his sisters is the safety of the Protestant cause—what Anglicans impudently call “the true church.” Jane, though an earnest adherent of the new religion, will have nothing to do with evil measures in its behalf.
“Jane. O no! not me! This remediless wrong
I have no part in. Edward, you have sisters.
Great Harry’s daughters, England’s manifest heirs.
Leave right its way, and God will guard his own.”
But now it is Mary’s turn to win our admiration. She comes upon the scene the moment after the weak Edward has signed away the kingdom to Jane. Unaware of the injury that has been done her, she greets her “dear lost brother” with true sisterly affection, but, in another minute, shows the Tudor in her veins by the courage with which she confronts Dudley and tells the traitor she knows him at his worth. Then, discovering the plot against her, she rises—suddenly but with calmest dignity—to the attitude of queen, as though the crown had just been placed upon her head instead of stolen for another’s.
“Edward. It is now too late—too late!
I have done what it were well had ne’er been done.
Jane. O would to God that act might be recalled!
Mary. What act?
Jane. That makes me queen.
Mary. Thou queen! O never
Shall regal crown clasp that unwrinkled brow!
Thou queen? Go, girl—betake thee to thy mappets!
Call Ascham back—philosophize—but never
Presume to parley with gray counsellors,
Nor ride forth in the front of harnessed knights!
Leave that to me, the daughter of a king.”
Equally worthy is her reply to the insolent Dudley when he dares to offer her the crown on condition of her “renouncing her errors”:
“Mary. Sir, have you done? Simply I thus reply.
Not to drag England from this slough of treason—
Nor save this lady’s head—nor yours, archbishop—
Not even my brother’s life—would I abjure
My faith, and forfeit heaven!”
But sublimer even than this avowal of her faith is the act of charity she presently makes after her brother’s spirit has departed; and in nothing has the poet done her so much justice:
“Mary. And thou art gone! hast left me unforgiven!
O brother! was this righteous? Gloomier now
This dreary world frowns on me, and its cares
Womanly dreams, farewell! Stern truths of life
Stamp on my heart all that becomes a queen.
Dudley, you have dared much: yet, standing here
By my poor brother’s clay, I can forgive.
Will you kneel, Dudley?”
After this, let the poet depict Jane in the most attractive colors he can find, he has shown his Catholic heroine the greater woman. But, in fact, we are convinced this is his aim. For although, as a Protestant, he makes Jane become a saint (according to his idea of saintship), her “path a shining light that goeth forward and increaseth to perfect day”—while Mary’s way is over-clouded to the end, and cruel wrongs goad her into rage which rouses all the Tudor and all the Spaniard in her nature, and deepens her melancholy into madness—still, even in her most painful moments, the daughter of Catherine is great. Her enemies do homage to her greatness. Northumberland himself is forced to say of her, in the scene we have quoted from above:
“The eighth Harry’s soul lives in her voice and eye.”
But the spell of her majestic bearing is best portrayed in the scene where she meets the rebel leaders Wyatt and Brett with their followers. Sir Thomas Wyatt, true to his character as indicated in the first scene, indulges again in fine rhetoric, declaring that he and his men have decided to stand for Mary, but putting in the condition that “all things which touch the Church” shall “rest as King Edward left them.” The queen answers this appeal by another to the consciences of “English gentlemen,” demanding for her own the liberty she willingly extends to theirs; but when, presently, Wyatt insults her by raving, like a modern fanatic, about “the dogs of persecution, insatiate brood of Rome,” and Brett sullenly refuses to march with her to London, she passes on, leaving the two insurrectionists to
pay her tribute each in his own fashion.
“Brett. Now, by all saints and martyrs calendared!
I could half worship such a tameless woman,
All shrewish though she be. With what a spirit,
Like thunder-riven cloud, her wrath poured forth,
And keen words flared! Ugly and old?—to that
I shall say nay hereafter. Autumn moons
Portend good harvests. Yet, that glance at parting
Flashed fierce as sunset through a blasted tree!
But hey! look yonder, Wyatt: half your men
Are scampering after her.
Wyatt. I marked, and blame not.
I mar no fortune, and coerce no conscience.
There is a fascination—all have felt it—
When Royalty and Woman join in one:
Austere allegiance softening into love;
And new-born fealty clinging to the heart,
Like a young babe that front its mother’s bosom
Looks up and smiles.”
(Here let us ask, if these lines we have italicized were quoted anonymously, who would not take them for Shakspere’s?)
“Brett. Trust me, I am much minded
To join her even yet.
Wyatt. It cannot be.
I feel as you do: but I look beyond
The tempting present. She goes forth to conquer:
So strong a heart must conquer.”
Mary’s affection for her sister Elizabeth is sincere and tender; while Elizabeth’s for her, on the other hand, has a dubious quality. It is strange that Sir Aubrey shows no enthusiasm over Elizabeth. He appears to have learnt too much truth about her. Mary’s first inquiry, after reaching Framlingham in her flight from Dudley’s machinations, is for her sister:
“Why is Elizabeth not here to greet me?
Command her to the presence.”
And when the princess enters, and, kneeling, says, “Queen, sister!” Mary’s joy at seeing her is very touching.
“To my arms! Pardie, sweet Bess,
You daily grow more stately. Your great brows
Like our cathedral porches, double-arched,
Seem made for passage of high thought.”
A part of this scene is particularly fine.
“Mary. Never was kind counsel needed more
By aching heart. Little you know my trials.
The fleetness of my horse scarce saved my life;
And I am queen in nothing but the name!
O sister, canst thou love me? Thou her child—
Beautiful Boleyn’s daughter—who destroyed
My mother—hapless queen, dishonored wife!
Thou too, my brother—spurned from thy throne, thy death-bed!
O no! I shall go down into my earth
Desolate, unbeloved!—I wound thee, sister!
Pardon! I rave—I rave—
Elizabeth. Abate this passion!
In very truth I love you—fondly pity—
Mary. Pity! not pity—give me love or nothing.
I hope not happiness: I kneel for peace.
But no: this crown traitors would rive from me—
Which our great father Harry hath bequeathed
Undimmed to us—a righteous heritage—
This crown which we, my sister, must maintain
Or die: this crown, true safeguard of our people,
Their charter’s seal—crushes our peace for ever.
All crowns, since Christ wore His, are lined with thorns.”
And again, as the melancholy gains upon her:
“Mary. Am I mad?
Think you I’m mad? I have been used to scorn,
Neglect, oppression, self-abasement, aye—
My mother’s scorching heritage of woe!
Ha! as I speak, behold, she visits me,
With that fair choir of angels trooping round her,
And cherub faces, with expanded wings
Upbearing her! O blessed Saint, depart not!
Breathe on my cold lips those still cherished kisses
Which thine in death impressed! Sigh in mine ear
Those half-articulate blessings, unforgotten,
Which made my childhood less than martyrdom!
I’ll clasp thee—mother!
[Totters forward and falls.]”
Surely this, too, is worthy of Shakspere. And so is Northumberland’s soliloquy with which the third Act opens; so much so, indeed, that we can with difficulty persuade ourselves we are not reading Shakspere.
“I have plunged too deep. The current of the times
Hath been ill-sounded. Frosty discontent
Breathes chilly in the face of our attempt:
And, like the dry leaves in November winds,
These summer-suited friends fly my nipped branches.
What’s to be done? Time like a ruthless hunter,
Tramples my flying footsteps! Banned and baited
By my own pack, dogs fed from mine own hand
Gnash fangs and snarl on me.”
What is peculiarly Shaksperian here is the profusion of metaphors. It is a sign of a great poet to deal freely with metaphors. We know how Byron heaps them up in Childe Harold, and Tennyson in In Memoriam.
Another proof of high genius—especially dramatic—is the ready use of wit and sarcasm. We have a passage of arms between Dudley and Courtenaye which is very masterly.
Dudley, having lost his way in the Tower, gets the headsman to show him to Courtenaye’s cell.
“Exeter. Ha! I should know that face; and lackeyed thus
By yon grim doomster, guess my coming fate.
Northumberland. I greet you well, Marquis of Exeter,
Noble Plantagenet!
Exeter. Hey, what means this?
The half-forgotten name, and fatal heritage!
Sir John of Dudley—bear and ragged staff—
Or memory fails me.
Northumberland. Now Northumberland.
Exeter. Indeed? Excuse me. Prisoners limp behind
The vaulting world. You are welcome.
Northumberland. I would greet you
With tidings of content.
Exeter. Long strangers here.
Northumberland. I take your hand: nor coldly, thus, hereafter
Will you, perchance, vouchsafe it. I have power
(In Edward’s time I only had the will)
To serve you.
Exeter. Ha! how well I guessed the truth!
One king the more is dead. Who now rules England?
Chaste Boleyn’s babe, or the Arragonian whelp?
No beauty, I’ll be sworn, unless time makes one.
Northumberland. The house of Grey is of the royal lineage.
To that King Edward’s will bequeathes the crown.
Exeter. My lady duchess queen? Now, God forbid!
Northumberland. All cry amen to that. Her Grace of Suffolk
Yields to her wiser daughter—Lady Jane—
My son, Lord Guilford’s wife: now Queen of England.
Exeter. O, now I do begin to read the stars,
And note what constellation climbs. My lord,
Excuse the stiffness of imprisoned knees.
The obsolete posterity of kings
Lowly should bend to kings’ progenitors.
Sir Headsman, art thou married?
Headsman. Nay, my lord.
Exeter. Get thee a wife, then, in good haste: get sons!
Full-bosomed honor, like a plant in the sun,
Plays harlot to the hour. Lo, thistles burgeon
Even through the Red Rose’ cradle!
Northumberland. My good lord,
Unseasonable wit hath a warped edge,
Whereby the unskilful take unlooked for scars.
Good-night. May fancy tickle you in dreams
In which nor Boleyn’s babe (I quote your phrase)
Nor whelp of Arragon—kind heaven forefend!—
Nor our grim friend here, with uncivil axe,
Dare mingle. Good-night, Courtenaye.”
To pass to the trial scene, in the fourth Act, a speech is put into the
mouth of Gardiner—who, as chancellor conducts the prosecution—which reminds us of the unanswered arguments from Pole and other Catholic characters in Queen Mary:
“Gardiner. My lords, religion was the plea for this.
Religion, a wide cloak for godless knaves.
What! knew they not the Apostolic rule
That men are bound to obey even sinful princes?
Who dares insinuate that our queen’s right rule
Shall be a snare for conscience? Hypocrites!
Why claim ye toleration, yet refuse it?
Faith your perpetual cry, yet would ye stifle
That faith which is the trust of other hearts.
Your Bible is your idol: all must bow
Before your exposition of its sense,
Or forfeit all—the very throne!”
Had our author been a Catholic, he could not have stated the case better.
Jane Grey pleads guilty so nobly, and prays so generously that her own life may be taken and her husband’s spared, that Fakenham truly says of her:
“She rises from the sea of her great trouble
Like a pure infant glowing from the bath.”
Here are some of her words:
“I wake from the vain dream of a blind sleep:
Nothing to hide, nothing extenuate.
My lords, reverse to me this good hath brought;
That I who dimly saw now plainly see,
And seeing loathe my fault, and loathing leave it.
The bolts of heaven have split the aspiring tower
Of my false grandeur; and through every rent
The light of heaven streams in.
* * * * *
In time to come it shall be known, ambition
Was not my nature, though it makes my crime.”
Dudley’s defence would be manly and admirable were it not for his hypocrisy. But the hour comes when hypocrisy can serve him no longer. It is a powerful scene—the first of the fifth Act—where his confident hopes are dashed to the ground for ever. And then he finds Fakenham—whom he has called “worm” and “dog” before, and for whom his hatred never could contain itself—his best friend and only succor. He seems, indeed (so well is his character sustained throughout), to cling to the
hope of saving his bodily life by accepting the Catholic faith, till he stands on the very scaffold; but there he drops simulation.
“The terrible ‘to be’ is come! Time’s past!
Yet all’s to do—an age crammed to a span!
Time, never garnered till thy last sands ebb,
How shall my sharp need eke thy wasted glass,
Or wit reverse it?”
Lady Jane meets death like a martyr. Her resignation is shown as early as the third scene of the third Act, while she is in the Tower with her husband awaiting further tidings after learning that their cause is lost.
“Jane. Midnoon, yet silent as midnight! My heart
Flutters and stops—flutters and stops again—
As in the pauses of a thunder-storm,
Or a bird cowering during an eclipse.
Alone through these deserted halls we wander,
Bereft of friends and hope. Speak to me, Guilford.
Guilford. Thy heart-strings, Jane, strengthened by discipline,
Endure the strain.
Jane. Say rather, my religion
Has taught this good. Nor lacks our female nature
Courage to meet inevitable woe
With a beloved one shared.”
And again her generosity comes out:
“We have obscured a dawn. If spared, God grant
We may make bright the queen’s triumphant way
Like clouds that glorify the wake of noon.”
She, too, sees the “true minister of Christ” in Fakenham:
“Fearless of danger in discharge of duty,
And to the mourner prodigally kind.”
Such Protestants as she are never formal heretics: they have too much humility. When Fakenham is pleading her cause with the Tudor, who displays for a season the vindictiveness of woman against woman, Jane disallows his attestation of her innocence:
“Ah, sir, too gently have you judged me!
Usurper of the consecrated crown.
The sacred sceptre, how can I be pure?
Welcome Adversity, lifter up of veils!
Before me, naked as a soul for judgment,
Stands up my sin. ’Tis well! the worst is o’er.
Suffer I must; but I will sin no longer.”
When, in the fifth Act, she approaches the scaffold, she alone is
firm, she alone makes no complaint against the justice of her sentence, but, on the contrary, defends it.
“Bedingfield. Madam,
We fain would linger on the way. Our eyes,
Blind though they be with tears, strain round to catch
Some signal of reprieve.
Jane. O, seek it not!
It cannot be. My life may not consist
With the realm’s safety. Innocent am I
In purpose; but the object of great crimes.
Good blood must still flow on till Jane’s be shed.”
So again, in her final address to the spectators:
“My sentence hath been just: not for aspiring
Unto the crown, but that, with guilty weakness,
When proffered I refused it not. From me
Let future times be warned that good intent
Excuseth not misdeeds: all instruments
Of evil must partake its punishment.”
In the meantime Mary softens somewhat after Dudley’s execution, and is inclined to spare Guilford, as well as Jane. Gardiner argues against the husband’s reprieve, on the ground of certain peril to throne, church, and commonweal; and here he carries his point easily. He is not successful in securing Jane’s doom, even though he tells the queen:
“She is proclaimed
From street to street. The very walls are ciphered
With traitorous scrolls that hail her ‘Jane the Queen.’
Shall such wrong go unchecked?
Mary. That is their folly;
Not hers. The culpable shall smart for this.”
But here Bedingfield enters hastily to announce the escape of Suffolk and his having “joined with Wyatt.”
“Mary. Suffolk fled? Jane’s father?
Henceforth let justice rule. Farewell, weak pity!
We cannot, Jane, both live: why, then, die thou!”
Yet, even after this, her good genius, Fakenham, obtains from Mary a promise that Jane shall live “if she abjure her heresy.” It does not appear, however, that Fakenham had any further interview with Jane. It would have been useless, if he had; for when, just before her execution, Bedingfield says:
“At least, we may delay till the dean comes
To whisper spiritual comfort,”
Jane replies:
“Infinite
Is the Almighty’s goodness. In that only
I put my trust. My time, sir is too short
For controversy: and that good man’s duty
Compels him to dispute my creed. I thank him:
Pray you, sir, say I thank him, from my heart,
For all his charities. In privacy
My prayers—not unacceptable, I trust,
To God my Saviour—have been offered up.
So must they to the end.”
But in the scene before the execution—one of singular power—the unhappy queen evinces a yearning for sympathy which triumphs over rigor, and, in spite of Gardiner’s presence, makes her relent, though too late.
First we see her alone. She is vindicating herself to her conscience:
“I have no thirst for blood; nor yet would shrink
From shortening earthly life: for what is life
That we should court its stay? A pearl of price
In festal days, but mockery to mourners.
What’s life to thee, thy loved one dead, poor Jane?
What’s life to me, by him I loved betrayed?
I take from thee what is no loss to thee
And much infects the realm. Gladly would I
My life on such conditions sacrifice.
The time for thy short widowhood is come:
But ye shall reunite above. For me
The heart’s blank widowhood must be for ever.
Jane! on thy block the throned queen envies thee!”
She is full of her own betrayal by Courtenaye—a wrong which has left a more cruel wound than all the plots of treason have effected.
Here Gardiner and Fakenham enter to announce that Brett and Wyatt are taken. Presently, after a burst of fevered excitement, she says:
“I want
To see Jane Grey-after her widowhood.
Fakenham [aside]. After?—She then shall live.
Gardiner [aside]. Observe, she raves.
Mary. We’ll sit together in some forest nook,
Or sunless cavern by the moaning sea,
And talk of sorrow and vicissitudes
Of hapless love, and luckless constancy;
And hearts that death or treachery divides.”
She then goes off into a fit of raving, and declares that “the spirit of the fatal Sisterhood riots in her veins,” and “the snakes of the
Eumenides brandish their horrent tresses round her head.” Fakenham suggests music as the remedy for her “sick mind”; and Gardiner bids him throw aside the gallery doors that open on the chapel. It being the hour for service, the choir is heard.
“[As the music proceeds, the queen’s stupor relaxes, and her sensibility gradually revives. The music ceases.]
Mary. Airs fresh from heaven breathe round me!
Sing on, bright angels! tears relieve my heart—
My brain is calmed. Sing on and let me weep.
[A pause.
Would they were saved! Alas, poor widowed one!
Can it not still be done? No, no—too late!”
Then she describes the “dark procession” of Guilford to the scaffold, as seen in a vision. The signal gun is heard. The head has fallen.
“Mary. He is no more! Great God,
Have mercy upon both!
Gardiner. Her thoughts are changed:
Her brain relieved.
Fakenham. Now plead for Jane!
Gardiner. Too late!
Hear yonder bell.
Mary. What’s that? Again the death-bell?
Hark you! I would have speech with Jane. Fly, Fakenham!
My foot is weak and slow. Gardiner, attend me.
Fly, Fakenham, fly!
Fakenham. Too late! too late! too late!”
The scene of Jane’s execution intervenes; and then comes the last scene, brief and terrible.
“Jane Grey’s prison in the Tower. An open window in the rear.
Enter hurriedly Mary followed by Gardiner.
Mary. She’s gone—I come too late—forgive me, God!
Myself I never, never shall forgive.
Ha! from yon casement they may mark a signal!
[She leans from the window.
Hold! Hold!
[She draws back with a shriek.
Great God! it is—it is—her head
That demon lifts and brandishes before me!
[She rushes from the window, rubbing her eyes wildly.
Pah! I am choked-my mouth is choked with blood!
My eyes, my nostrils, swim in blood—my hair
Stiffens with blood—the floor is slippery
With blood—all—blood! Mother and unborn babe
Both slain! Mother and child! The cry of blood
Rises to heaven—the curse of Cain is launched
Upon me! Innocent victims! At God’s throne
Already ye bear witness. Mercy, mercy!
Spare one who knew not how to spare.
[She kneels.
Ay, kneel
To heaven—and pray! Lift up your hands to God!
Lift up your voice-your heart! Pray, sinner, pray!
[The curtain falls.”
So ends the first part of this masterly drama, and, we think, the far finer of the two plays—certainly the less painful to a Catholic reader. We have given it unqualified praise, because we have dealt with it purely as a drama. We are afraid that the real Jane Grey was a much less lovely character than the poet’s, and are thankful to know that the real Mary Tudor was a very different compound indeed. But we give the poet credit for perfect sincerity in his delineation of either character. We believe that if he was consciously partial at all, it was rather to the Catholic side—from a wish to do Catholics all the justice in his power. And this but makes us regret the more that, together with the genius he manifests, he had not the faith of the gifted son to whom he has left his mantle.
[189] Mary Tudor: An Historical Drama. By Sir Aubrey De Vere, Bart. London: William Pickering. 1875.