CHAPTER VII.
Upon a sultry evening which did follow an exceeding hot day, with no clouds in the sky, and a great store of dust on the road, we entered London, that great fair of the whole world, as some have titled it. When for many years we do think of a place we have not seen, a picture forms itself in the mind as distinct as if the eye had taken cognizance thereof, and a singular curiosity attends the actual vision of what the imagination hath so oft portrayed. On this occasion my eyes were slow servants to my desires, which longed to embrace in the compass of one glance the various objects they craved to behold. Albeit the sky was cloudless above our heads, I feared it would rain in London, by reason of a dark vapor which did hang over it; but Mistress Ward informed me that this appearance was owing to the smoke of sea-coal, of which so great a store is used in the houses that the air is filled with it. "And do those in London always live in that smoke?" I inquired, not greatly contented to think it should be so; but she said Mr. Congleton's house was not in the city, but in a very pleasant suburb outside of it, close unto Holborn Hill and Ely Place, the bishop's palace, in whose garden the roses were so plentiful that in June the air is perfumed with their odor. I troubled her not with further questions at that time, being soon wholly taken up with the new sights which then did meet us at every step. So great a number of gay horsemen, and litters carried by footmen with fine liveries, and coaches drawn by horses richly caparisoned and men running alongside of them, and withal so many carts, that I was constrained to give over the guiding of mine own horse by reason of the confusion which the noise of wheels and men's cries and the rapid motion of so many vehicles did cause in me, who had never rode before in so great a crowd.
At about six o'clock of the afternoon we did reach Ely Place, and passing by the bishop's palace stopped at the gate of Mr. Congleton's house, which doth stand somewhat retired from the high-road, and the first sight of which did greatly content me. It is built of fair and strong stone, not affecting fineness, but honorably representing a firm stateliness, for it was handsome without curiosity, and homely without negligence. At the front of it was a well-arranged ground cunningly set with trees, through which we rode to the foot of the stairs, where we were met by a gentleman dressed in a coat of black satin and a quilted waistcoat, with a white beaver in his hand, whom I guessed to be my good uncle. He shook Mistress Ward by the hand, saluted me on both cheeks, and vowed I was the precise counterpart of my mother, who at my age, he said, was the prettiest Lancashire witch that ever he had looked upon. He seemed to me not so old as I did suppose him to be, lean of body and something low of stature, with a long visage and a little sharp beard upon the chin of a brown color; a countenance not very grave, and, for his age, wanting the authority of gray hairs. He conducted me to mine aunt's chamber, who was seated in an easy-chair near unto the window, with a cat upon her knees and [{359}] a tambour-frame before her. She oped her arms and kissed me with great affection, and I, sliding down, knelt at her feet and prayed her to be a good mother to me, which was what my father had charged me to do when I should come into her presence. She raised me with her hand and made me sit on a stool beside her, and stroking my face gently, gazed upon it, and said it put her in mind of both of my parents, for that I had my father's brow and eyes, and my mother's mouth and dimpling smiles.
"Mr. Congleton," she cried, "you do hear what this wench saith. I pray you to bear it in mind, and how near in blood she is to me, so that you may show her favor when I am gone, which may be sooner than you think for."
I looked up into her face greatly concerned that she was like so soon to die. Methought she had the semblance of one in good health and a reasonable good color in her cheeks, and I perceived Mr. Congleton did smile as he answered:
"I will show favor to thy pretty niece, good Moll, I promise thee, be thou alive or be thou dead; but if the leeches are to be credited, who do affirm thou hast the best strength and stomach of the twain, thou art more like to bury me than I thee."
Upon which the good lady did sigh deeply and cast up her eyes and lifted up her hands as one grievously injured, and he cried:
"Prithee, sweetheart, take it not amiss, for beshrew me if I be not willing to grant thee to be as diseased as will pleasure thee, so that thou wilt continue to eat and sleep as well as thou dost at the present and so keep thyself from dying."
Upon which she said that she did admire how a man could have so much cruelty as to jest and jeer at her ill-health, but that she would spend no more of her breath upon him; and turning toward me she asked a store of questions anent my father, whom for many years she had not seen, and touching the manner of my mother's death, at the mention of which my tears flowed afresh, which caused her also to weep; and calling for her women she bade one of them bring her some hartshorn, for that sorrow, she said, would occasion the vapors to rise in her head, and the other she sent for to fetch her case of trinkets, for that she would wear the ring her brother had presented her with some years back, in which was a stone which doth cure melancholy. When the case was brought she displayed before my eyes its rich contents, and gifted me with a brooch set with turquoises, the wearing of which, she said, doth often keep persons from falling into divers sorts of peril. Then presently kissing me she said she felt fatigued, and would send for her daughters to take charge of me; who, when they came, embraced me with exceeding great affection, and carried me to what had been their schoolroom and was now Mrs. Ward's chamber, who no longer was their governess, they said, but as a friend abode in the house for to go abroad with them, their mother being of so delicate a constitution that she seldom left her room. Next to this chamber was a closet, wherein Kate said I should lie, and as it is one I inhabited for a long space of time, and the remembrance of which doth connect itself with very many events which, as they did take place, I therein mused on, and prayed or wept, or sometimes laughed over in solitude, I will here set down what it was like when first I saw it.
The bed was in an alcove, closed in the day by fair curtains of taffety; and the walls, which were in wood, had carvings above the door and over the chimney of very dainty workmanship. The floor was strewn with dried neatly-cut rushes, and in the projecting space where the window was, a table was set, and two chairs with backs and seats cunningly furnished with tapestry. In another recess betwixt the alcove and the chimney stood a praying stool and a desk with a cushion for a book to lie on. Ah, me! how often has my head [{360}] rested on that cushion and my knees on that stool when my heart has been too full to utter other prayers than a "God ha' mercy on me!" which at such times broke as a cry from an overcharged breast. But, oh! what a vain pleasure I did take on that first day in the bravery of this little chamber, which Kate said was to be mine own! With what great contentment I viewed each part of it, and looked out of the window on the beds of flowers which did form a mosaical floor in the garden around the house, in the midst of which was a fair pond whose shaking crystal mirrored the shrubs which grew about it, and a thicket beyond, which did appear to me a place for pleasantness and not unfit to flatter solitariness, albeit so close unto the city. Beyond were the bishop's grounds, and I could smell the scent of roses coming thence as the wind blew. I could have stood there many hours gazing on this new scene, but that my cousins brought me down to sup with them in the garden, which was not fairer in natural ornaments than in artificial inventions. The table was set in a small banqueting-house among certain pleasant trees near to a pretty water-work; and now I had leisure to scan my cousins' faces and compare what I did notice in them with what Mistress Ward had said the first night of our journey.
Kate, the eldest of the three, was in sooth a very fair creature, proportioned without any fault, and by nature endowed with the most delightful colors; but there was a made countenance about her mouth, between simpering and smiling, and somewhat in her bowed-down head which seemed to languish with over-much idleness, and an inviting look in her eyes as if they would over-persuade those she spoke to, which betokened a lack of those nobler powers of the mind which are the highest gifts of womanhood. Polly's face fault-finding wits might scoff at as too little for the rest of the body, her features as not so well proportioned as Kate's, and her skin somewhat browner than doth consist with beauty; but in her eyes there was a cheerfulness as if nature smiled in them, in her mouth so pretty a demureness, and in her countenance such a spark of wit that, if it struck not with admiration, filled with delight. No indifferent soul there was which, if it resisted making her its princess, would not long to have such a playfellow. Muriel, the youngest of these sisters, was deformed in shape, sallow in hue, in speech, as Mistress Ward had said, slow; but withal in her eyes, which were deep-set, there was lacking neither the fire which betokens intelligence, nor the sweetness which commands affection, and somewhat in her plain face which, though it may not be called beauty, had some of its qualities. Methought it savored more of heaven than earth. The ill-shaped body seemed but a case for a soul the fairness of which did shine through the foul lineaments which enclosed it. Albeit her lips opened but seldom that evening, only twice or thrice, and they were common words she uttered and fraught with hesitation, my heart did more incline toward her than to the pretty Kate or the lively Polly.
An hour before we retired to rest, Mr. Congleton came into the garden, and brought with him Mr. Swithin Wells and Mr. Bryan Lacy, two gentlemen who lived also in Holborn; the latter of which, Polly whispered in mine ear, was her sister Kate's suitor. Talk was ministered among them touching the queen's marriage with Monsieur; which, as Mr. Rookwood had said, was broken off; but that day they had heard that M. de la Motte had proposed to her majesty the Due d'Alençon, who would be more complying, he promised, touching religion than his brother. She inquired of the prince's age, and of his height; to the which he did answer, "About your majesty's own height." But her highness would not be so put off, and willed the ambassador to write for the precise measurement of the prince's stature.
"She will never marry," quoth Mr. Wells, "but only amuse the French [{361}] court and her council with further negotiations touching this new suitor, as heretofore anent the archduke and Monsieur. But I would to God her majesty were well married, and to a Catholic prince; which would do us more good than anything else which can be thought of."
"What news did you hear, sir, of Mr. Felton?" Mistress Ward asked. Upon which their countenances fell; and one of them answered that that gentleman had been racked the day before, but steadily refused, though in the extremity of torture, to name his accomplices; and would give her majesty no title but that of the Pretender; which they said was greatly to be regretted, and what no other Catholic had done. But when his sentence was read to him, for that he was to die on Friday, he drew from his finger a ring, which had diamonds in it, and was worth four hundred pounds, and requested the Earl of Sussex to give it to the queen, in token that he bore her no ill-will or malice, but rather the contrary.
Mr. Wells said he was a gentleman of very great heart and noble disposition, but for his part he would as lief this ring had been sold, and the money bestowed on the poorer sort of prisoners in Newgate, than see it grace her majesty's finger; who would thus play the hangman's part, who inherits the spoils of such as he doth put to death. But the others affirmed it was done in a Christian manner, and so greatly to be commended; and that Mr. Felton, albeit he was somewhat rash in his actions, and by some titled Don Magnifico, by reason of a certain bravery in his style of dress and fashion of speaking, which smacked of Monsieur Traveller, was a right worthy gentleman, and his death a blow to his friends, amongst whom there were some, nevertheless, to be found who did blame him for the act which had brought him into trouble. Mistress Ward cried, that such as fell into trouble, be the cause ever so good, did always find those who would blame them. Mr. Lacy said, one should not cast himself into danger wilfully, but when occasion offered take it with patience. Polly replied, that some were so prudent, occasions never came to them. And then those two fell to disputing, in a merry but withal sharp fashion. As he did pick his words, and used new-fangled terms, and she spoke roundly and to the point, methinks she was the nimblest in this encounter of wit.
Meanwhile Mr. Wells asked Mr. Congleton if he had had news from the north, where much blood was spilt since the rising; and he apprehended that his kinsmen in Richmondshire should suffer under the last orders sent to Sir George Bowes by my Lord Sussex. But Mr. Congleton did minister to him this comfort, that if they were noted wealthy, and had freeholds, it was the queen's special commandment they should not be executed, but two hundred of the commoner sort to lose their lives in each town; which was about one to each five.
"But none of note?" quoth Mr. Wells.
"None which can pay the worth of their heads," Mr. Congleton replied.
"And who, then, doth price them?" asked Kate, in a languishing voice.
"Nay, sister," quoth Polly, "I warrant thee they do price themselves; for he that will not pay well for his head must needs opine he hath a worthless one."
Upon which Mr. Lacy said to Kate, "One hundred angels would not pay for thine, sweet Kate."
"Then she must needs be an archangel, sir," quoth Polly, "if she be of greater worth than one hundred angels."
"Ah, me!" cried Kate, very earnestly, "I would I had but half one hundred gold-pieces to buy me a gown with!"
"Hast thou not gowns enough, wench?" asked her father. "Methought thou wert indifferently well provided in that respect."
"Ah, but I would have, sir, such a [{362}] velvet suit as I did see some weeks back at the Italian house in Cheapside, where the ladies of the court do buy their vestures. It had a border the daintiest I ever beheld, all powdered with gold and pearls. Ruffiano said it was the rarest suit he had ever made; and he is the Queen of France's tailor, which Sir Nicholas Throgmorton did secretly entice away, by the queen's desire, from that court to her own."
"And what fair nymph owns this rare suit, sweetest Kate?" Mr. Lacy asked. "I'll warrant none so fair that it should become her, or rather that she should become it, more than her who doth covet it."
"I know not if she be fair or foul," quoth Kate, "but she is the Lady Mary Howard, one of the maids of honor of her majesty, and so may wear what pleaseth her."
"By that token of the gold and pearls," cried Mr. Wells, "I doubt not but 'tis the very suit anent which the court have been wagging their tongues for the last week; and if it be so, indeed, Mistress Kate, you have no need to envy the poor lady that doth own it."
Kate protested she had not envied her, and taxed Mr. Wells with unkindness that he did charge her with it; and for all he could say would not be pacified, but kept casting up her eyes, and the tears streaming down her lovely cheeks. Upon which Mr. Lacy cried:
"Sweet one, thou hast indeed no cause to envy her or any one else, howsoever rare or dainty their suits may be; for thy teeth are more beauteous than pearls, and thine hair more bright than the purest gold, and thine eyes more black and soft than the finest velvet, which nature so made that we might bear their wonderful shining, which else had dazzled us:" and so went on till her weeping was stayed, and then Mr. Wells said:
"The lady who owned that rich suit, which I did falsely and feloniously advance Mistress Kate did envy, had not great or long comfort in its possession; for it is very well known at court, and hence bruited in the city, what passed at Richmond last week concerning this rare vesture. It pleased not the queen, who thought it did exceed her own. And one day her majesty did send privately for it, and put it on herself, and came forth into the chamber among the ladies. The kirtle and border was far too short for her majesty's height, and she asked every one how they liked her new fancied suit. At length she asked the owner herself if it was not made too short and ill-becoming; which the poor lady did presently consent to. Upon which her highness cried: 'Why, then, if it become me not as being too short, I am minded it shall never become thee as being too fine, so it fitteth neither well.' This sharp rebuke so abashed the poor lady that she never adorned her herewith any more."
"Ah," cried Mr. Congleton, laughing, "her majesty's bishops do come by reproofs as well as her maids. Have you heard how one Sunday, last April, my Lord of London preached to the queen's majesty, and seemed to touch on the vanity of decking the body too finely. Her grace told the ladies after the sermon, that if the bishop held more discourse on such matters she would fit him for heaven, but he should walk thither without a staff and leave his mantle behind him."
"Nay," quoth Mr. Wells, "but if she makes such as be Catholics taste of the sharpness of the rack, and the edge of the axe, she doth then treat those of her own way of thinking with the edge of her wit and the sharpness of her tongue. 'Tis reported, Mr. Congleton, I know not with what truth, that a near neighbor of yours has been served with a letter, by which a new sheep is let into his pastures."
"What," cried Polly, "is Pecora Campi to roam amidst the roses, and go in and out at his pleasure through the bishop's gate? The 'sweet lids' have then danced away a large slice of the Church's acres. But what, I pray you, sir, did her majesty write?"
"Even this," quoth her father, "I [{363}] had it from Sir Robert Arundell: 'Proud Prelate! you know what you were before I made you, and what you are now. If you do not immediately comply with my request, I will unfrock you, by God!—ELIZABETH R.'"
"Our good neighbor," saith Polly, "must show a like patience with Job, and cry out touching his bishopric, 'The queen did give it; the queen doth take it away; the will of the queen be done.'"
"He is like to be encroached upon yet further by yon cunning Sir Christopher," Mr. Wells said; "I'll warrant Ely Place will soon be Hatton Garden."
"Well, for a neighbor," answered Polly, "I'd as soon have the queen's lids as her hedge-bishop, and her sheep as her shepherd. 'Tis not all for love of her sweet dancer her majesty doth despoil him. She never, 'tis said, hath forgiven him that he did remonstrate with her for keeping a crucifix and lighted tapers in her own chapel, and that her fool, set on by such as were of the same mind with him, did one day put them out."
In suchlike talk the time was spent; and when the gentlemen had taken leave, we retired to rest; and being greatly tired, I slept heavily, and had many quaint dreams, in which past scenes and present objects were curiously blended with the tales I had read on the journey, and the discourse I had heard that evening. When I awoke in the morning, my thoughts first flew to my father, of whom I had a very passionate desire to receive tidings. When my waiting-woman entered, with a letter in her hand, I foolishly did fancy it came from him, which could scarcely be, so soon after our coming to town; but I quickly discerned, by the rose-colored string which it was bounden with, and then the handwriting, that it was not from him, but from her whom, next to him, I most desired to hear from, to wit, the Countess of Surrey. That sweet lady wrote that she had an exceeding great desire to see me, and would be more beholden to my aunt than she could well express, if she would confer on her so great a benefit as to permit me to spend the day with her at the Charter House, and she would send her coach for to convey me there, which should never have done her so much good pleasure before as in that service. And more to that effect, with many kind and gracious words touching our previous meeting and correspondence.
When I was dressed, I took her ladyship's letter to Mrs. Ward, who was pleased to say she would herself ask permission for me to wait upon that noble lady; but that her ladyship might not be at the charge of sending for me, she would herself, if my aunt gave her license, carry me to the Charter House, for that she was to spend some hours that day with friends in the city, and "it would greatly content her," she added, "to further the expressed wish of the young countess, whose grandmother, Lady Mounteagle, and so many of her kinsfolk, were Catholics, or at the least, good friends to such as were so." My aunt did give leave for me to go, as she mostly did to whatsoever Mrs. Ward proposed, whom she trusted entirely, with a singular great affection, only bidding her to pray that she might not die in her absence, for that she feared some peaches she had eaten the day before had disordered her, and that she had heard of one who had died of the plague some weeks before in the Tower. Mrs. Ward exhorted her to be of good cheer, and to comfort herself both ways, for that the air of Holborn was so good, the plague was not likely to come into it, and that the kernels of peaches being medicinal, would rather prove an antidote to pestilence than an occasion to it; and left her better satisfied, insomuch that she sent for another dish of peaches for to secure the benefit. Before I left, Kate bade me note the fashion of the suit my Lady Surrey did wear, and if she had on her own hair, and if she dyed it, and if she covered her bosom, or wore plaits, and if her stomacher was straight [{364}] and broad, or formed a long waist, extending downward, and many more points touching her attire, which I cannot now call to mind. As I went through the hall to the steps where Mistress Ward was already standing, Muriel came hurrying toward me, with a faint color coming and going in her sallow cheek, and twice she tried to speak and failed. But when I kissed her she put her lips close to my ear and whispered,
"Sweet little cousin, there be in London prisoners in a very bad plight, in filthy dungeons, because of their religion. The noble young Lady Surrey hath a tender heart toward such if she do but hear of them. Prithee, sweet coz, move her to send them relief in food, money, or clothing."
Then Mistress Ward called to me to hasten, and I ran away, but Muriel stood at the window, and as we passed she kissed her hand, in which was a gold angel, which my father had gifted me with at parting.
"Mrs. Ward," I said, as we went along, "my cousin Muriel is not fair, and yet her face doth commend itself to my fancy more than many fair ones I have seen; it is so kindly."
"I have even from her infancy loved her," she answered, "and thus much I will say of her, that many have been titled saints who had not, methinks, more virtue than I have noticed in Muriel."
"Doth she herself visit the prisoners she spoke of?"
"She and I do visit them and carry them relief when we can by any means prevail with the gaolers from compassion or through bribing of them to admit us. But it is not always convenient to let this be known, not even at home, but I ween, Constance, as thou wilt have me to call thee so, that Muriel saw in thee—for she has a wonderful penetrative spirit—that thou dost know when to speak and when to keep silence."
"And may I go with you to the prisons?" I asked with a hot feeling in my heart, which I had not felt since I had left home.
"Thou art far too young," she answered. "But I will tell thee what thou canst do. Thou mayst work and beg for these good men, and not be ashamed of so doing. None may visit them who have not made up their minds to die, if they should be denounced for their charity."
"But Muriel is young," I answered. "Hath she so resolved?"
"Muriel is young," was the reply; "but she is one in whom wisdom and holiness have forestalled age. For two years that she hath been my companion on such occasions, she has each day prepared for martyrdom by such devout exercises as strengthen the soul at the approach of death."
"And Kate and Polly," I asked, "are they privy to the dangers that you do run, and have they no like ambition?"
"Rather the contrary," she answered; "but neither they nor any one else in the house is fully acquainted with these secret errands save Mr. Congleton, and he did for a long time refuse his daughter license to go with me, until at last, by prayers and tears, she won him over to suffer it. But he will never permit thee to do the like, for that thy father hath intrusted thee to his care for greater safety in these troublesome times."
"Pish!" I cried pettishly, "safety has a dull mean sound in it which I mislike. I would I were mine own mistress."
"Wish no such thing, Constance Sherwood," was her grave answer. "Wilfulness was never nurse to virtue, but rather her foe; nor ever did a rebellious spirit prove the herald of true greatness. And now, mark my words. Almighty God hath given thee a friend far above thee in rank, and I doubt not in merit also, but whose faith, if report saith true, doth run great dangers, and with few to advise her in these evil days in which we live. Peradventure he hath appointed thee a work in a palace as weighty as that of [{365}] others in a dungeon. Set thyself to it with thy whole heart, and such prayers as draw down blessings from above. There be great need in these times to bear in remembrance what the Lord says, that he will be ashamed in heaven before his angels of such as be ashamed of him on earth. And many there are, I greatly fear, who though they be Catholics, do assist the heretics by their cowardice to suppress the true religion in this land; and I pray to God this may never be our case. Yet I would not have thee to be rash in speech, using harsh words, or needlessly rebuking others, which would not become thy age, or be fitting and modest in one of inferior rank, but only where faith and conscience be in question not to be afraid to speak. And now God bless thee, who should be an Esther in this house, wherein so many true confessors of Christ some years ago surrendered their lives in great misery and torments, rather than yield up their faith."
This she said as we stopped at the gate of the Charter House, where one of the serving-men of the Countess of Surrey was waiting to conduct me to her lodgings, having had orders to that effect. She left me in his charge, and I followed him across the square, and through the cloisters and passages which led to the gallery, where my lady's chamber was situated. My heart fluttered like a frightened caged bird during that walk, for there was a solemnity about the place such as I had not been used to, and which filled me with apprehension lest I should be wanting in due respect where so much state was carried on. But when the door was opened at one end of the gallery, and my sweet lady ran out to meet me with a cry of joy, the silly heart, like a caught bird, nestled in her embrace, and my lips joined themselves to hers in a fond manner, as if not willing to part again, but by fervent kisses supplying the place of words, which were lacking, to express the great mutual joy of that meeting, until at last my lady raised her head, and still holding my hands, cried out as she gazed on my face:
"You are more welcome, sweet one, than my poor words can say. I pray you, doff your hat and mantle, and come and sit by me, for 'tis a weary while since we have met, and those are gone from us who loved us then, and for their sakes we must needs love one another dearly, if our hearts did not of themselves move us unto it, which indeed they do, if I may judge of yours, Mistress Constance, by mine own."
Then we kissed again, and she passed her arm around my neck with so many graceful endearments, in which were blended girlish simplicity and a youthful yet matronly dignity, that I felt that day the love which, methinks, up to that time had had its seat mostly in the fancy, take such root in mine heart, that it never lost its hold on it.
At the first our tongues were somewhat tied by joy and lack of knowledge how to begin to converse on the many subjects whereon both desired to hear the other speak, and the disuse of such intercourse as maketh it easy to discourse on what the heart is full of. Howsoever, Lady Surrey questioned me touching my father, and what had befallen us since my mother's death. I told her that he had left his home, and sent me to London by reason of the present troubles; but without mention of what I did apprehend to be his further intent. And she then said that the concern she was in anent her good father the Duke of Norfolk did cause her to pity those who were also in trouble.
"But his grace," I answered, "is, I hope, in safety at present, and in his own house?"
"In this house, indeed," she did reply, "but a strait prisoner in Sir Henry Neville's custody, and not suffered to see his friends without her majesty's especial permission. He did send for his son and me last evening, having obtained leave for to see us, which he had not done since the day my lord and I were married again, by [{366}] his order, from the Tower, out of fear lest our first marriage, being made before Phil was quite twelve years old, it should have been annulled by order of the queen, or by some other means. It grieved me much to notice how gray his hair had grown, and that his eyes lacked their wonted fire. When we entered he was sitting in a chair, leaning backward, with his head almost over the back of it, looking at a candle which burnt before him, and a letter in his hand. He smiled when he saw us, and said the greatest comfort he had in the world was that we were now so joined together that nothing could ever part us. You see, Mistress Constance," she said, with a pretty blush and smile, "I now do wear my wedding-ring below the middle joint."
"And do you live alone with my lord now in these grand chambers?" I said, looking round at the walls, which were hung with rare tapestry and fine pictures.
"Bess is with me," she answered, "and so will remain I hope until she is fourteen, when she will be married to my Lord William, my lord's brother. Our Moll is likewise here, and was to have wedded my Lord Thomas when she did grow up; but she is not like to live, the physicians do say."
The sweet lady's eyes filled with tears, but, as if unwilling to entertain me with her griefs, she quickly changed discourse, and spoke of my coming unto London, and inquired if my aunt's house were a pleasant one, and if she was like to prove a good kinswoman to me. I told her how comfortable had been the manner of my reception, and of my cousins' goodness to me; at the which she did express great contentment, and would not be satisfied until I had described each of them in turn, and what good looks or what good qualities they had; which I could the more easily do that the first could be discerned even at first sight, and touching the last, I had warrant from Mrs. Ward's commendations, which had more weight than my own speerings, even if I had been a year and not solely a day in their company. She was vastly taken with what I related to her of Muriel, and that she did visit and relieve poor persons and prisoners, and wished she had liberty to do the like; and with a lovely blush and a modest confusion, as of one who doth not willingly disclose her good deeds, she told me all the time she could spare she did employ in making clothes for such as she could hear of, and also salves and cordials (such as she had learnt to compound from her dear grandmother), and privately sent them by her waiting-maid, who was a young gentlewoman of good family, who had lost her parents, and was most excellently endowed with virtue and piety.
"Come to my closet, Miss Constance," she said, "and I doubt not but we shall find Milicent at work, if so be she has not gone abroad to-day on some such errand of charity." Upon which she led the way through a second chamber, still more richly fitted up than the first, into a smaller one, wherein, when she opened the door, I saw a pretty living picture of two girls at a table, busily engaged with a store of bottles and herbs and ointments, which were strewn upon it in great abundance. One of them was a young maid, who was measuring drops into a phial, with a look so attentive upon it as if that little bottle had been the circle of her thoughts. She was very fair and slim, and had a delicate appearance, which minded me of a snow-drop; and indeed, by what my lady said, she was a floweret which had blossomed amidst the frosts and cold winds of adversity. By her side was the most gleesome wench, of not more than eight years, I ever did set eyes on; of a fatness that at her age was comely, and a face so full of waggery and saucy mirth, that but to look upon it drove away melancholy. She was compounding in a cup a store of various liquids, which she said did cure shrewishness, and said she would pour some into her nurse's night-draught, to mend her of that disorder.
"Ah, Nan," she cried, as we entered, "I'll help thee to a taste of this rare medicine, for methinks thou art somewhat shrewish also and not so conformable to thy husband's will, my lady, as a good wife should be. By that same token that my lord willed to take me behind him on his horse a gay ride round the square, and, forsooth, because I had not learnt my lesson, thou didst shut me up to die of melancholy. Ah, me! My mother had a maid called Barbara—
'Sing willow, willow, willow.'
That is one of Phil's favorite songs. Milicent, methinks I will call thee Barbara, and thou shalt sing with me—
'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,—
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom,'—
There, put thy hand in that fashion—
'her head on her knee,'—
Nay, prithee, thou must bend thy head lower—
'Sing willow, willow, willow.'"
"My lady," said the gentlewoman, smiling, "I promise you I dare not take upon me to fulfil my tasks with credit to myself or your ladyship, if Mistress Bess hath the run of this room, and doth prepare cordials after her fashion from your ladyship's stores."
"Ah, Bess!" quoth my lady, shaking her finger at the saucy one; "I'll deliver thee up to Mrs. Fawcett, who will give thee a taste of the place of correction; and Phil is not here to-day to beg thee off. And now, good Milicent, prithee make a bundle of such clothes as we have in hand, and such comforts as be suitable to such as are sick and in prison, for this sweet young lady hath need of them for some who be in that sad plight."
"And, my lady," quoth the gentlewoman, "I would fain learn how to dress wounds when the flesh is galled; for I do sometimes meet with poor men who do suffer in that way, and would relieve them if I could."
"I know," I cried, "of a rare ointment my mother used to make for that sort of hurt; and if my Lady Surrey gives me license, I will remember you, mistress, with the receipt of it."
My lady, with a kindly smile and expressed thanks, assented; and when we left the closet, I greatly commending the young gentlewoman's beauty, she said that beauty in her was the worst half of her merit.
"But, Mistress Constance," she said, when we had returned to the saloon, "I may not send her to such poor men, and above all, priests, who be in prison for their faith, as I hear, to my great sorrow, there be so many at this time, and who suffer great hardships, more than can be easily believed, for she is Protestant, and not through conforming to the times, but so settled in her way of thinking, and earnest therein, having been brought up to it, that she would not so much as open a Catholic book or listen to a word in defence of papists."
"But how, then, doth she serve a Catholic lady?" I asked, with a beating heart; and oh, with what a sad one did hear her answer, for it was as follows:
"Dear Constance, I must needs obey those who have a right to command me, such as his grace my good father and my husband; and they are both very urgent and resolved that by all means I shall conform to the times. So I do go to Protestant service; but I use at home my prayers, as my grandmother did teach me; and Phil says them too, when I can get him to say any."
"Then you do not hear mass," I said, sorrowfully, "or confess your sins to a priest?"
"No," she answered, in a sad manner; "I once asked my Lady Lumley, who is a good Catholic, if she could procure I should see a priest with that intent at Arundel House; but she turned pale as a sheet, and said that to get any one to be reconciled who had [{368}] once conformed to the Protestant religion, was to run danger of death; and albeit for her own part she would not refuse to die for so good a cause, she dared not bring her father's gray hairs to the block."
As we were holding this discourse—and she so intent in speaking, and I in listening, that we had not heard the door open—Lord Surrey suddenly stood before us. His height made him more than a boy, and his face would not allow him a man; for the rest, he was well-proportioned, and did all things with so notable a grace, that nature had stamped him with the mark of true nobility. He made a slight obeisance to me, and I noticed that his cheek was flushed, and that he grasped the handle of his sword with an anger which took not away the sweetness of his countenance, but gave it an amiable sort of fierceness. Then, as if unable to restrain himself, he burst forth,
"Nan, an order is come for his grace to be forthwith removed to the Tower, and I'll warrant that was the cause he was suffered to see us yesterday. God send it prove not a final parting!"
"Is his grace gone?" cried the countess, starting to her feet, and clasping her hands with a sorrowful gesture.
"He goes even now," answered the earl; and both went to the window, whence they could see the coach in which the duke was for the third time carried from his home to the last lodging he was to have on this earth. Oh, what a sorrowful sight it was for those young eyes which gazed on the sad removal of the sole parent both had left! How her tears did flow silently like a stream from a deep fount, and his with wild bursts of grief, like the gushings of a torrent over rocks! His head fell on her shoulder, and as she threw her arms round him, her tears wetted his hair. Methought then that in the pensive tenderness of her downcast face there was somewhat of motherly as well as of wifely affection. She put her arm in his, and led him from the room; and I remained alone for a short time entertaining myself with sad thoughts anent these two young noble creatures, who at so early an age had become acquainted with so much sorrow, and hoping that the darkness which did beset the morning of their lives might prove but as the clouds which at times deface the sky before a brilliant sunshine doth take possession of it, and dislodge these deceitful harbingers, which do but heighten in the end by contrast the resplendency they did threaten to obscure.
[TO BE CONTINUED. [Page 482]]
From Temple Bar.
FRENCH COCHIN CHINA.
Between India and the Chinese empire lies the peninsula of Indo-China, jutting out far into the Indian Ocean. The south-eastern portion of this peninsula is occupied by the empire of Anam, of which the chief maritime province is known to Europeans as Cochin China, but to the natives as Dang-trong, or the outer kingdom. It is in lower Cochin China that the French have succeeded in recently establishing a military settlement. In extent these new territorial acquisitions of our somewhat ambitious neighbors may be compared to Brittany, though in no other respect can any resemblance be detected. The country is, in fact, a strictly alluvial formation. Not only is it watered by the Dong-nai and Saigon rivers, but it also embraces the delta of the Mekong, at the mouth of which noble stream the Portuguese poet Camoens was ship-wrecked in the year 1556, swimming to the shore with his left hand, while in his right he held above the waters his manuscript copy of the Lusiad. It is almost needless to add that a level plain spreads far and wide, except quite in the north, and that fevers and dysentery prevail throughout the greater part of the year. The climate is certainly not a healthy one for Europeans. The rainy season lasts from April to December, during which the inhabitants live in a vapor-bath. The consequence is, that the French soldiers die off with such frightful rapidity that it has been urgently recommended that every regiment should be relieved after two years' service. The authorities, however, have lost no time in improving the sanitary condition of the new settlement. By means of native labor large tracts of marsh-land have been drained, and good roads made in lieu of the shallow tidal canals which previously constituted the sole channels of traffic and mutual intercourse. Formerly every villager owned a small boat, in which he moved about from place to place, taking with him his small merchandise, or conveying home to his family the proceeds of his marketing. The town of Saigon itself is estimated to contain one hundred thousand inhabitants. The houses are exceedingly mean, being constructed either of wood or of palm-leaves fastened together. Though situated seventy miles inland, Ghia-din, as it is called by the natives, is a very flourishing port, and exhibits a very active movement at all seasons of the year. It is frequented by a large number of Chinese vessels, and is now rising into importance as the head of the French possessions in the East. So far back, indeed, as the ninth century Saigon was noted for its muslin manufactures, the fineness of which was such that an entire dress could be drawn through the circumference of a signet-ring. Owing to the comparative absence of noxious insects it is regarded by Europeans as a not altogether unpleasant residence.
The population of the empire of Anam has been estimated at thirty millions; but on this point there are not sufficient data to form a very accurate opinion. But whatever may be their exact number, the inhabitants are derived from three sources. The Anamites proper—that is, the Cochin Chinese and the Tonkinese—are of a Chinese origin; while the people of Camboge are descended from Hindoo ancestors; and those in the interior—such as the Lao, Moi, and others—claim to be the sons of the soil, with Malay blood flowing in their veins. Of the early history of the Anamites few authentic details have reached us, nor [{370}] are these of a nature to interest the general reader. Although from an early date European missionaries appear to have labored in their self-denying task of converting these disciples of Buddhism to the purer tenets of Christianity, it was not until the latter part of the eighteenth century that their influence was sensibly appreciated. Even then they were indebted to an accident for the increased importance they have since continued to possess. Fleeing from a formidable and partially successful insurrection, the only survivor of the royal family and heir to the throne—afterward the celebrated Ghia-loung—took refuge in the house of Father Pigneau, a French missionary of unblemished life and reputation. That worthy man bravely afforded shelter not only to the fugitive, but also to his wife, his sister, and his son, and even encouraged him to make a strenuous effort to recover his rights. Foiled, however, for a time by the superior forces of the rebels, the prince and his faithful counsellor were compelled to flee for their lives to a small island in the Gulf of Siam. Yielding to the advice of the missionary, Ghia-loung now resolved to despatch an embassy to France, in the hope of obtaining sufficient assistance to place himself on the throne of his ancestors. Accordingly, in the year 1787, Father Pigneau, accompanied by the youthful son of the unfortunate prince, proceeded to Versailles, and actually prevailed upon Louis XVI. to conclude an alliance, offensive and defensive, with his royal client. The terms of this treaty are so far curious that they illustrate the practical and realistic notion of an "idea" which characterized the old French monarchy quite as much as it does the second Napoleonic empire. Convinced of the justice of the Anamite prince's claim to the crown, and moved by a desire to afford him a signal mark of his friendship, as well as of his love of justice, his most Christian majesty agreed to despatch immediately to the coasts of Cochin China a squadron consisting of four frigates, conveying a land force of 1,200 foot-soldiers, 200 artillerymen, and 250 Caffres, thoroughly equipped for service, and supported by an efficient field-battery. In return for—or rather in expectation of receiving—this succor, the king of Cochin China surrendered the absolute ownership and sovereignty of the islands of Hoi-nan and Pulo Condor, together with a half-share in the port of Touron, where the French were authorized to establish whatever works and factories they might deem requisite for their safety and commercial advantage. They were further to enjoy the exclusive privilege of trading with the Cochin Chinese, and of introducing their merchandise free of all charges and imposts. Neither was any trading vessel or ship of war to be permitted to enter any port on the Cochin China coast save only under the French flag. And in the event of his most Christian majesty becoming involved in hostilities with any other power, whether Asiatic or European, his faithful ally undertook to fit out at his own expense both naval and land forces to co-operate with the French troops anywhere in the Indian seas, but not beyond the Moluccas or the Straits of Malacca. In consideration of his services in negotiating this treaty, the ratifications of which were to be exchanged within twelve months at the latest, Father Pigneau was raised to the dignity of Bishop of Adran, and appointed ambassador extraordinary from the court of Versailles to that of Cochin China. The next step was to select a commander for the projected expedition; and on the new prelate's urgent solicitation the king consented, though with marked reluctance, to confer that distinction upon the Count de Conway, at that time governor of the French establishments in India. The selection proved an unfortunate one. Bishop Pigneau had omitted one very important element from his calculation. He had made no allowance for the disturbing influences of an improper [{371}] connection with a "lovely woman." He may even have been ignorant of M. de Conway's misplaced devotion to Mdme. de Vienne. Be this as it may, on his arrival at Pondicherry he refused to wait upon that all-potent lady, and offered her such slights that she became his avowed and bitter enemy. It was through her, indeed, that the expedition was never organized, and that the king of Cochin China was left to his own resources to bring about his restoration. This he at length accomplished, and in some small degree by the aid of a handful of volunteers whom the Bishop of Adran had induced to accompany him to Saigon. A sincere friendship appears to have existed between the French prelate and the Anamite prince, which terminated only with the death of the former in the last year of the eighteenth century. But though Ghia-loung was fully sensible of the advantages to be derived from maintaining a friendly intercourse with European nations, he was not blind to the inconveniences likely to arise from allowing the subjects of a foreign power to form independent settlements within his dominions. Feeling that his end was at hand, the aged monarch emphatically warned his son not to allow the French to possess a single inch of land in his territories; but at the same time advised him to cultivate amicable relations with that people. His successor obeyed the paternal counsels only in part. He took care, indeed, to prevent the French from settling permanently in his country; but he went very much further, for he actively persecuted the Christian converts, and exerted himself to the utmost to oppose the introduction of western ideas and civilization. In the year 1825 Miñ-mâng—for so was this emperor called—refused even to receive a letter and presents forwarded by Louis XVIII., and expressed his determination to keep aloof from all intercourse with European powers.
As Captain de Bougainville was provided neither with instructions how to act under such circumstances, nor "with a sufficient force to compel the acceptance of what was declined to be taken with a good grace"—we quote from M. Leon de Rosny's Tableau de Cochinchine, to which we are indebted for the matter of this article he formed the wise resolution of withdrawing from those inhospitable shores. But before he did so, he succeeded in landing Father Régéreau, a French priest who had devoted himself to the work of making Christians of the Anamites, whether they would or not. No sooner did this unwelcome news reach the ears of the monarch, than it caused an edict to appear enjoining the mandarins to exercise the utmost vigilance in preventing the ingress of the teachers of "the perverse religion of the Europeans," which is described as prejudicial to the rectitude and right-mindedness of mankind. The doctrine of the missionaries was further represented, in a petition said to have been inspired by the emperor himself, as of a nature to corrupt and seduce the common people by abusing their credulity. They employ, it was said, the fear of hell and eternal punishment to terrify the timid; while, to attract individuals of a different temperament, they promise the enjoyment of heavenly bliss as the reward of virtue. By degrees the ill-feeling entertained by the emperor toward the missionaries grew in intensity, until they became the object of his bitter aversion; and as his subordinates, according to custom, were anxious to recommend themselves to favor by their demonstrative zeal, it was not long before "the church of Cochin China was enriched by the crown of numerous martyrs." The first of these martyrs was the Abbe Gagelin, who was strangled on the 17th October, 1833; but then his offence was twofold, for he had not only preached the forbidden doctrines, but, in contravention of the king's commands, had quitted the town of Dong-nai to do so. A very naive letter from a missionary named Jacquard conveyed to the abbe the tidings of his forthcoming martyrdom. "Your sentence," [{372}] he wrote, "has been irrevocably pronounced. As soon as you have undergone the punishment of the cord, your head will be cut off and sent into the provinces in which you have preached Christianity. Behold you, then, a martyr! How fortunate you are!" To this pious effusion the abbe replied in a similar strain: "The news you announce of my being irrevocably condemned to death penetrates my very heart's core with joy. No; I do not hesitate to avow it, never did any news give me so much pleasure."
In the following year another missionary was tortured to death, not merely as a teacher of the new religion, but because he was found in the company of some rebels who had seized upon a fort. No other martyrdom occurred after this until 1837, in which year the Abbé Cornay was beheaded and quartered, after being imprisoned for three months; and, in 1838, M. Jacquard himself escaped by strangulation from the insults and outrages to which he had been for some time subjected. Nor was it the missionaries alone who shared the fate and emulated the calm heroism of the early apostles. The native neophytes were not a whit less zealous to suffer in their Master's cause, and to bear witness to the truth, in death as in life. The common people eagerly flocked to behold their execution, not indeed to taunt and revile the patient victims, but to secure some relic, however trifling or otherwise disgusting, and to dip their garments in the still-flowing blood. Pagans and Christians alike yielded to this superstition or veneration, while the soldiers on duty drove a lucrative trade in selling to the scrambling crowd fragments of the dress and person of the yet-quivering martyr. Even the executioners are reported to have affirmed that at the moment the head was severed from the body a certain perfume exhaled from the gushing blood, as if anticipating glorification in heaven. M. de Rosny, however, frankly admits that Miñ-mâng was chiefly moved by political considerations to persecute the followers of the new religion, whom he believed to be in league with his worst enemies, especially after the capture of a missionary in one of the rebel forts. His policy, whatever may have been its real springs, was adopted by his son Thieou-tri, one of whose first public acts was to command the governors of provinces to track out the Christians to their most secret asylums. These orders were only too faithfully obeyed. The French missionaries were ferreted out of their lurking-places, thrown into prison, and otherwise ill-treated, throughout this reign, which did not terminate before the end of 1847.
The new monarch, commonly known as Tu-Duk, walked in the footsteps of his father. An edict was issued almost immediately after his accession to the throne, commanding that every European missionary found in Anam should be thrown into the sea with a rope round his neck. And when the mandarins hesitated to execute such sanguinary orders, a second edict appeared enjoining that whosoever concealed in his house a propagator of the Christian faith should be cut in two and thrown into the river. The fiendish work then began in earnest. The sword of the executioner was again called into request, and several most estimable men suffered death on the scaffold. At last even a bishop, Monseigneur Diaz, experienced the fate of his humbler brethren, on the 20th July, 1857; and as this prelate happened to be a Spaniard, his death was avenged by an allied Franco-Spanish expedition, which resulted in the conquest of Lower Cochin China, and the cession of the provinces of Saigon, Bien-hoa, and Myt-ho to the French. Let us now see what manner of men were these Anamites whom the French, failing to convert, were compelled, by their sense of spiritual duty, to conquer and subjugate. M. de Rosny shall continue to be our guide.
The people of Anam Proper are evidently of Mongol extraction. Their complexion is of a dark sallow hue, varying from a dirty white to a yellowish [{373}] olive color. In stature they are short, but thickset, and remarkably active. Their features are by no means beautiful according to the European idea of beauty. They have short square noses, prominent cheek-bones, thin lips, an small black eyes—the eyeball being rather yellow than white. Their teeth, which are naturally of a pure white, are stained almost black and otherwise disfigured by the excessive use of betel-nut. Their countenances are chiefly marked by the breadth and height of the cheek-bones, and are nearly of the shape of a lozenge. The women are better-looking, and decidedly more graceful, than the men, even in the lower classes, but both sexes are particularly cheerful and vivacious. The upper classes, however, affect the solemn air and grave deportment of the Chinese, and are consequently much less agreeable to strangers than are the less-dignified orders. Corpulence is considered a great beauty—a fat face and a protuberant stomach constituting the ideal of an Adonis. Both men and women wear their hair long, but gathered up at the back of the head in a knot. It is never cut save in early youth, when it is all shaved off with the exception of a small tuft on the top of the crown. A close-cropped head of hair, indeed, is looked upon as a badge of infamy, and is one of the distinguishing marks of a convicted criminal. The beard is allowed to grow naturally, but consists of little more than a few scattered hairs at the end of the chin; the upper lip being as scantily furnished. The nails should be very long, thin, and sharp-pointed, and by the women are usually stained of a red color.
The Anamites dress themselves in silk or cotton according to their means; but whatever the material, the form of their garb is always the same. In addition to wide trousers fastened round the waist by a silken girdle, they wear a robe descending to the knees, and occasionally a shorter one over that; both equally opening on the right side, but closed by five or six buttons. The men's sleeves are very wide, and so long that they descend considerably lower than the ends of the fingers. The women, however, who in other respects dress precisely as do the men, have their sleeves somewhat shorter, in order to display their metal or pearl bracelets. The under-garment is generally made of country cotton, but the upper one, as worn by the higher classes, is invariably of silk or flowered muslin, of Chinese manufacture. Cotton trousers are often dyed brown, but even the laboring population make use of silk as much as possible. For mourning garments cotton alone is employed, white being the funereal color.
Out of doors men and women alike wear varnished straw hats, upward of two feet in diameter, fastened under the chin, and very useful as a protection against sun and rain, though somewhat grotesque in appearance. Within doors the women go bareheaded, not unfrequently allowing their fine black tresses to hang loose down their backs almost to the ground. Ear-rings, bracelets, and rings on their fingers are favorite objects of female vanity; but a modest demeanor is a thing unknown; a bold, dashing manner being most admired by the men. They are certainly not good-looking; but their natural gaiety and liveliness amply compensate for the absence of personal charms.
Old men and persons of distinction alone wear sandals, the people generally preferring to go barefooted. A pair of silken purses, or bags, to carry betel, money, and tobacco, may be seen in the hand, or hanging over the shoulder, of every man and woman not actually employed in hard labor. They are, for the most part, of blue satin, and sometimes richly embroidered. Like their neighbors the Chinese, the Anamites are scrupulous observers of the distinctive insignia of rank, but pay no regard to personal cleanliness. Notwithstanding their frequent ablutions, their clothes, their hair, their fingers and nails, are disgustingly filthy. Even wealthy persons wear dirty cotton dresses within doors, over which [{374}] they throw their smart silken robes when they go out.
Taste is proverbially a matter beyond dispute; but it would be very hard for any European to agree with an Anamite as to what constituted a delicacy and what an abomination. A Cochin Chinese epicure delights, for instance, in rotten eggs, and is especially fond of them after they have been under a hen for ten or twelve days. From stale fish, again, he extracts his choicest sauce, and feasts greedily upon meat in a state of putrefaction. Vermin of all sorts is highly appreciated. Crocodile's flesh is also greatly prized; though boiled rice and a little fish fresh,—smoked, or salted—are the ordinary food of the poor. Among delicacies may be mentioned silk-worms fried in fat, ants and ants' eggs, bees, insects, swallows'-nests, and a large white worm found in decayed wood; but no dainty is more dearly relished than a still-born calf served up whole in its skin and almost raw. In the way of pastry the women greatly affect beignets made of herbs, sugar, and clay. Among the rich the dishes are placed on low tables a foot or two in height, round which the diners seat themselves on the ground in the attitude of tailors. Forks and spoons are equally unknown, but chop-sticks are used after the Chinese fashion. The dinner usually begins, instead of ending, with fruit and pastry. During the meal nothing liquid is taken, but before sitting down it is customary to take a gulp or two of strong spirits distilled from fermented rice, and after dinner several small cups of tea are drunk by those who can afford to do so. Cold or unadulterated water is thought unwholesome, and is therefore never taken by itself. Betel-nut mixed with quicklime is constantly chewed by both men and women, and of late years the use of opium has partially crept in.
The houses of the Anamites are only one story high, and very low in the roof. They are, in fact, mere halls, the roof of which is usually supported on bamboo pillars, on which are pasted strips of many-colored paper inscribed with Chinese proverbs. The roof slopes rather sharply, and consists of reed or straw. Neither windows nor chimneys are seen. The smoke escapes and the light enters by the door. The walls are made of palm leaves, though rich people often employ wood for that purpose. In either case they are filthily dirty and swarm with insects. At the further end of the house is a raised platform, which serves as a bed for the entire family. The floor is of earth, not unfrequently traversed by channels hollowed out by the rain which descends through the roof. In every household one member remains awake all night, to give the alarm in case of thieves attempting to come in.
It is usual for the men to marry as soon as they have the means to purchase a wife. The price of such an article varies, according to circumstances, from two to ten shillings, though rich people will give as much as twice or three times that sum for anything out of the common run. Polygamy is permitted by the laws; but practically it is a luxury confined to the wealthy, and even with them the first wife reigns supreme over the household. The privilege of divorce is reserved exclusively for the husbands, who can put away a disagreeable partner by breaking in twain a copper coin or a piece of wood, in the presence of a witness. Parents cannot dispose of their daughters in marriage without their free consent. Previous to marriage the Cochin Chinese are perfectly unrestrained; but as chastity is nothing thought of, this is not a matter of much moment. Infanticide is punished as a crime, but not so abortion. Adultery is a capital offense. The guilty woman is trampled to death under the feet of an elephant, while her lover is strangled or beheaded; but these sentences are frequently commuted into exile. Wives are not locked up as in Mohammedan countries, but with that exception they are quite as badly treated, being altogether at the mercy of their husbands. They are, in truth, little better than slaves or [{375}] beasts of burden. It is they who build the houses, who cultivate the ground, who manufacture the clothes, who prepare the food, who, in short, do everything. They have nine lives, say their ungrateful husbands, and can afford to lose one without being the worse for it. They are described as being less timid than the men, more intelligent, more gay, and quite ready to adapt themselves to the manners and customs of their French rulers. The men, though by no means destitute of strength and courage, are lazy, indolent, and averse to bodily exercise, and chiefly at home in the petty intrigues of an almost retail commerce.
Great importance is attached to the funeral ceremonies. The dead are interred—not burnt, according to the custom of neighboring nations— and much taste is displayed in their burial-places. There is no more acceptable present than a coffin, and thus it usually happens that one is provided years before it can be turned to a proper account. The deceased is clothed in his choicest apparel, and in his coffin is placed an abundant supply of whatever he is likely to want in the new life upon which he has entered through the portals of death. The obsequies are generally deferred for six months, or for even a whole year, in order to give more time for the necessary preparations. On such occasions friends and relatives flock from afar to the "funeral baked meats;" for a handsome banquet forms an essential part of the otherwise melancholy details. From twenty to thirty bearers convey the corpse to its last abode, amid the deafening discord of drums, cymbals, and tom-toms. The procession moves with slow and measured step, and on the coffin is placed a shell filled with water, which enables the master of the ceremonies to ascertain that the coffin is borne with becoming steadiness. Mourning is worn for twenty-seven months for a father, mother, or husband; but only twelve months for a wife. During this period it is forbidden to be present at any spectacle, to attend any meeting, or to marry. At various intervals after the interment, offerings of eatables are presented to the dead, but which are scrupulously consumed by the offerers themselves. Respect, bordering on reverence, is shown to old age; but then old people are a rarity, few individuals attaining to half a century. Sickness of all kinds is rife, including "the whole cohort of fevers." The want of cleanliness is undoubtedly at the bottom of most of the complaints from which the natives suffer. The system of medicine most in vogue is borrowed from the Chinese. Every well-to-do family maintains its own physician, who physics all its members to their heart's content. Doctors, however, agree no more in Cochin China than in any other region of the globe. There are two schools of medicine—the one employing nothing but stimulants, the other adhering solely to refrigerants, and both citing in favor of their respective systems the most astounding and well-nigh miraculous cures.
The rules of politeness and etiquette are distinctly drawn and rigidly observed. An inferior meeting a superior prostrates himself at full length upon the ground, and repeats the act again and again according to the amount of deference he wishes to exhibit. To address one by the title of great-grand-father is to show the highest possible respect, while grandfather, father, uncle, and elder brother mark the downward gradations from that supreme point. There is, in truth, somewhat too much of veneering visible in all that pertains to the private life and character of the Anamites. Their moral code, based on the precepts of Confucius, is irreproachable, but they seldom pause to regulate their conduct after its wholesome doctrines. Pleasure, indeed, is more thought of than morality, and gambling is a raging passion with all classes. Cock-fighting, and even the combats of red-fishes, fill them with especial delight; and when thoroughly excited they will stake on any chance their wives and children, and even [{376}] themselves. Music, dancing, and theatrical exhibitions are likewise much to their taste, though the dancers are invariably women hired for the purpose.
The laws and police regulations are for the most part wise and sensible, but are more frequently neglected than observed. Here, as in other Asiatic countries, a gift in the hand perverteth the wisdom of the wise, and thus only the poor and the stingy need suffer for their sins. For most offences the bastinado is inflicted, but for heinous crimes capital punishments are enforced. There is a sufficient variety in the modes of execution. Sometimes the criminal is sentenced to be strangled; at other time's he is decapitated, or trampled to death by an elephant, or even hacked to pieces if his crime has been in any way extraordinary. For minor delinquencies recourse is had to transportation in irons to a distant province, or to hard labor, such as cutting grass for the emperor's elephants.
Society is divided into two classes—the people and the mandarins. Nobility is hereditary, but the son of a mandarin of the first order ranks only with the second until he has done something to merit promotion to his father's rank. In like manner the son of a second-class mandarin belongs to the third rank, and so on to the lowest grade; and there are nine of these—the highest two sitting in the imperial council. But the most exalted honors are open to the most humble. No man is so low born as to despair of becoming one of the pillars of the empire. The competition system prevails here in its full vigor. Everything depends upon the passing certain examinations; but for all that the mandarins are described as oppressors of the poor, evil advisers of the sovereign, addicted to fraud, given up to their appetites, wasting their time in sensual and frivolous pursuits, corrupt and venal in the administration of justice.
The patrimony is distributed equally among all the sons, whether legitimate or otherwise, except that the eldest receives one-tenth of the entire property in addition to his own share; in return for which he is expected to guard the interests of the family, and above all to look after his sisters, who cannot marry without his consent. The daughters have no part in the inheritance save in the absence of male heirs, but in that case they are treated as if they were sons. Through extreme poverty children are often sold as slaves by their parents. An insolvent debtor likewise becomes the bondsman of his creditor; and as the legal rate of interest is thirty per cent., a debt rapidly accumulates.
An Anamite hour is twice the length of a European one, and the night is divided into five watches. A year consists of twelve lunar months; so that every two or three years it becomes necessary to add another month: in nineteen years there are seventeen of these intercalated months. The lapse of time is marked by periods of twelve years, five of which constitute a "grand cycle;" but in historical narratives the dates are calculated from the accession of the reigning monarch. The year begins with the month of February. The decimal system of enumeration is the one adopted by the Cochin Chinese.
The religion of the people is a superstitious Buddhism; that of the lettered classes a dormant belief in the moral teachings of Confucius. Whatever temples there are, are of a mean order, and are served by an ignorant and ill-paid priesthood. The malignant spirits are propitiated by offerings of burnt paper inscribed with prayers, of bundles of sweet-scented wood, and of other articles of trifling value; the good spirits are mostly neglected. Sincere veneration, however, is shown to the manes of deceased ancestors. The priests take a vow of celibacy, to which they occasionally adhere. They abstain entirely from animal food, and affect a yellow or red hue in their apparel. After death their bodies are burned, and not buried as is the case with the laity.
The inhabitants of Cochin China are naturally industrious, and possess considerable skill as carpenters and upholsterers. They also work in iron with some success, and display no mean taste in their pottery. Their cotton and silk manufactures are, however, coarse and greatly inferior to the Chinese. Their lackered boxes are famous throughout the world, nor are their filigree ornaments unworthy of admiration. But though skilful and intelligent as artisans, and abundantly endowed with the faculty of imitation, they are wretchedly deficient in imagination, and have no idea of invention. This defect is perhaps of less consequence now that they have the benefit of receiving their impulses from the most inventive nation in the world. Without doubt, their material prosperity will be largely augmented by the French domination, nor have they anything to lose in moral and social respects. The conquest of Cochin China may therefore be regarded as an advantage to the people themselves; but how far it is likely to yield any profit to the French is altogether another question, and one which at present we are not called upon to discuss. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
From The Dublin Review.
CONSALVI'S MEMOIRS.
Memoires du Cardinal Consalvi, Secrétaire d'État du Pape Pie VII., avec une Introduction et des Notes. Par J. CRÉTINEAU-JOLY. 2 vols. 8vo. Paris: Plon. 1864.
M. Crétineau-Joly is a Vendéan, and there seems to be in his blood something of that pugnacious and warlike quality which so distinguished his forefathers. Each of his former publications betrays this combative propensity, and the introduction which accompanies Cardinal Consalvi's Memoirs is worthy of its predecessors. M. Crétineau-Joly is well known on the continent by his "History of the Jesuits"—a work containing a considerable amount of valuable information concerning that celebrated and much maligned order; but, at the same time, it may be considered in the light of an Armstrong gun, which batters and reduces to dust the bastions of an enemy. Indeed, it was ushered forth at the very height of the warfare which raged against the Church in France, a few years previous to the downfall of Louis Philippe. In 1858 the same writer produced a brochure bearing the following title, "The Church versus the Revolution," another broadside fired against crowned revolutionists, no less than against the sectarian hordes of a Mazzini and a Garibaldi. Hardly a year had elapsed when the French emperor invaded Lombardy, with what result the whole world is aware. So M. Crétineau-Joly had taken time by the forelock. And now, again, he comes forth with these highly interesting and authentic memoirs, written by the cardinal and prime minister of Pius VII. In every respect they may be proclaimed the most important, if not the most voluminous, of the editor's publications. No one, at the same time, will fail to perceive that between the actual situation of the Holy See and that which marked its history in the eventful years between 1799 and 1811, there underlies a startling similarity. Singularly enough, the second half of the nineteenth [{378}] century begins with the same picture of violence, the same hypocrisy, the same contempt of right by might, that characterized the dawn of the present age. On the one side, an all-powerful ruler, intoxicated by success, backed by a host of servile demagogues, and hardly less servile, though royal infidels; on the other, a weak old man, backed by a calm, deliberate, truly Christian genius—both wielding no other weapons but faith, hope, and charity—both torn from their home and judgment-seat by the iron hand of revolutionary despotism—and yet both riding triumphant over the seething waves, whilst the grim corpses of their enemies are washed to the shore, or startle the traveller as he comes suddenly upon them in his wanderings through Russian wilds. Ay, there she goes, that tiny ship of Peter's, with a Pius at her helm; now, as in bygone days, with an Antonelli as a commander—much about the same man as a Consalvi.
"Blow fair, thou breeze! She anchors ere the dark.
Already doubled is the cape—our bay
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.
How gloriously her gallant course she goes!
Her white wings flying—never from her foes—
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife."
Setting aside metaphors and poetry, these memoirs are certainly one of the most remarkable instances of calm self-possession and confidence in a just cause that are to be met with in any time or country. Here is a man, and prime minister of a captive sovereign, himself a prisoner, who undertakes to write the history of the important events in which he had played a most conspicuous part. He is closely watched, and consequently obliged to write by fits and starts; he is deprived of every source of documentary information, and consequently must trust to his own memory. Will these hasty yet truthful sheets escape his jailer's eye? He cannot tell. Will he ever recover his liberty, be restored to his dear master's bosom and confidence? He cannot tell: but nevertheless the great cardinal—for great he was universally acknowledged—goes on bringing forth certain facts, known to himself alone, and which throw more light on the true character of the first Napoleon than the ponderous and garbled evidence of a Thiers, or even the more trustworthy pages of M. Artaud, in his "Life of Pius VII." Indeed, there are few comparisons of higher interest than to open those two works at the parts which refer to the events narrated in these memoirs. A labor of this kind, first originating in a spirit of fair play, soon becomes a labor of love, so strong is the contrast between the worldly, scheming, truckling, infidel historian of the first empire, and the unassuming and conscientious, though bold and resolute cardinal. One may safely say, that M. Thiers would have never dreamt of bearding the headstrong Bonaparte, as Consalvi did on a memorable occasion, which reminds us of those legates of old, who daunted by their steady looks and unruffled patience the burly violence of a Richard, or unveiled the cunning of a Frederic Hohenstaufen.
At the very outset of these memoirs, the cardinal gives us their true and solemn character. His last will, which accompanies them, and may be considered as a sort of preface, contains the following lines:
"My heir and trustee, as well as those who may hereafter take charge of my inheritance, are bound to bestow the greatest care on my personal writings relative to the conclave held at Venice in 1799 and 1800; to the concordat of 1801; to the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon with the Archduchess Maria Louisa of Austria; and, lastly, to the papers on different periods of my life and ministry. These five papers, some of which are nearly finished, and the others in course of preparation, are not to be published before the death of those eminent personages who are mentioned therein. In this way many disputes may be avoided, for, though utterly unfounded, as my own writings rest on truth alone, still [{379}] they might injure that very truth, and the interests of the Holy See, to which I am desirous of leaving the means of repelling any false attack published hereafter on these matters. These memoirs on the conclave, the concordat of 1801, the marriage, and the ministry, belonging more especially to the Holy Sec, and to the pontifical government, my heir and trustee shall present them to the reigning pontiff, and beseech the Holy Father to preserve them carefully within the archives of the Vatican. They may be of use to the Holy See on many occasions, but more particularly if any future history be published of the events which form the object of the present writings, or if it should become necessary to refute any false statement. In regard to the memoirs concerning the different periods of my own life, as the extinction of my family will leave behind me no one directly interested in the following pages, they are to remain in the hands of my heir and trustee, or in those of the successive administrators of my fortune; or, again, they may be likewise handed over to the archives of the Vatican, if they be deemed worthy of preservation. My only desire is, that in case of the biography of the cardinals being continued, my heir and executors shall cause these memoirs to be known, so that nothing may be published contrary to truth about myself; for I am ambitious of maintaining immaculate my own reputation—a wish grounded on the prescriptions of Scripture. As for the truth of the facts brought forward in my writings, I may make bold to say, Deus scit quia non mentior."
Cardinal Consalvi was born at Rome, of a noble family, in 1757, and was the eldest of five children, two of whom died at an early age. His father bore the title of marquess, and his mother, the Marchioness Claudia Carandini, was of Modenese origin.
The family itself, on the father's side, had sprung up in Tuscany at Pisa, though not under the same name; but emigrated about a century and a half ago to the Roman States, where it expanded, and gradually grew into political, or rather ecclesiastical importance. Consalvi's forefathers still, however, held in Tuscany some property, to which he would have been entitled had he felt disposed to dispute the equity of certain Leopoldine laws concerning trustees. But, with characteristic disinterestedness the future cardinal never gave the matter a second thought.
"I never felt (says he) a passion for riches; beside, my resources, though far from opulent, were sufficient for a modest way of living, thanks to the income arising out of the different offices which I held successively. And thus being lifted, by Divine Providence, above vanity and ambition, I never was tempted to prove that I was descended from the Brunaccis and not from the Consalvis, whenever envy or ignorance represented me as belonging to a stock unblessed with old nobility. It would have been an easy matter to dispel these imputations or errors. Being fully convinced that the best nobility springs from the heart and from good deeds; knowing, likewise, that I was a genuine Brunacci and not a Consalvi, I despised all such rumors. … Nor did I alter my views when the high position which I afterward attained afforded so many opportunities for putting an end to those idle reports."
In the above passage we have already the whole man. During his long and chequered life he never once exposed himself to the charge of making his own fortune out of the numerous and even honorable occasions which would have tempted a less exalted soul. It would be useless to follow the young Consalvi through his course of studies, which were brilliant, and partly gone through under the eye of Cardinal York, the last of a fated race, who entertained for the future minister an affectionate friendship that never cooled until his death.
Hercules Consalvi had hardly finished his academical curriculum at [{380}] Rome when he was called to the prelature, in 1783, as reporter to the tribunal of the Curia. His talents and deep knowledge, though so young, in canon and civil law, soon made him conspicuous among his competitors. In 1786, the Pope Pius VI. appointed him Ponente del buono govemo, a board, or congregation, charged with giving its opinion on all municipal questions. This promotion was due to his merit, but the cardinal himself confesses that it was a tardy one, not on account of any neglect on the part of the pontifical government, but merely because he did not avail himself of favorable opportunities. "On the one hand," observes he, "my own disposition never inclined to ask for favor, and still less to court the patronage of those placed in high positions; whilst, on the other hand, I had before my eyes, in such respects, the fine example of my own guardian, the Cardinal Negroni. … He was wont to say, 'We never ought to ask for anything; we must never flatter to obtain preferment; but manage in such a way as to overcome every obstacle, through a most punctual fulfilment of our duties, and the enjoyment of a sound reputation.' To this piece of advice I strictly adhered through life." To those who are so prone to malign the pomp and splendor of the Roman prelature, it will be a matter of surprise to learn that at this very time the only benefice conferred upon Consalvi amounted to the paltry stipend of £12 a year.
The Pope, however, who seems to have been an excellent judge of true merit, soon placed the young prelate at the head of the hospital of San Michele, the largest and most important in Rome. The establishment required a thorough reform; and Consalvi soon worked wonders, being led on by his own innate ardor, and by a strong predilection for the management of charitable institutions. But he had hardly realized his intended labor of reformation, when he was superseded by another prelate. Pius VI., in fact, did not wish Consalvi to wear out his energies in the routine of administrative bureaucracy. The incident which led to his promotion is so truly characteristic of both personages, that we cannot refrain from a copious quotation:
"The sudden death of one of the votanti di segnatura, or Supreme Court of Cassation, made a vacancy in that court. All my friends engaged me not to lose a moment in applying for it. I did not yield to their entreaties, nor, indeed, did the Pope allow me time for that purpose. The above death had taken place on Maunday Thursday. The very next morning, though it was Good Friday, and the sacred services of the day were about to be solemnized; though all the public offices were closed, according to custom, the Pope sent to the Secretary of State an order to forward my immediate appointment as votanti di segnatura. As soon as it arrived, I hastened to the Pope to thank him. His Holiness was not in the habit of receiving any one merely for the sake of hearing expressions of gratitude; still less did I expect to be introduced on such a day, when the Pope, after attending at the holy function, had retired to his apartments, with a view of coming back for Tenebra, and was in the very act of reciting Complin, which was to be followed by his dinner.
"On learning that I was in the antechamber, where he had previously given orders that I should not be sent away in case I should come, he admitted me at once. After finishing Complin in my presence, he addressed me so kindly that I shall remember his words as long as I live. 'My dear Monsignor,' said he, 'you are well aware that we receive no one merely to hear thanksgivings; and yet we have gone against our usual custom, notwithstanding this busy day, and though our dinner has just been served up, in order that we may have the pleasure of making you the present communication. If you were not included in the last promotion, it was [{381}] because we were obliged to hand over to another the post really destined to yourself; and in doing so we felt as much aggrieved as we are now delighted to offer you immediately the vacant charge of votanti di segnatura. We do it to show you the satisfaction which you afford us by your conduct, We took you away from an administrative station merely to place you on higher ground.'
"The Holy Father then added a few words concerning the opinion which his kindness, and by no means my own merit, suggested to him relatively to my future career. Indeed, the knowledge which I have of myself would not allow me to transcribe those words. He then continued as follows: 'What we now bestow upon you is really not worth much, but I have nothing else for the present. Take it, however, as a positive pledge of what I am disposed to do as soon as an opportunity offers.'
"It is easy to understand that after such a speech, uttered in that easy, affable, and yet majestic manner so peculiar to Pius VI., I was at a loss for expressions to answer him. I could hardly stammer out, that after the language he had just used about my promotion—language showing that I had not incurred his disapproval by my conduct at San Michele—my mind was quite at ease as to the future. Indeed, I had no other ambition but to please him, and to fulfil my duty in any station he might think fit to confer upon me.
"Here I was interrupted. 'I am satisfied—nay, highly satisfied'—said the Pope, 'by your behavior at San Michele; but I again say that I destine you to other purposes. What I promised formerly was sincere, but still it was but empty words. This is something matter of fact; not much, indeed, but yet better than words. So don't refuse it; and now be off, for, you see, our dinner is getting cold, and we must soon go back to chapel.'"
It would be doubtless congenial to our feelings to dwell upon these touching details; but we are already in the year 1790, and the knell of the old French monarchy is tolling. Let us plunge, therefore, at once in medias res, and skip over the eight intervening years between the time which saw Rome invaded by a revolutionary army, the Pope torn from his throne, and led a prisoner, first to Florence, then to Valence, where he was to die a martyr. On reading this part of the memoirs, one is particularly struck with the similarity which it presents with the history of Piedmontese invasion—the same hypocrisy, the same attempts at provoking to insurrection the inhabitants at Rome, and, these failing, the same recourse to violence. The accidental death of General Duphot at last appears in its true colors, but of course it supplied the Directory with a pretence for seizing the Papal States, an act of spoliation it had been long preparing. [Footnote 77] Thanks to the energy of Consalvi, to whom had been entrusted the maintenance of public order, previous to the entry of the French troops into the capital, no insurrection took place; but for that very reason he was obnoxious to the government of the invaders. After the Pope's departure he was thrown into prison, with the prospect of being transported, together with many Roman ecclesiastical and pontifical officers, to the fatal colony of Cayenne. [{382}] To the honor of the French commander it must be said, that he did all in his power to defend the energetic prelate against his contemptible enemies, and to alleviate his captivity. The Paris Directory had first banished him to Civita Vecchia, and then altered his destination to Naples. But the Roman demagogues were determined upon wreaking their vengeance on Consalvi:
[Footnote 77: As a proof of this, we may produce the secret instructions forwarded, two months and a half before the general's death and the Roman insurrection, by the French government to Joseph Bonaparte, their plenipotentiary at Rome: "You have two things to bear in mind: (1) To prevent the King of Naples from coming to Rome; (2) To help, instead of opposing, the favorable dispositions of those who believe that it is time for the Papal dominion to come to an end. In short, you must encourage the impulse toward freedom by which the people of Rome seems to be animated." Instructions like these (observes, very justly, M. Crétineau-Joly) could have no other object but to lay a diplomatical snare, or to provoke an insurrection. The fact is so clear that Cacault, who succeeded to Joseph Bonaparte at Rome, wrote in 1801 to the First Consul—"You know, quite as well as I do, the details of this melancholy event. Nobody in Rome ordered either to fire or to kill any one. General Duphot was imprudent; nay, more—let us out with the word—he was guilty. There is a law of nations at Rome not a whit less than elsewhere." The admission does credit to the honest man who contributed so largely to bring about the concordat of 1801.]
"I had been detained (says he) about four or five and twenty days, when I was visited in my prison by my dear brother Andrea, as well as by my two friends, the Princes Chigi and Teano. This piece of good fortune I owed to the kind commander of the fortress. They informed me that they were bearers of both good and bad news. I was at last to be transported, not, indeed, to Tuscany, but to Naples, so that I might not join the Pope. At the same time, it had been ordained that I was to ride through the streets of the city mounted on an ass, escorted by policemen, and lashed all along with a horsewhip. Many a window under which I was to pass by was already hired; and our Jacobins, as well as the wives of our consuls, promised themselves much pleasure at the sight of this execution. My friends were quite amazed at my indifference on receiving this last piece of news, which, indeed, caused me but little pain; for I really considered it rather as a source of triumph and glory. On the contrary, I was deeply vexed at not being able to proceed to Tuscany, where I was so desirous of meeting the Pope."
The humanity of the French general prevented the Roman demagogues from carrying into execution the latter part of the sentence; but he remained inflexible as to Consalvi's removal to Naples. The latter had, therefore, but to obey; and started for his destination, in company with a band of eighteen convicts, and several political prisoners like himself. After many difficulties, arising out of Acton's tortuous policy, he succeeded at length in reaching Leghorn, where he had to encounter obstacles of a different nature. His very first step was to proceed to Florence, in hopes that the Duke of Tuscany would facilitate his access to the captive Pontiff, who was detained in a neighboring Carthusian monastery. But the jealous watchfulness of the French plenipotentiary struck terror into the heart of the Tuscan minister, who peremptorily refused to have anything to do with the matter. Consalvi was not, however, to be daunted when on the path of duty; he consequently set out on foot for the Chartreuse, situated at about three miles from Florence, and contrived his visit so secretly that he baffled detection. On approaching the foot of the hill, the faithful servant could hardly repress his emotions. But let us hear him in his own words:
"Every step which brought me nearer to the Holy Father increased the strong feelings that welled up from my soul. The poverty and solitude of the place, the sight of the two or three unfortunates who attended him, brought tears to my eyes. At last I was introduced into his presence. O God! what were my emotions at that moment; my heart throbbed almost to breaking!
"Pius VI. was seated before a table, a posture which concealed his weakness, for he had almost lost the use of his legs, and he could not move without the help of two strong men. The beauty and majesty of his features were still the same as at Rome; he still inspired a deep veneration and a most ardent attachment. I fell prostrate at his feet, which I bathed with my tears; I told him the difficulties I had to encounter, and how ardently I desired to remain with him, in order to serve him, assist him—in fact, share his fate. I promised not to spare any effort for the furtherance of this object."
A full hour quickly fled in thus communing with each other, and Consalvi was obliged to take his leave. The aged Pope foresaw that this prop of [{383}] his declining and martyred life would not be allowed him; but still he clung fondly to the idea, and when his faithful adherent, on a second and last visit, admitted that he had failed in every endeavor to gain his end, and had even been ordered out of the country, Pius evinced a strong feeling of regret, though no surprise. This farewell visit is related in terms no less touching than the former:
"During this audience, which lasted also a full hour, he bestowed upon me the greatest marks of kindness, exhorting me successively to practise resignation, wisdom, and those acts of firmness of which his own life and his whole demeanor set such a fine example. He appeared to me quite as great, and even far greater, than when he reigned at Rome. I besought him to give me his blessing. He laid his hands on my head, and, like the most venerable among the patriarchs of old, raising his eyes toward heaven, he prayed unto the Lord, and blessed me, with an attitude so resigned, so august, so holy, so full of real tenderness, that to the last day of my life the remembrance will remain graven on my heart in indelible characters.
"When I retired, my eyes were swimming with tears; I was beside myself with grief; and yet I felt both encouraged and re-assured by the inexpressible calmness of my sovereign, and the sweet serenity of his features. It was indeed the greatness of a good man struggling against misfortune."
Four-and-twenty hours afterward, Consalvi was obliged to leave Florence for Venice; the Pope was hurried through Alpine snows to Valence, in Dauphine, where he died of his sufferings on the 29th of August, 1799.
And what a time for the election of a new pope! Italy overrun by the French revolutionary armies, Rome in their possession, and ruled by a horde of incendiary demagogues; the Russians, headed by Suwarow, pouring into the Peninsula to oppose the French; whilst Austria, governed by a Thugut, was watching her opportunity to get hold of the new Pope—if there should be a Pope—and make him the pliant tool of her ambition. Nor let us forget that Bonaparte was on his way back from Egypt, preparing to swoop down, eagle-like, on those very Austrian possessions wherein the conclave was to meet. And yet the conclave did meet at Venice, on an island of that famous republic, which had so often defied the bans and interdicts of the Roman pontiffs;—the cardinals hurried from their neighboring cities or secret abodes, though with views and intentions not perhaps exactly in accordance with the solemnity and urgency of the occasion. It is, indeed, a curious picture of human passions, though blended with higher motives and purposes,—that truthful memoir drawn up by Consalvi on the conclave of 1800, wherein he was unanimously elected secretary to the assembly. The election lasted more than three long months, on account of the two contending factions, headed by Cardinal Herzan, on the part of Austria, and by the celebrated Maury, then Bishop of Montefiascone in the Papal States. Consalvi, notwithstanding his wonted moderation, boldly proclaims these divisions to have been scandalous in such circumstances, and animadverts severely on the intrigues of the imperial court. And yet he cannot help observing that, on such occasions, the Sacred College seem led on, little by little, as it were, by some higher power, to sacrifice their own private views and interests to the common weal of Christendom. So it was, indeed, in the present juncture, thanks to the extraordinary ability, to the self-renouncement, prudence, and true Catholic spirit displayed throughout by the youthful secretary. The votes were gradually won over to Cardinal Chiaramonti, so well known afterward by the name of Pius VII. Consalvi had truly displayed a master-mind; and the new pontiff immediately showed how highly he appreciated his merit, by appointing him Secretary of State. We can easily believe the surprise and [{384}] alarm of the new minister; for doubtless his was no easy task. The Austrians possessed nearly all the Papal States, whilst the King of Naples held Rome itself. The court of Vienna, intent upon keeping at least the three legations, which had recently been wrested from the French, offered at the same time to restore to the Pope the remaining parts of his dominions. To such a proposal the latter could but oppose a flat denial, accompanied by a firm resolution to return to Rome without delay. The imperial negotiator, Ghislieri, then reduced his demands to the two legations of Bologna and Ferrara; but he met with no better success. The spoliation of the Holy See, as the reader may now perceive, is after all an old story. The Pope, indeed, went so far as to write to the emperor a letter, in which he formally demanded the restitution of all his provinces. No notice whatsoever was taken of the Papal missive. At last, utterly worn out by Austrian duplicity, Pius one day addressed Ghislieri in the following terms: "Since the emperor refuses obstinately a restitution, which both religion and equity require, I really do not see what new argument I can produce to convince him. Let his majesty take care, however, not to lay by in his wardrobe any clothes belonging, not to himself, but to the Church. For not only will his majesty be unable to wear them, but most probably they will pester with the grub his own hereditary dominions, which may be worm-eaten in a short time."
The Marquess Ghislieri hurried out of the Papal presence in a rage, which found vent when he met Consalvi. "The new Pope," he exclaimed, "has hardly donned his own clothes; he is not yet accustomed to his own craft, and he talks of the Austrian wardrobe being worm-eaten! He knows but little of our power; it would require thousands of moths to nibble it to dust." Two months after, the battle of Marengo had been fought and won: the legations, Lombardy, Venetia, the hereditary German states, the capital itself, had fallen a prey to the Corsican conqueror! Pius VII. had scarcely set his foot on the shore of his own dominions when the news of the famous defeat arrived: "Ah!" exclaimed Ghislieri, a religious man, after all, "I now see fulfilled the Pope's prediction: our wardrobe has truly been worm-eaten to tatters."
Pius VII. had but just returned to Rome, in the midst of a delighted and grateful population, when he received the astounding news that the conqueror of the Austrians was desirous of negotiating with the Holy See for the restoration of religion in France. Whilst at Vercelli, Bonaparte had met with Cardinal Martiniana, who was returning from the conclave at Venice; and he expressed himself so clearly, so pointedly, as to his future plans, that both Consalvi and the Pope were taken by surprise. Their approbation was immediately given, and the Pope himself wrote to Martiniana: "You may tell the First Consul that we will readily enter into a negotiation tending to an object so truly honorable, so congenial to our apostolical administration, and so thoroughly conformable to our own views."
The history of this celebrated treaty, on which so much hangs in France even in our own time, has been often related, and yet many a detail of the intricate negotiations which preceded its conclusion had remained secret until the publication of the present memoirs. Three personages stand out in strong relief on that occasion, each with his individual character: Cacault, the French ambassador at Rome, Bonaparte, and Consalvi himself. Of the second, little need be said; but M. Cacault is, we believe, hardly known in England. He was a Breton by birth, and, as such, had imbibed those religious feelings which stamp so strongly the most western province of France. As a republican representative of the Directory, he did all in his power to avert from the Papal See those evils and that invasion which [{385}] ended in the captivity of Pius VI. When Napoleon's star was in the ascendant, M. Cacault quickly discovered the depth and extent of his genius, and thenceforward abetted his plans. At the same time, he was by no means a flatterer, but ever plain-spoken to bluntness. A time came, indeed, when the greatest conqueror of modern times found the noble-hearted Breton rather too sincere, and consigned him to the peaceful life of a seat in his new-fangled senate. But that day was yet to come. In 1801, M. Cacault enjoyed the whole confidence of the First Consul.
On leaving Bonaparte, the ambassador heard him utter those famous words, which have been so often quoted: "Mind you treat the Pope as if he had 200,000 men at his back. Remember, also, that in October, 1796, I wrote to you how much I wished to save the Holy See, not to overthrow it, and that both you and I entertained the same feelings in this respect." With credentials like these, M. Cacault should have found it an easy matter to negotiate with Rome; but, singularly enough, the conservative government of Austria threw many an obstacle in the way. The very idea of a reconciliation between revolutionary France and the Papacy seems to have disquieted M. de Thugut, and he did all in his power to breed a feeling of distrust, on the part of Rome at least. The court of Naples was animated by the same policy; and even Bonaparte himself, at one time, appeared to waver between the impulse of his own good sense and the suggestions of his infidel advisers. In the eyes of M. Cacault, the Pope stood too much on theological tenets and opinions, when dealing with a victorious adventurer. At any rate, matters soon grew from bad to worse. In a fit of impatience, the consul ordered his ambassador to leave Rome in five days, if the concordat sent from Paris was not signed at the expiration of that short time.
At this critical juncture, the Breton came to a determination so truly characteristic of the man, that we must allow him to speak for himself. We borrow the following narrative from his secretary, M. Artaud:
"We are bound to obey our government," said he, addressing himself to me; "but then a government must be guided by a head capable of understanding negotiations, by ministers capable of advising him properly, and lastly, all must agree together. Every government ought to have a plan, a will, an aim of its own. But this is no easy matter with a new government. Now, though in a secondary station, I am really master of this business; but if we go on in Rome as they are going on in Paris, nothing can come out of it but a sort of chaos. … It is fully understood that the head of the state wished for a concordat; he wished for it so far back as Tolentino, and even before, when he called himself the best friend of the Pope.… In fact, he has sent me here to negotiate a concordat, and for that purpose has given me in yourself the prop I myself desired. But then his ministers probably don't wish for a concordat, and they have constant access to his ear. Now the character most easy to irritate and to deceive, is that of a warrior, who as yet understands nothing about politics, and is ever returning to military orders and to the sword.… Shall we, like two fools, leave Rome in this way because the despatch orders us to do so, and give up France to irreligiosity—a word no less barbarous than the thing itself? Shall we leave her to a sort of spurious Catholicism, or that hybrid system which advises the establishment of a patriarch? God knows, then, that the future destinies of the First Consul will probably never be fulfilled.…
"I am fond of Bonaparte, fond of the general; but this patch-work name of a First Consul is in itself ridiculous; he borrowed it from Rome, where he has never set his foot. But in my eyes he is still nothing more than an [{386}] Italian general. As for the fate of this terrible general, it is now in my hands more than in his own; he is turning into a sort of Henry the Eighth, flattering and scaring the Holy See by turns; but how many sources of true glory will be dried up for him, if he merely mimics Henry the Eighth! The measure is full; nations now-a-days will not allow their rulers to dispose of them in regard to religious matters. With concordats, on the contrary, miracles may be wrought, more especially by him, or if not by him, supposing him to be unwise, by France herself. Be sure, my dear sir, that great deeds brought about at the proper moment, and bearing fruitful results, no matter by what genius they are accomplished, are a wealthy dowry for any country. In case of embarrassments, that country may ward off many an attack by pointing to its history. France, with all her faults, requires true grandeur. Our consul jeopardizes all by this pistol-shot fired in time of peace, merely for the sake of pleasing his generals whom he loves, but whose soldierlike jokes he fears, because he himself now and then gives way to them. He thus breaks off a negotiation which he wishes to succeed, and goes on casting rotten seed. What can really be a religious concordat, that most solemn of all human undertakings, if it is to be signed in five days? It reminds one of the twelve hours granted by a general to a besieged town, which can hope for no succor."
The result of the above conversation on the part of M. Cacault was a determination to quit Rome, but to leave his secretary in that city, whilst Consalvi himself was to set out immediately for Paris, as the only means of preventing a positive rupture between the two courts, for Bonaparte had already both a court and courtiers. The French minister was by no means blind to the consequences of his boldness in undertaking to correct the false steps of his own government; but, to his credit be it said, the fear of those consequences did not make him swerve one minute from his purpose. His very first step was, therefore, to request an interview with Consalvi, and an audience from the Pope. On meeting the cardinal, he began by reading in extenso the angry despatch which he had received, not even omitting the epithets "turbulent and guilty priest" which the Consul applied to his eminence. M. Cacault then resumed as follows:
"There must be some misunderstanding; the First Consul is unacquainted with your person, and still more with your talents, your ability, your precedents, your adroitness, and your anxiety to terminate this business. So you must start for Paris." "When?" "To-morrow: you will please him; you are fit to understand each other; he will then learn to know a statesmanlike cardinal, and you will draw up the concordat together. But if you don't go to Paris, I shall be obliged to break off all intercourse with you; and there are yonder certain ministers, who advised the Directory to transport Pius VI. to Guyana.…
"I again repeat it, you must go to Paris, you will draw up the concordat yourself—nay more, you will dictate a part of it, obtaining at the same time far better conditions than I could ever do, fettered as I am by so many shackles.… One word more: In a place like this, where there is so much gossipping, I can't allow you to bear alone the responsibility of this action. I consider it as something truly grand; but as it may turn out a false step, to-morrow I must see the Pope, and take the whole upon my shoulders. I shall not bore the Pope, having but a few words to tell him, in order to fulfil the Consul's former instructions."
Consalvi, fired at the boldness of the plan, hurried to the Pope, rather to prepare him for this unforeseen separation than to ask for permission. When, on the other hand, the French diplomatist was admitted to his presence, [{387}] he showed so much candor, such a true spirit of Christian feeling, such a total forgetfulness of self, that the pontiff could not refrain from shedding tears, and ended by breaking out into these words: "Indeed, indeed, you are a true friend, and we love you as we loved our own mother. At this very moment, we will retire to our oratory, in order to implore God's blessing on this journey, as well as for the successful issue of an undertaking, which may afford us some consolation in the midst of so much affliction."
It was indeed a bereavement for the Pope, who, having hardly ascended the throne, was accustomed to consider Consalvi as his main prop and right hand in every affair of any importance. He, however, readily consented to the separation, and on the following day the cardinal left Rome, accompanied by M. Cacault, in an open carriage, to show the gossipping Romans that no real coolness existed between the two governments. This, in fact, strengthened the hands of the Papal administration, as reports were already rife that a French army was about to march once more into Rome, with a view of restoring the republic.
At the distance of more than half a century Consalvi's determination scarcely seems an act of daring; but, at that period, it was considered in a different light. We must remember that France had been for ten long years the scene of anarchy and bloodshed within, while she had proved the terror of Europe on the field of battle. She was but just emerging from that anarchy, thanks to the iron grasp of a fortunate soldier, who might yet, for aught the world knew, turn out to be a bloody tyrant quite as well as a sagacious ruler. For a priest, and still more for a cardinal, to venture alone of his own accord into the lair of those beasts of prey, as they were then termed, certainly showed an extraordinary degree of moral courage, however M. Thiers may taunt Consalvi with his fears. Those fears the Papal minister did really entertain, as is proved by a few unwary lines which he addressed before his departure to Acton at Naples, and which were betrayed to Bonaparte in Paris. But then the cardinal, prompted by a strong feeling of duty, overcame these apprehensions, which is more perhaps than M. Thiers would vouch to have done on a similar occasion, if we may judge from the infidel spirit and intriguing disposition that are conspicuous alike throughout his own career and writings. Success, not principle, ever appears to be his leading star.
Once in Paris, Consalvi was not long in conquering that position which the keenness of his friend Cacault foresaw that he was destined to assume. Bonaparte approved in every respect the conduct of his ambassador at Rome, appeared even flattered at being feared, at first received the cardinal with affected coolness, but little by little yielded to better feelings, and ended by turning into ridicule "that fool Acton, who thought that he could stop the rush of a torrent with cobwebs." To these friendly dispositions soon succeeded on both sides a sincere confidence, and on one occasion the First Consul laughingly inquired of Consalvi whether he was not considered as a priest-eater in Italy; and then suddenly launched into one of those splendid expositions of his future plans, by which he endeavored to fascinate and charm those he aimed at winning over to his own views. In this sparkling conversation the concordat held a foremost place. Napoleon developed, just as he pleased, opinions half Protestant, half Jansenist—in other words, exactly what he wanted the concordat to be, and exactly what Consalvi could not allow. The contest between those two rival spirits may well detain us a few moments longer. And why not say at once that by degrees the master-genius of the age was obliged to modify his own views, yielding, nolens volens, as he himself admitted, to the graceful bearing and sound good sense of the man whose countrymen had named him the Roman Syren?
We may gather from M. Thiers' work that Consalvi had undertaken a most arduous task. Paris itself must have offered a strange sight to a Roman cardinal in the very first year of the present century. The churches were still shut, and bore upon their porches such inscriptions as savored more of heathenism than of Christianity. Wherever the legate's eye fell he was sure to meet with a temple of plenty, of fraternity, of liberty, of trade, of abundance, and so forth. And then when he went to court he found a ruler disposed to break out into the most violent fits of anger if his will was disputed, whilst on every hand he had to encounter a host of scoffers and infidels, belonging to every hue and grade. The army, the bench, the schools, the savants, and the very clergy, all vied in showing off Rome as the hotbed of an obsolete superstition which it was high time to do away with altogether. And when we mention the clergy, we mean the remains of that schismatic body which had hailed the civil constitution so formally condemned by the Holy See in 1791. They were active, intriguing, influential, and had the ear of Bonaparte himself. He was intent upon distributing among them a portion of the new sees about to be erected, and it required all the firmness of Consalvi to ward off this impending danger. If we may believe M. Thiers, many among them were by no means of dissolute lives; yet he cannot disguise the fact that they were ambitious, servile, and disposed to bend to every caprice of the ruling power. But that power was fully aware that the French population had no confidence whatever in their ministrations; the non-jurors, or priests who had unflinchingly remained faithful to their duty, were, on the contrary, sought out and held in high esteem. In this strange society the functions of Catholicism and the rites of our religion were openly resumed by believers, who attended them in back streets, in by-ways, in dark warehouses, whither some aged priest repaired at dawn, after escaping but shortly before from the dungeons of the Directory or the scaffolds of the Revolutionary Committee. The writer of these lines has known more than one man who was baptized at that period in a miserable garret by some ecclesiastic disguised as a common laborer, before the eyes of his parents, though without any sponsors, for fear of detection. That such men should turn round in the streets of Paris and stare with wonder at the sight of a cardinal publicly making for the Tuileries in one of the Consul's carriages is by no means surprising; but the fact increases our admiration for the two eminent statesmen who both cast such a firm glance into the depths of futurity.
Consalvi had only been a few hours in Paris when he was summoned before the First Consul, who sent him word that "he was to show off as much of a cardinal as possible." The able diplomatist was, however, not in the least disposed to "show off," and contented himself with wearing the indispensable insignia of his dignity. It will be well to remember that, at the time we are speaking of, no priest would have ventured to put on the clerical costume in the French capital. This first audience took place in public, in the midst of all the high functionaries of the state. On the cardinal approaching, Bonaparte rose and said abruptly: "I am aware of the object of your journey to France. My will is, that the conferences shall begin immediately. I give you five days for the purpose, and tell you beforehand that, if on the fifth day the negotiations have not come to a conclusion, you may return to Rome; for, within my own mind, I have come to a determination should such an event take place."
"By sending his prime minister to Paris (replied coolly the cardinal) His Holiness proves at any rate the interest he takes in the conclusion of a concordat with the French government, and I fully hope to terminate this business in the time you have marked." [{389}] Apparently satisfied with this answer, Bonaparte immediately broke forth into one of those eloquent displays for which he was remarkable—the concordat, the Holy See, the interests of religion, the articles which had been rejected by the Pope, all became, on his part, the subject of a most vehement and exhaustive speech, which was silently listened to by the surrounding audience.
One of the most amusing and almost ludicrous instances of the Consul's ignorance in regard to religious matters took place on this occasion. He bore a bitter hatred to the Jesuits, and was constantly harping on the subject. "I am quite astounded and scandalized (said he all of a sudden) that the Pope should be allied to a non-Catholic power like Russia, as is evident by the restoration of the Jesuits in that country. Such a union ought surely to wound and irritate a Catholic sovereign, since it contributes to please a schismatical monarch."
"I must answer candidly (resumed the cardinal) that your informations are incorrect on this matter. Doubtless the Pope has deemed it advisable not to refuse the request of the Russian emperor for the restoration of the Jesuits in his own states, but, at the same time, His Holiness has shown no less fatherly affection and deference for the King of Spain, since an interval of several months has elapsed between Paul's request and the bull, which was not sent before the court of Spain had expressly stated that it would in no way complain of the act."
When Bonaparte had fixed such a short term for the conclusion of the concordat, he fully intended that not a single jot of his own plan should be rejected by Rome. That plan, as we have already observed, was half schismatic, and would have bound over the French Church to the supreme will and power of the ruling government. But Consalvi showed himself equally firm as to essentials, whilst he gracefully yielded to every demand of minor importance. As to the wisdom of this conduct, the present circumstances bear ample testimony; for, had the cardinal been less firm, what might not be in 1865 the painful situation of the French episcopacy? But the negotiations, instead of ending in five days, were prolonged for more than three weeks, during which the Abbé Bernier, who represented his government, was constantly starting new difficulties, and threatening Consalvi with some new outbreak of violence on the part of the First Consul.
At last, toward the middle of July, every difficulty being overcome, and Bonaparte having formally promised to accept every article of the concordat as it had been agreed to at Rome, nothing remained but to copy and sign that famous treaty. The First Consul was to give a grand dinner on the 14th of July to foreigners of distinction, and to men of high standing in the country. His intention was to inform publicly his guests of this happy event, and on the 13th the Moniteur published the following laconic piece of news: "Cardinal Consalvi has succeeded in the object which brought him to Paris." Bonaparte had selected his brother Joseph, a councillor of state, and Bernier to sign the deed, whilst on the other side were Consalvi, Monsignor Spina, and a theologian named Father Caselli. But at the last moment there occurred one of the most astounding incidents contained in the history of diplomacy. As it has never been mentioned in any memoirs or documents of those times, we cannot do better than let the cardinal relate it in his own words:
"Toward four o'clock in the afternoon, Bernier arrived with a roll of paper, which he did not unfold, but stated to be a copy of the concordat that we were about to sign. We took our own with us, and set out all together for the house of citizen Joseph, as was the slang of the day, the brother to the First Consul. He received me with the utmost politeness. Though he had been ambassador at Rome, I had not been introduced to him, being yet but [{390}] a prelate. During the few days I passed in Paris, I had not met him on a formal visit which I paid him, for he often resided in the country. This was, therefore, the first time we saw each other. After the usual compliments, he bade us to sit down round a table, adding: 'We shall have soon done, having but to sign the compact, as all is concluded.'
"On being seated round the table, the question arose who should sign first. Joseph Bonaparte claimed the right as brother to the head of the government. I observed with great mildness and firmness, that both as a cardinal and a legate of the Holy See, I could not consent to assume the second rank in signing; beside, under the old régime in France, as well as everywhere else, the cardinals enjoyed a right of precedence, which I could not give up, not indeed from any personal motive, but on account of the dignity with which I was invested. It is but due to Joseph to state, that after a momentary hesitation, he yielded with very good grace, and begged of me to sign first. He himself was to come after, followed by the prelate Spina, Councillor Cretet, Father Caselli, and the Abbé Bernier.
"We set to work at once, and I had taken up the pen, when to my great surprise the Abbé Bernier presented to me his copy, with the view of making me sign it without examining its contents. On casting my eyes upon it in order to ascertain its identity with my own copy, I perceived that this ecclesiastical treaty was not the one agreed to by the respective commissioners, not the one adopted by the First Consul himself, but another totally different! The difference existing at the very first outset induced me to examine the whole with the most scrupulous attention, and I soon found out that this copy contained the draught which the Pope had refused to accept without his correction, the very refusal that had provoked an order to the French agent to leave Rome; nay more, that this self-same draught was modified in many respects by the insertion of certain clauses, previously declared to be inacceptable even before it had been sent to Rome.
"A proceeding of this character, so truly incredible, and yet so real, which I shall not venture to qualify—for the fact speaks sufficiently for itself—a proceeding of this kind literally paralyzed my hand. I expressed my astonishment, declaring positively that on no condition could I give my approval to such a deed. The First Consul's brother did not appear less surprised than myself, pretending not to understand the matter. The First Consul, he added, had assured him that, everything being agreed to, nothing remained but to sign. As for himself, he had just come up from the country, where he was busy with Count Cobenzel about the affairs of Austria, being called upon merely for the formality of signing the treaty. Concerning the matter itself, he absolutely knew nothing about it."
Cardinal Consalvi, even when writing the above lines, does not seem to doubt Joseph's sincerity, nor that of Councillor Cretet, who affirmed his own innocence in terms equally strong. The latter could hardly believe his own eyes, when the legate pointed out to him the glaring discrepancies between both copies. The Pope's minister then turning suddenly to Bernier: "Nobody better than yourself," said he, "can attest the truth of what I affirm; I am highly astonished at the studied silence which you maintain, and I must therefore call upon you positively to communicate to us what you must know so pertinently."
"Then, with an air of confusion and an embarrassed countenance, he faltered out that doubtless my language was but too true, and that he would not deny the difference of the documents now proposed for our signatures. 'But the First Consul has so ordained,' continued he, 'telling me that as long as no signature has been given, one is always at liberty to make any alteration. So he requires these alterations, [{391}] after duly considering the whole matter, he is not satisfied with the previous stipulations.'"
The doctrine was so contrary to all precedents, that Consalvi had no difficulty in convincing his auditors of its futility. He moreover maintained his ground steadfastly, and refused to make any further concession contrary to his duties. They cajoled him, they threatened him with the violence and "fury" of the omnipotent Consul; he remained unshaken. Joseph entreated him at least to go over the same ground once more, following the Papal copy, and to this the cardinal consented, firmly resolved not to give up one single point of importance, but to modify such expressions as might induce Bonaparte to accept the original treaty. So these six men sat down again at five o'clock in the afternoon to discuss the whole question. The discussion was laborious, precise, searching, and heated on both sides. It lasted nineteen long hours, without interruption, without rest, without food, without even sending away the servants or the carriages, as will often happen when people hope to conclude at every minute some important business. On one article alone they could never agree, and it was specially reserved to the Pope's own decision. It was twelve o'clock the next day before they came to a conclusion. But would the First Consul adopt this plan? Would he not break all bounds, on finding his duplicity discovered, and himself balked by the cardinal's firmness? Joseph hurried to the Tuileries, in order to lay the whole before his imperious brother, and in less than one hour came back, his features evidently showing the grief of his soul. Says Consalvi:
"He told us that the First Consul had broken forth into the greatest fury on being apprised of what had taken place. In his fit of anger he had torn to pieces the concordat we had drawn up among us; but at last, yielding to Joseph's entreaties and arguments, he had promised, though with the most extreme repugnance, to accept every article we had agreed to, except the one we had reserved, and about which he was no less inflexible than irritated. The First Consul, added Joseph, had closed the interview by telling him to inform me that he (Bonaparte) was decided upon maintaining this article as it was expressed in Bernier's copy:—consequently I had but two ways before me: either to adopt this article just as it was in the concordat, or to give up the negotiations. As for him, he had made up his mind to announce either the signature or the rupture of the affair at the grand dinner he was to give on that day.
"The reader will easily imagine our consternation at this message. We had yet three hours until five o'clock, the time appointed for the dinner, at which we were all to attend. I really am unable to repeat all the Consul's brother and the two other commissioners said, to conquer my resistance. The picture of the consequences likely to ensue upon the rupture was indeed of the darkest color; they gave me to understand that I alone should become responsible for those evils in the face of France and Europe, as well as to my own sovereign and Rome. I should be accused of an unreasonable stiffness, and of having brought on the results of such a refusal. I felt a death-like anguish, on conjuring up before my eyes the realization of these prophecies, and I was—if I may be allowed such words—like unto the man of sorrow. But my duty won the victory: thanks to heaven, I did not betray it. I persisted in my refusal during the two hours of this contest, and the negotiation was broken off.
"Such was the ending of this sad debate, which had lasted four-and-twenty hours, having begun at four o'clock on the preceding day, and closed toward the same hour of this unfortunate one. Our bodily sufferings were doubtless very great, but they were nothing when compared to our moral anxiety, which rose to such a pitch that one must really have undergone [{392}] such tortures to form an idea of them.
"I was condemned—and this was indeed a most cruel circumstance at such a moment—to appear in an hour after at the famous banquet. I was bound to front in public the very first shock of that headstrong anger which the General Bonaparte would feel on being apprised by his brother of the rupture.
"We hastened back to our hotel, in order to make a few rapid preparations, and then hurried all three to the Tuileries. We had hardly entered the saloon where the First Consul was standing—a saloon filled with a crowd of magistrates, officers, state grandees, ministers, ambassadors, and illustrious foreigners, who had been invited to the dinner—when we were greeted in a way which may easily be imagined, as he had already seen his brother. As soon as he perceived me, he exclaimed, his face flushed with anger, and in a loud and indignant tone:
"'Well, Monsieur le Cardinal, you have had your fling; you have broken off: be it so! I don't stand in need of Rome. I will act for myself. I don't stand in need of the Pope. If Henry the Eighth, who had not one-twentieth part of my power, was enabled to change the religion of his country, and to succeed in his plans, far better shall I know how to do it, and to will it. By changing the religion in France, I shall change it throughout the best part of Europe—everywhere, in fact, where my power is felt. Rome will soon perceive her own faults; she will rue them, but it will then be too late. You may take your leave; it is the best thing you can do. You have willed a rupture: be it so! When do you intend setting out?'
"'After dinner, general,' replied I, with the greatest calmness.
"These few words acted as an electric shock on the First Consul. He stared at me for a few minutes; and, taking advantage of his surprise, I replied to his vehement outbreak, that I neither could nor would go beyond my instructions on matters which were positively opposed to the maxims of the Holy See."
Here the Consul interrupted Consalvi, though in a milder tone, to tell him that he insisted upon having the concordat signed according to his own views, or not at all. "Well, then," retorted the cardinal, "in that form I neither shall nor will ever subscribe to it; no—never." "And that is the very reason," cried out Bonaparte, "why I tell you that you are bent upon breaking off, and why Rome will shed tears of blood on this rupture."
What a scene! and how finely the bold, calm demeanor of the Pope's legate shows in strong relief against that dark, passionate, and ominous, though intelligent face of Napoleon Bonaparte! What a splendid subject for a painter, and how it calls up at once to our mind those barbaric chieftains of old, fit enough to wield the sword—fit enough even to lay the snares of a savage, but unable to cope with the spiritual strength of a Christian bishop, and utterly cowed by the meek sedateness of some missionary monk, just wafted over from the shores of Ireland! Write the seventh, or the thirteenth, instead of the nineteenth century, and say if the incident would be clothed in different colors; for, in fact, what was Bonaparte himself but the Hohenstaufen of his age—a strange mixture of real grandeur, of seething passions, and of mean, crafty, fox-like cunning?
The French editor of these memoirs very justly observes that some vestige of the above scene must still exist in the documents of the Imperial archives, and expresses the wish that the charge of duplicity so terribly brought home to the first Bonaparte may be properly sifted and repelled. Of the existence of such information we have scarcely any doubt, but we hardly believe that the select committee, headed by Prince Napoleon, who have already so unscrupulously tampered with [{393}] the correspondence of the great founder of the present dynasty, will ever rebut the accusation, or even take notice of the narrative. And yet it bears the stamp of truth in every line, so prone was Napoleon to those fits of anger, which he sometimes used, Thiers himself admits it, as tools for his policy, and to serve his end.
After all, the First Consul was glad to escape from the consequences of his own violence, since, on the personal interference of the Austrian ambassador, he again consented that the conferences should be renewed. The two cardinal points on which, in the eyes of Rome, the whole fabric of the concordat rested, were the freedom and publicity of the Catholic worship. Without these two essential conditions, the Pope and his ministers deemed that the Church obtained no compensation for the numerous sacrifices which she consented to undergo in other respects. The French government, on the contrary, admitted that freedom and publicity, only so far as they were allowed to other forms of worship, and saddled the article with the following rider: "The public worship shall be free, as long as it conforms to the police regulations." Such was the final difficulty against which Consalvi maintained a most obstinate opposition, and it must be admitted that his grounds were of a very serious nature. Taught by the experience of other times and countries, he considered the obnoxious condition as a bold attempt to enslave the Church by subjecting her to the secular power. On the flimsy pretext of acting as the protector and defender of the Church, a government was enabled to lord it over her, and cripple her best endeavors for the fulfilment of her divine mission. If such had been the case, even under the old French monarchy, notwithstanding the strong Catholic dispositions of the Bourbon sovereigns in general, as well as in the times of a Joseph II. and a Leopold of Tuscany, what greater changes were to be feared on the part of the revolutionary powers, which now swayed over France? The cardinal readily admitted that, in the present state of the country, it might be proper for the government to restrict on certain occasions the publicity of the Catholic worship, for the very sake of protecting its followers against the outbreaks of popular frenzy; but why lay down such a sweeping and such an elastic rule? "With a clause of this kind," said the legate, "the police, or rather the government, will be enabled to lay their hands on everything, and may subject all to their own will and discretion, whilst the Church, constantly fettered by the words, 'As long as it conforms,' will have no right even to complain." To these arguments the Consul constantly replied, "Well, if the Pope can't accept such an indefinite and mild restriction, let him omit the article, and give up publicity of worship altogether." As a curious specimen of sincerity and candor, we must observe that Consalvi was not even allowed to consult with his own court, nor to send a courier, the French government refusing to supply him with the necessary passports. So much for the international privileges of ambassadors. Who can be astonished that the Papal minister should feel but little confidence in the good faith of those he had to deal with?
Their attitude, indeed, seems to have strengthened his own unbending firmness. In the course of these everlasting debates, he clenched the subject in the following terms: "Either you are sincere in maintaining that the government is obliged to impose a restriction upon the publicity of the religious worship, being impelled thereunto by the necessity of upholding the public peace and order, and in that case the government cannot and ought not to hesitate as to asserting the fact in the article itself; or the government does not wish it to be so expressed; and in that case they show their bad faith, as also that the only object of the aforesaid restriction is [{394}] the enslavement of the Church to their own will."
The commissioners found nothing to reply to this dilemma; for, in fact, Consalvi only asked that the reserve itself should be laid down as a temporary restriction. At last they yielded, despairing of ever overcoming, on this subject, their unflinching and powerful antagonist. The concordat, duly signed and authenticated, was sent up for approval to the First Consul, who, after another fit of anger, gave his consent; but, as Consalvi himself presumes, from that hour he resolved to annul the intrinsic and most beneficial effects of the concordat by those celebrated organic articles which are even at this moment a bone of contention between the French clergy and the Imperial government.
It is, indeed, a most remarkable fact that the same man who imperiously prescribed that the concordat should be drawn up and signed in the course of five days, allowed a full year to elapse before he published it and sent the official ratifications to Rome. When he did fulfil these formalities, he coupled them with the promulgation of those famous laws which, in reality, tended to cut off all free communication between the Holy See and the Gallican clergy, and to spread throughout Europe the false belief that the Pope himself had concurred in the adoption of these obnoxious measures. In vain did Pius VII. protest against them—in vain, at a later period, was he induced to crown the emperor in Paris, in hopes of obtaining the fulfilment of his own promises. Napoleon turned a deaf ear to the most touching importunities. On considering the whole of his conduct, it is hardly possible to refrain from concluding that Bonaparte ever looked upon the Pope's supremacy and power as an appendage and satellite of his own paramount omnipotence. Viewed by this light, many of his acts in latter years will appear at least consistent, though by no means justifiable on any principle whatsoever. Is there not often a certain consistency in madness? And if so in ordinary life, why not in the freaks and starts of despotism? And again, is not despotism itself madness in disguise?
But why indulge in our own speculations and surmises, when we have before us positive evidence that in 1801, as well as ten years afterward, Napoleon entertained and maintained a plan for arrogating to himself both the spiritual and temporal power? The examples set by Henry VIII., Albert of Brandenburg, and Peter I. of Russia, were ever before his eyes, blinding his own innate good sense, and exerting a sort of ominous fascination over his best impulses. The reader has doubtless heard of, if not perused, those wonderful pages in which the fallen giant whiled away his tedious hours at St. Helena, pretending to write his own history, but in reality veiling truth under fiction, and endeavoring to palm upon the world certain far-fetched views of benevolence or civilization, which he never dreamt of whilst he was on the throne. Still, that strange Memorial of St. Helena often contains many a startling proof of candor, as if the mask suddenly fell, and revealed to our astonished gaze the inner man. Among such passages, none perhaps are so remarkable as those referring to the concordat and to the religious difficulties of later years. One day Napoleon dictated to General Montholon these lines, which so strongly justify Consalvi's fears and opposition:
"When I seized the helm, I already held the most precise and definite ideas on all those principles which cement together the social body. I fully weighed the importance of religion—on that head I was convinced—and had resolved to restore it. But one can hardly realize the difficulties I had to contend with when about to bring back Catholicism. I should have been readily supported had I unfurled the Protestant standard. This feeling went so far that, in the [{395}] council of state, where I met with the strongest opposition against the concordat, many a man tacitly determined to plot its destruction. 'Well,' used they to say, 'let us turn Protestants at once, and then we may wash our hands of the business.' It is, indeed, quite true that, in the midst of so much confusion and so many errors, I was at liberty to choose between Catholicism and Protestantism; and still truer that everything favored the latter. But, beside my own personal bias inclining toward my national religion, I had most weighty reasons to decide otherwise. I should thus have created in France two great parties of equal strength, though I was determined to do away with every party whatsoever; I should have conjured up all the frenzy of religious warfare, whilst the enlightenment of the age and my own will aimed at crushing it altogether. By their mutual strife these two parties would have torn France asunder, and made her a slave to Europe, whilst my ambition was to make her its mistress. Through Catholicism I was far surer of attaining all my great objects. At home, the majority absorbed the minority, which I was disposed to treat with so much equity that any difference between both would soon disappear; abroad, Catholicism kept me on good terms with the Pope. Beside, thanks to my own influence and to our forces in Italy, I did not despair, sooner or later, by some means or other, to obtain the direction and guidance of the Pope; and then what a new source of influence! what a lever to act upon public opinion, and to govern the world!"
A few moments after the emperor resumed:
"Francis I. had a capital opportunity to embrace Protestantism, and to become its acknowledged head throughout Europe. His rival, Charles V., resolutely sided with Rome, because he considered this the best way to subject Europe. This alone should have induced Francis to defend European independence. Instead of that, he left a reality to run after a shadow, following up his pitiful quarrels in Italy, allying himself with the Pope, and burning the reformers in Paris.
"Had Francis I. embraced Lutheranism, which is so favorable to the royal supremacy, he would have spared France those dreadful convulsions which were afterward brought on by the Calvinists, whose republican organization was so near ruining both the throne and our fine monarchy. Unfortunately, Francis was unable to understand anything of the kind. As to his scruples, they are quite out of the question, since this self-same man made an alliance with the Turks, whom he introduced among us. Oh, those stupid times! Oh, that feudal intellect! After all, Francis I. was but a tilting king—a drawing-room dandy—a would-be giant, but a real pigmy."
It is scarce necessary to add, that at the time Napoleon is speaking of he was an unbeliever, though a lurking respect for his national religion still lingered at the bottom of his heart. But then, how fully does he admit that religion was but a tool of his ambition! How openly does he confess his plan to get hold of the Pope by some means or other! How glaringly true must now appear in our eyes that narrative of Consalvi's in which he exposes the mean trick that Napoleon endeavored to play upon his vigilance! Lastly, how faithfully does the emperor adhere to the plans secretly laid within the dark mind of the First Consul! For, as if to leave no doubt as to the fulfilment of those plans, he related to Montholon the most minute details of what took place during the Pope's captivity at Fontainebleau:
"The English," said Napoleon, "plotted an escape for him from Savona; the very thing I could have wished for. I had him brought to Fontainebleau, where his misfortunes were to end, and his splendor to be restored. All my grand views had been thus fulfilled under disguise and in secrecy. I had so managed that [{396}] success was infallible, even without an effort. Indeed, the Pope adopted the famous concordat of Fontainebleau, notwithstanding my reverses in Russia. But how far different had I returned triumphant and victorious! So at last I had obtained the long-wished-for separation of the spiritual and temporal powers; whilst their confusion is so fatal to the former, by causing trouble and disorder within society in the name of him who ought to become a centre of union and harmony. Henceforward I intended to place the Pope on a pinnacle; we would not even have regretted his temporal power, for I would have made an idol of him, and he would have dwelt close to me. Paris should have become the capital of the Christian world, and I would have governed the spiritual as well as the political world. By this means I should have been enabled to strengthen the federative portions of the empire, and to maintain peace in such parts as were beyond its limits. I should have had my religious sessions, just the same as my legislative sessions: my councils would have represented, all Christendom, and the popes would have merely acted as their presidents. I should myself have opened their assemblies, approved and promulgated their decrees, as was the case under Constantine and Charlemagne. In fact, if the emperors lost this kind of supremacy, it was because they allowed the spiritual ruler to reside at a distance from them; and those rulers took advantage of this act of weakness, or this result of the times, to escape from the prince's government, and even to overrule it."
What words of ours could add to the bold significance of these? How the proud spirit of the despot towers even within his prison! and how little had he profited by the bitter lessons of experience! Never before, do we believe, since the advent of Christianity, did any king or conqueror profess such a barefaced contempt for the deepest feelings of a Christian soul—the freedom of his spiritual being! This pretended liberation from the court of Rome, this religious government concentrated within the hands of the sovereign, became, indeed, at one time, the constant object of Napoleon's thoughts and meditations:
"England, Russia, Sweden, a large part of Germany (was he wont to say), are in possession of it; Venice and Naples enjoyed it in former times. Indeed, there is no doing without it, for otherwise a nation is ever and anon wounded in its peace, in its dignity, in its independence. But then such an undertaking is most arduous; at every attempt I was beset with new dangers; and, once thoroughly embarked in it, the nation would have abandoned me. More than once I tried to awaken public opinion; but all was in vain, and I was obliged to acknowledge that the people would not follow me."
On reading these last words, who will not remember Cacault's apothegm, uttered in 1801: "Nations now-a-days will not allow their rulers to dispose of them in regard to religious matters."
We hope that the reader will not accuse us of prolixity for having related rather fully the negotiations which proceeded the concordat of 1801. Hitherto the main facts of this important event have been gleaned from French sources of information. No voice had been raised, we believe, on the part of Rome, and no one, it must be admitted, had a better right to speak of that celebrated treaty than the man who contributed so largely, so exclusively, we might almost say, to its final adoption. And then, throughout the whole of his simple and unpretending, yet clear and spirited memoirs, the great cardinal reads us a grand lesson, which may be felt and understood by every human soul. During the perusal of these two volumes, we have ever before our eyes the struggle of right against might, of duty against tyranny, of a true Christian soul against the truckling, shuffling, intriguing spirit of the world. Ever [{397}] and anon, this able, firm, and yet amiable diplomatist allows some expression to escape him which shows that his heart and soul are elsewhere, that his beacon is on high, and that he views everything and all things in this nether world from the light of the gospel. And this, perhaps, is the very reason why, throughout a long career of such numerous difficulties and dangers, he moved serene, undaunted, unblemished in his honor, proclaimed wisest amongst the wise, until kings, princes, warriors, and statesmen, Protestants and Catholics, counted his friendship and esteem of priceless value.
From Once a Week.
HYMN BY MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
O Domine Deus, speravi in te!
O care mi Jesu, nunc libera me!
In dura catena, in misera pcena,
Desidero te;
Languendo, gemendo et genuflectendo,
Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me!
(TRANSLATION.)
O Lord, O my God, I have hoped but in thee;
Jesu, my dearest, now liberate me:
In hard chains, in fierce pains,
I am longing for thee:
Languishing, groaning and bending the knee,
I adore, I implore thou wouldst liberate me!
ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.
From The Lamp.
MANY YEARS AGO AT UPFIELD.
In the last decade of the last century, Upfield was a very healthy, pretty, prosperous town in Suffolk. Its centre was a green; undulating, irregular, and from four to five acres in area. Round it were laborers' cottages, a forge, the inn, the veterinary surgeon's house, the doctor's, the vicarage, and the Grey House, each with land proportioned to its character. A little, very little way off, was the church; belonging anciently to a Carthusian monastery, of which some ruins still existed; and beyond that, but within a quarter of a mile of Upfield, was Edward's Hall, the fine baronial residence of the Scharderlowes, who had owned it since the reign of Henry IV., and never forsaken the Catholic faith. Upfield was eloquent about the past, as well as actually charming. The church, early English, was little injured exteriorly. Inside it reminded one of a nun compelled to wear a masquerade dress. The beautiful arches and lofty roof had defied time and the vulgar rage of vicious fanaticism; so had the pavement, rich in slabs imploring humbly prayers for the repose of the dead who lay under it; but devotion and taste mourned over the changed use of the sacred building, and the characteristics thereof; for instance, a singing-gallery in the western end, with the royal arms done in red and gilded plaster, fastened to it; high deal pews for the mass of the congregation, and the squire's praying-made-comfortable one within the carved oak screen in the south transept, where had been the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.
The Grey House was low, rambling, picturesque; the beau-ideal of a happy, hospitable old English home. It had been built by instalments, at distant intervals; and had derived its name from a Lord Grey, of Codnoure, who had formerly possessed lands in the neighborhood. At the time whence this story starts, it had been for a hundred years or more in the family of the Wickhams, who claimed to be descended collaterally from William of Wykeham—whether they were or not, had never been discussed, and therefore never formally established; nor did any one in the neighborhood, except Mr. Scharderlowe and his family, know that a former Wickham had bartered his religion for a wealthy Protestant wife, and allowed her to bring up their children in her own way. In January, 1790, George Wickham, the head of the family, died at the Grey House, of inflammation of the lungs, in his forty-second year, and no one was ever more regretted. A kinder-hearted man had never breathed. His attachments had been warm and numerous; he had helped every one whom he could help, been peculiarly gentle to the poor and his dependents, hated nothing but wickedness, and believed in that only when it was impossible to be blind to it. "Poor dear Mr. Wickham," said Mrs. Scharderlowe, when her husband told her the news; "I'm heartily sorry. I always thought he would become a Catholic—he was so liberal in all his feelings; only the last time we met, conversation taking that turn—I forget why—he said it was too bad that we could not worship God as we pleased, without suffering for it; and that he was ashamed of Englishmen who forgot that their noblest laws were made, and their most glorious victories won, in Catholic times. What a loss he will be to Upfield and his family!" "Yes," returned her husband, "that poor pretty little widow is about as helpless and ignorant of the world as possible; she never had occasion to think of anything but how to make [{399}] home happy, which I believe she did; they were a particularly united family. I hope he made a will; but I think it is likely he did not; his illness was short and painful, and previously to it no one ever had a fairer prospect of long life than he had."
Mr. Wickham's funeral was talked of in Upfield and the neighborhood many years afterward. Mr. Scharderlowe sent his carriage; the county member, and persons of every class, attended. The clergyman from an adjacent parish, who had been requested to perform the burial-service, because the vicar, Mr. Wickham's nephew, felt unequal to it, burst into tears, and had to pause some minutes to recover himself. The widow fainted; and her eldest son Robert, a youth in his nineteenth year, tried to jump into the vault when his father's coffin was lowered.
There was a will, made during Mr. Wickham's last illness, and the vicar was sole executor and trustee, with a legacy of £500. There was ample provision for the younger children; and Robert was, when of age, to succeed to a brewery, which his father had started many years previously, and which was the most lucrative in the county. He was to learn its management from James Deane, the confidential clerk, whose salary was to be raised, and to whom £100 was left in token of Mr. Wickham's appreciation of his services. The Grey House, and everything in it, with £200 a year, was to be Mrs. Wickham's, and at her disposal at death.
The brewery was half a mile from Upfield; Mr. Wickham had built it where it would not injure the prospect, and Deane had a pretty cottage attached to it, where he, a widower, lived with his sister and only child, a daughter. He was a Catholic, son of a former steward of Mr. Scharderlowe's, and extremely attached to Mr. Wickham, who had taken him when a boy into the brewery, and advanced him steadily. He was a well-principled, intelligent man, who had improved himself by taking lessons in geography, grammar, and algebra, as the opportunities offered; and he was, from his position, well-known in the neighborhood. He told his sister that he feared that Mr. Wickham's death was only the beginning of trouble for his family; for he distrusted Mr. William, the vicar. "It isn't that he's a dishonorable man, Lizzy; but it isn't likely that a crack shot, a bold rider after the hounds, a gentleman who is as fond of a ball as anyone, and who takes no trouble about his own affairs, will do justice to a dead man's, though I don't doubt he means it now."
"But what harm can he do, James?"
"Why, he can ruin the younger children. Everything except the brewery and what is left to Mrs. Wickham is as much in his power as it was in his uncle's. I doubt if the poor dear gentleman wouldn't have arranged differently if he'd had longer time: it's an awful lesson to be always prepared for death; I'm sure I thought Mr. Wickham might live to be a hundred. No doubt pain and sorrow confused his mind, and anyhow it was natural that he should trust his own relations."
"He had better have trusted you, James."
"That was not to be expected, Lizzy, and I mightn't have been fit for it. There's plenty on my hands. It is a large, increasing business, and I have to teach it to Mr. Robert; and one can't tell how he'll take to it; I've been afraid he would be unsteady, but he has taken his father's death to heart uncommonly, and I hope he'll try to be as good a man."
About this time people had begun to remark that Polly Deane, then in her fifteenth year, was growing up a remarkably pretty girl; she was an old established pet of the Wickhams; her mother had been the daughter of a tenant, and so great a favorite that when she married Deane, the wedding was celebrated at the Grey House. When, two years later, she was dying of fever, Mr. and Mrs. Wickham promised to watch over her child. All that [{400}] they undertook they carried out generously, and Polly lived as much with them as with Aunt Lizzie, who did her part toward her well—loving her fondly, keeping her fresh, healthy, and merry, checking her quick temper, teaching her her prayers, and taking her often to Mr. Scharderlowe's, to get his chaplain's—Father Armand's—blessing; and when she was old enough, to mass and the sacraments. The fact of the Wickhams having no daughter increased their tenderness for her, and her father was delighted and flattered by Mrs. Wickham's watchfulness over her dress and manner, and Mr. Wickham's care for her education; it was the best that could be had in Upfield, and good enough to make her as charming as she need be. She did plain sewing extremely well, and some quaint embroidery of hideous designs in wool and floss silks; she had worked a cat in tent-stitch, and a parrot of unknown species in cross; her sampler was believed to be the finest in the county; she could read aloud very pleasantly, spell wonderfully, write a clear, stiff hand, which one might decipher without glasses at eighty; she could not have gone up for honors in grammar, but she talked very prettily; she had never had occasion to write a letter; as to geography, she believed that the world was round, for her father and Mr. Wickham said so, and she had heard that Captain Cook had been round it; but only that she was ashamed, she would have liked to ask some one how it could be, and how it was found out; it was such a contradiction of observation, if only because of the sea; she had never seen the sea, but she believed in it, and could understand water remaining on level ground; there was the horse-pond, for instance, but that thousands of miles of roaring, angry, deep water should hold on to a round world was too much for her. You could not puzzle her in the multiplication table, but she did not take kindly to weights and measures. She had learned no history, her father could not get a Catholic to teach her, and would trust no one else, but she had picked up a few facts and notions; for instance, she had heard of Alfred the Great and his lanterns; of St. Edward the Confessor, and that he made good laws; of King Charles I., and those wicked men—she fancied Guy Fawkes was one of them—had cut his head off; when he lived she was not sure, and she hoped Mr. Wickham would never ask her, for she should not like to say that she did not know, and she was sometimes afraid that he would when he talked of Carlo's being a King Charles spaniel. It was puzzling, because she remembered Carlo a puppy, and she was sure that the king's name had been George ever since she was born. She had an exquisite ear for music, and a voice of great promise. Mr. Wickham was passionately fond of music, and therefore, appreciating peculiarly this talent of Polly's, had engaged a good master from the county-town to teach her to play on the piano. She had profited well by his instructions, and only a few days before Mr. Wickham was taken ill, she had played the accompaniment when he sang "From the white-blossomed thorn my dear Chloe requested," "O lady fair," and "Oh life is a river, and man is the boat;" and he had patted her head and kissed her, and asked her for the "Slow movement in Artaxerxes" and "The harmonious Blacksmith," and—she was so glad—she had played them without one mistake. Of course she danced, and made cakes and pastry, beauty-washes, elder-wine, and various preserves and salves; knitted her father's stockings and her aunt's mittens, and read a romance whenever she could get one, but that was very rarely.
The vicar made, at any rate, a good start, fulfilling his uncle's instructions exactly; apprenticed his second son, Alfred, to the College of Surgeons—that was the most liberal way in those days of entering the medical profession—and placed him [{401}] to board with an old family friend, an opulent practitioner. The third son was articled to an eminent attorney; the others were sent to school. The void made by the death of those even most important and most fondly loved is soon filled up externally; how otherwise could justice be done to the living? The widow acquiesced in the separation from her children; it was her husband's plan, and for their advantage. She was sure she could not long survive him; she might even be sinful enough to wish to die, but for her sons' sakes, she was so utterly lonely. They loved her truly, the darlings; but they could not understand her, never would, unless—which God in his great mercy forbid—they ever came to suffer as she suffered. To lose such a husband! so manly, yet so tender and thoughtful. She had always looked forward to his nursing her in her last illness, and receiving her last breath. He would have grieved for her truly, she was sure of that; but he could have borne it better; he would have been of more use to the boys. Thus she mused often, weeping plentifully; but she never denied that she had many consolations. No one could have suited her better than Polly, and she was never more than a day or two absent from her. They were alike in character—simple, self-sacrificing, and affectionate in an uncommon degree. Polly's caresses seldom failed to arouse her; the gentle girl felt how much more she could have done had Mrs. Wickham been accessible to the comfort in which her own, the dear old faith, abounded; and prayed daily that it might soon be hers, and did her best. She never attempted direct consolation, but interested the mourner in some trifle, or coaxed her into conversation or employment. Sometimes she really could not arrange some obstinate flowers; sometimes her work was all wrong, and no one but Mrs. Wickham could show her how to put it right, and Mary Hodge's baby ought to have the garment that evening. Once, when all her ingenuity failed, she was actually delighted by Betty's running in with her darling kitten, wet to the skin, just saved out of the water-butt; Mrs. Wickham dried her eyes, and pitied it, and watched Polly wiping it, and arranging a cushion inside the fender for it; and at last smiled at the endearing nonsense she talked, and told her she was more than a mother to it.
Robert was quite steady; regular at the brewery, pleasant at home. Of course it would have been dull for him without Polly: her youth, beauty, and sisterly at-homeness made a glow in the dear old house. Did he or his mother ever calculate on what was likely to come of that near companionship? No: their actual life engrossed them. He first drew his mother to look on while he and Polly played cribbage or backgammon, and then to play herself a little. He took in the Gentleman's Magazine, and showed her the curious old prints, and read the odds and ends of news aloud. Music was unendurable to her for some months; but she conquered herself by degrees, and came to enjoy it. Then Robert and Polly sang every evening, she playing the accompaniments. Summer brought the boys home for holidays, and that did good. When the anniversary of the father's death came round, its melancholy associations pressed evidently on the widow, and she spent the greater portion of the day in her room; but she was resigned, and better than those who watched her lovingly expected her to be.
The great feature of those Christmas holidays was Alfred's return in an altered character. He had left Upfield a lout—the despair of his mother and the maids; who were the more provoked, because he was undeniably the handsomest of the family. To keep him clean, or make him put on his clothes properly, had been impossible. He had credit for talent; for, when sufficiently excited, he wrote what were deemed wonderfully pretty [{402}] verses, and he was quick at repartee and sarcasm; but he had been in perpetual disgrace at school, and silent and awkward—sulky as a bear, his brothers called him at home. He made a great sensation on the first evening of his return from London: he was fluent in conversation, perfectly well dressed, and—chief marvel—had clean, carefully-shaped nails. Polly smiled, wondered, and said to herself that he was really very handsome, and sang beautifully. All the Wickhams sang, but none of them, she thought, could be compared to him. The change was not agreeable to Robert, and he showed it; grumbled in an undertone about fops; and asked his brother if he could play cricket or quoits, or skate, or take a five-barred gate, or shoot snipe.
Alfred yawned, and replied:
"My dear Bob, don't you remember that I was never fond of trouble? Those rough amusements are very well for country gentlemen and farmers; and I give them up to them with all my heart. As to skating, you none of you know anything about it; you should see the gentlemen, and elegant ladies too, cutting out flowers, and other complicated figures, on the Serpentine."
Then addressing himself to his mother and Polly—Robert's countenance lowering as he observed the innocent girl's natural interest in such-topics—he talked about the last drawing-room and the fashionable plays. He had seen The School for Scandal and The Haunted Tower, at Drury Lane; Othello and The Conscious Lovers, at Covent Garden, and he recited—really well—some of the tender passages in Othello. Next he described the lying-in-state of the Duke of Cumberland; the trial and execution of Jobbins and Lowe for arson; the recent storms, which had not touched Upfield, but had been terrible elsewhere—chimneys killing people in their beds, the lightning flowing like a stream of fluid from a glasshouse. And no one interrupted him, till Robert said, savagely:
"That fellow will talk us all deaf."
"Not this time, Bob: you and I will sing 'Love in thine eyes' now. I know Polly will play for us."
They did it; Alfred directing the sentiment to her, so as to make her feel shy and uncomfortable, and his brother vowing inwardly that "he'd give that puppy a good thrashing before he went back to London, if he didn't mind what he was about."
Alfred had seen a good deal of what country folk call "finery" in London; but he declared that breakfast at home was unrivalled, particularly in winter. There was the superb fire of coal and oak blocks, throwing a glow on the massive family plate and fine, spotless damask: such a silver urn and teapot were not often seen. Further, the young gentleman inherited a family predilection for an abundant show of viands; liked to see—as was usual at an everyday breakfast there—a ham just cut, a cold turkey, round of beef, and delicate clear honey, with other sweet things, for which his mother's housekeeping was famed. This was not all. The room formed one side of a light angle in the picturesque old house, and from two sides of the table one could see a magnificent pyrocanthus, the contrast between its scarlet berries and the table-cloth positively delicious.
Robert and Alfred lingered one morning after the rest of the family had left this room. Alfred was considering that it might be possible to enjoy life in the country; Robert was watching him, half-curiously, half-jealously: he did not believe that his brother was handsomer than himself; but he detested the ease of manner and ready wit that gave him ascendancy disproportioned to his years. He threw himself back in a large armchair, stretched his legs, and said: "I'm not sure that I don't envy you, Bob, after all."
"Your condescension is great certainly. Have you been all this time finding out that it is a good thing to be George Wickham's eldest son?"
"Ah, yes!—eldest son. Well, it's a comfort for the younger ones that there's no superior merit in being born first. But I'm not going to philosophize; it's too much trouble, and not your line. But, really, to breakfast here every morning in all this splendid comfort, the prettiest and gentlest of mothers pressing you to eat and drink more than is good for you; and that lovely fairy, Polly—that perfect Hebe —flitting about—is more than even an eldest son ought to enjoy. How sorry you will be next year, when you come of age, unless"—and he looked searchingly, through half-closed eyes, at Bob.
"Why, pray? And unless what?"
"Only that I conclude you will then set up a house of your own, unless— as it is evident my mother could not part from pretty Polly—unless you arrange to live here, and marry our pet."
Strange flushings and palenesses passed over Robert's face, and he had to master a choking in his throat and heaving of his chest before he spoke. He had never had his hidden feelings put into words before—he had not even any definite intention about the young girl whom his eye followed stealthily every where, and whose voice, the rustling of whose dress even, was music to him. He only knew that he should throttle any one who laid a finger on her. He had not guessed that any one connected him with her, even in thought; and now here was all that was most secret and sacred in his heart dragged out, and held mockingly before him by a boy two years younger than himself. It seemed to him hours instead of seconds before he spoke, and his voice had the passionate tremulousness which betrays great interior tumult; he was sure that he should say something he would rather not say, but conscious every moment's delay gave an advantage to his abhorred tormentor. Without raising his eyes, he said hoarsely, "The Wickhams are proud—they don't make low marriages."
"Upon my word, Bob," returned his brother patronizingly, "I respect you; I did not give you credit for so much good sense. The girl's a perfect beauty, no doubt. What a sensation she'd make in London! But, after all, she's our servant's daughter, and old Molly Brown's grandchild. Then, again, that unlucky religion of hers! The Scharderlowes throw a respectability over it here, for they are well-born and wealthy, but anywhere else it would be extremely awkward for you. I confess I had a motive for sounding you. Farmer Briggs's eldest son hinted to me yesterday that he should be happy to lay West Hill at Polly's feet."
"He 's an insolent rascal!" said Robert furiously.
"My dearest Bob, why? The poor fellow has eyes, and uses them; and one would not wish our Hebe to be an old maid."
"I say," reiterated Robert, deadly pale, and stamping, "he's an insolent rascal; and if I catch him coming to this house I'll tell him so. A rustic boor like that to hint at marrying a girl who has always been my parents' pet, and is my mother's favorite companion—"
He stopped abruptly; and his brother, who was a perfect mimic, continued in precisely his tone, "And is so dear to Robert Wickham, that he will not hear her name coupled with another man's—"
He had gone too far; Robert's indignation boiled over—he sprang at him—and before he had time to stir, struck him a blow between the eyes, which brought sparks from them, and blood from his nose. A crash and struggle followed, which Polly heard. She ran to the room, anticipating nothing more than that some of the large dogs, privileged to roam about the house, were quarrelling over the cold meat. Amazed, beyond all power of words, she stood silent and very pale. Then, feeling, young as she was, instinctive womanly power over the disgraced young men, and holding herself [{404}] so erect that she looked a head taller than usual, she said, coldly and firmly, "I am ashamed of you!"
By that time they were ashamed of themselves. Alfred, covering his disfigured face with his handkerchief, left the room slowly. Robert, who had received no visible hurt, threw up a sash, jumped out, and when he turned to shut the window, looked earnestly and sadly at Polly, so as to bring a strange unwelcome sensation to her heart.
There was an awkwardness at dinner that day. Polly had removed the traces of the fray, and kept her counsel; but Alfred's features defied concealment. He stayed in his room with raw beef on them, and mutton-broth and barley-water for his regimen. His mother and Betty could get nothing out of him but that Bob was a fool, and had licked him for teasing him. He was by no means given to repentance; but his bruises, and a message from the vicar, desiring to see him early next morning, led him to the conclusion that he had better have "kept his tongue within his teeth." He was sufficiently humbled to receive silently unusually severe reproofs from his guardian, who had informed him that he had sent for him in order to avoid the risk of paining his excellent mother. It was not only that he knew all that Betty could tell of "the row" between the brothers, and that he denounced the "ruffianliness" of "brawling in a widowed mother's house," but that Mr. Kemp, in whose house in London he lived, had inclosed bills of disgraceful amount, in a letter complaining that Alfred's taste for pleasure threatened to be his ruin; and regretting that justice to his own family compelled him to decline retaining him as an inmate after the approaching midsummer. The young man's unusual power of pleasing, he said, made his example peculiarly dangerous.
"And now," said the vicar, "I ask you if your heart is not touched by the thought of the pain that this letter would give your dead father, were he living; and if you could bear your mother to know it? It is only for her sake that I spare you. I will beg Mr. Kemp to retract his resolution to dismiss you, if you become steadier, and I shall charge him to let it be known that I will not pay any bills that exceed the limit of your very handsome allowance: and I warn you that my natural easiness and indolence shall not prevent my being severe if you require it. As to the affair yesterday, I shall not inquire into it; but I warn you that the recurrence of anything so disgraceful shall prevent your spending your vacations at home; and I am sorry to say to one of my good uncle's sons, that I am glad he must return to town the day after to-morrow."
Alfred was surprised and alarmed, and made professions of penitence, and promises of amendment.
There was a visible change thenceforward in Robert. He became more manly in his bearing; and variable in his manner to Polly, saying even at times very sharp things to her. The sweet-tempered girl gave no provocation, and felt no resentment; but hid sometimes a tear. She did not like to displease any one whom Mrs. Wickham loved. Robert attended to business, took his proper place in society, and was popular; and she felt it a relief when he was out, and she had not to play for him. It was within three months of his twenty-first birthday, when, on one of the frequent occasions of his dining with the vicar, that gentleman asked him what were his plans. He replied that he hadn't any.
"But, my dear boy, my authority over you is near its end, and so is your enforced residence with your mother. It is time to think where you will live."
"I don't think my mother will turn me out."
"No; but as her allowance for you ceases with your minority, you must, in fairness to her, either contribute to [{405}] the household income, or get a home of your own."
"I don't anticipate any difficulty about it."
"Merton Paddocks is to be let," continued William. "It is a nice little place, and suitable to you in many ways. If you let it slip, you may regret it. Your marrying is to be calculated on, and in that event your living with your mother might not be agreeable to all parties."
"I don't think of marrying."
"Oh, nonsense! every man's turn comes; and why should you escape?"
"As you escaped, perhaps." "Me!—one old bachelor in a family is enough in two generations; and my case may not be obstinate. I'm not actually too old."
"May I ask whom you think of elevating to the vicarage?" asked Robert, laughing; but there was a pause which, he could not imagine why, made him uncomfortable, before his cousin said:
"I have thought of Polly—do you forbid the banns?"
The room seemed turning round with Robert; but he swallowed a glass of wine hastily, and said, as carelessly as he could, "That child!"
"Child! I don't know—she's seventeen, and I'm thirty-two—the difference there was between your parents' ages when they married; and Polly is two years older than your mother was then."
"Perhaps I'm no judge of the matter, William, but as you have broached the subject, excuse me if I ask if you have any notion that Polly is attached to you."
"None whatever; but any man can marry any woman provided he have a fair field and no favor. What has really kept me doubtful has been a distinct difficulty about pretty Polly's birth. It is awkward; and the Wickhams have always been sensitive on such points; but I've nearly resolved to sacrifice pride to Polly's charms. Her beauty and grace would adorn any position; and as soon as my guardianship, and consequent business relations with her father, ceases, I shall probably ask my aunt's consent and blessing. It will be great promotion for her pet, and insure her having her near her for life. Meanwhile, Bob, I rely on your silence."
"Certainly."
Poor Robert! Here was one of his own family seeing no difficulty about marrying the girl of whom he had spoken as beneath himself! another man talking with assurance of being Polly's husband as soon as he thought fit! while he, who had been domesticated with her from her infancy—had never dared to give her a playful kiss since they had ceased to be children—had never ventured on the least demonstration of the fondness that tormented him for expression. He made an excuse to go home early; walked in the shrubbery, wretched and irresolute, till midnight; went to his room, threw himself undressed on the bed, had some uneasy sleep, rose early, walked again, and appeared at breakfast haggard and irritable. His mother observed it, and was distressed. He had sat up too late, he said; and, for once, William's wine was bad. He would not go to the brewery that day; but, if she liked, he would drive her and Polly in the phaeton to Larchton, and they could give Betty a treat by taking her. She was always glad to visit her native place, and he knew she had not been there for a long time. His mother was willing. Larchton was a two hours' drive; and they put up the horses there.
Mrs. Wickham and Betty went to see some old people; and Robert proposed to Polly to take a walk. She remembered afterward that she had had an unusual feeling about that walk. They had often walked together before, as a brother and sister might.
For the first time, however, Robert said, "Take my arm, Polly."
She took it; and they proceeded in silence in the fields for some minutes.
Then he said abruptly, "Do you [{406}] ever think of getting married, Polly?"
"No," she replied with an innocent laugh; "what would Mrs. Wickham do without me?"
"And do you expect never to love any one better than my mother?"
"I really don't think it would be possible."
"But, Polly, you're not a child. You know there's a different—love the love my father had for my mother."
"I have never thought about it," she said carelessly.
Her manner gave him courage; it was so easy and unconscious. Taking the little hand that was on his arm, and holding it so firmly that he could not feel her effort to withdraw it, he went on: "Polly, I made an excuse to come here that I might talk to you without interruption. The love that my father had for my mother, I have for you. I cannot tell when it began; but I first knew how strong it was when Alfred came home first from London. I was madly jealous of him because he was forward and I was bashful. Do you remember the morning you found us fighting in the breakfast-parlor? He had provoked me so much by something that he said about you, that I could not help striking him. I don't know what I might have done if you hadn't come in then; and I've never been happy since. I've been irritable, and sometimes, I know, cross and disagreeable. Something occurred last night which I can't tell you now—I may another time—which made me wretched; and I made up my mind this morning to put myself out of suspense, and ask you, Polly, to be my wife."
He had been too full of his story to look at her while he was speaking, but he looked then eagerly for her answer. He could not read the lovely countenance which new and various feelings made different from anything he had ever seen. The soft eyelids down, the lashes moist, the lips trembling, the flush so deep that it would have spoiled a less delicate skin. She was surprised to find how much he loved her; grateful to him; sorry she had made him unhappy, and believed him ill-tempered. Then came a rapid thought of how handsome he was; but, sweeping everything away, perplexity followed. What would Mrs. Wickham and her father wish her to do? What would Father Armand say?
Robert could not guess all this; and there was almost agony in his voice as he said, "Oh, Polly, Polly, do speak to me!"
She made a great effort, and replied, "I don't know what to say, or what I ought to do!"
"Say, at any rate, that you don't dislike me."
"Oh, no!" she said readily, almost laughing to think that he could suppose that possible.
"One thing more, Polly; do you prefer any one else?"
She hesitated a minute, for her quick wit told her that the question involved a great deal; but she answered firmly, though shyly, "No; I do not."
Distrustful as he had been of his power to please her, this was enough for the time to make him almost beside himself with delight.
He said "God bless you!" heartily; and was silent awhile because he could not command his voice. He resumed, "As to your 'ought to do,' don't say anything to any one till I've spoken to my mother. We'll go and look for her now." He talked a great deal of nonsense on the way, and Polly said very little then, or during the drive. She was ashamed to look at Mrs. Wickham, and was glad that her attention was drawn from her to Robert. He "touched up" the young horses so wildly, that she declared he should never drive her again, if he did not behave better. Directly they got home, he told her that he wanted to speak to her that moment alone; and he poured out his story. Such an old, old story! So like what her own dead and buried George had told her long, long ago. She stand in the way of an innocent love, and between two of the creatures dearest to her on earth! She would be very glad [{407}] to have Polly as a daughter—she loved her as one. As to pride and such nonsense, people who had loved and lost, as she had, knew all its profound folly. Polly's beauty and goodness might make any husband proud, any home happy. As to William, there was no injustice done him. In the first place, she was sure that Polly could never be brought to think of him as a husband. She looked on him as quite an old man—he was getting very bald; and in the next place, if he had had any real love for her, he could not have spoken so coolly and confidently of winning her. Robert said that the last observation was corroborated by his own experience, and that his mother was a remarkably sensible woman. Thereupon she smiled, and kissed and blessed him, and advised him to go directly and tell the simple truth to the vicar.
Polly, meanwhile, sat alone in her pretty bedroom—her face buried in her hands, her rich golden hair unbound and falling loosely over her shoulders, dreading to go down to dinner. Not that she was ashamed of dear, dear Mrs. Wickham. No; she could throw her arms around her neck and hide her face there, and make her a confidante without any fear of being repulsed; but how could she look at Robert, much less speak to him? and of course the servant would see and understand all about it. She wished she might stay in her room. If she had but a headache! but she was really perfectly well; and false excuses she never dreamed of making. Robert would be talking to her again as he had talked in the fields. Really, really she did not know what to say to him. Indeed she had never thought of getting married. She had looked forward to living between the Grey House and her father's, beloved and welcome in both; adding to his and Mrs. Wickham's happiness more and more as they grew older and wanted greater care. Why could not this go on, with only the difference that Robert should never be displeased with her? That had made her unhappy. She did like him very much; better than any one, next to her father and Mrs. Wickham; better than good old Aunt Lizzy. He was very handsome, and sang well, and so attentive to his mother; and ever since his father's death he had been quite fond of home. How could he ever have supposed that she preferred any one else? But as to being his wife—he was a Protestant. How she should feel his never going to mass with her, his thinking confession useless, his not believing in the dear Lord in the Blessed Sacrament! She had often felt it hard that conversation about these things must be avoided in the dear Grey House, and that her friends there, fond as they were of her, wished her religion different. If she married Robert, it would be worse, for she should love him better than any one on earth then; her anxiety about his salvation would be so great as to make her quite wretched, and he might not like her to talk to him about it. From her earliest childhood, she prayed for the conversion of the Wickhams. She began by saying one Hail Mary daily for the intention; and since she had been older, she had said many novenas, and offered many communions for it. She really did not think her father would give his consent; and Father Armand would at any rate look grave and sad. She had heard him tell pitiful stories of the unhappiness that had come of mixed marriages among persons whom he knew. She did feel truly unhappy. She walked to her window; she could see thence dear venerable Edward's Hall, and knew exactly where the chapel was. She knelt down, fixing her eyes there, and her heart on her divine Lord in the tabernacle, and asked him that, for the love of his blessed mother, he would help and direct her, and convert her friends.
Robert had not expected to feel it formidable to tell his story to his cousin, and he was equally grieved and surprised by the way in which he received it. He changed countenance so that he looked ten years older; walked rapidly up and down the room; [{408}] threw himself into a great chair, and buried his face in his hands; asked Robert to ring; ordered sherry, and drank several glasses. Robert, utterly mystified, was trying to say something soothing, when he interrupted him.
"My dear fellow, I'm not simply love-sick; but circumstances, which I will explain another time, do make this a terrible shock to me. I have been such a fool! To any one but myself, your falling in love with Polly would have seemed the most natural thing in the world; but I was blinded, stultified, as men who have—never mind now—go away—I'm not fit to talk—I will call or write to you tomorrow. Blame you! Certainly not. Give my love to your mother and Polly. God bless you all!"
Next morning early came a note stating that he was going from home for a few days; and that if he did not return, he would explain himself fully in the following week.
Worthy of a peerage as Polly Deane seemed to Robert, he could not be ignorant that to marry him was great promotion for her; and though delicacy in her regard, and real respect for her father, made him ask his consent with the utmost deference, he felt that this was a mere matter of good manners.
Mr. Deane was visibly gratified; said that he could never have expected a proposal so complimentary to his child, though he might be pardoned for saying that he thought any one might be proud of her. His obligations to the Wickham family were of many years' standing; in fact, he owed everything to Mr. Wickham. He could never, making all due allowance for Polly's beauty and goodness, express how honored he felt himself and her on that occasion; but—and he made a long pause in evident difficulty how to express himself; and Robert was mute with surprise and alarm.
"But is it possible, Mr. Robert, that Mrs. Wickham and you don't see one very great objection?"
"In the name of heaven, what is it?" gasped Robert.
"Why, surely, sir, the dear child's religion."
"Now is it possible, Deane, that you think we would ever interfere with that? Have we ever done so by word, or look, or deed, in all the years we've known you? Have not you, ever since you came into this business, been free to observe your holy days in your own way? Have we not always been ready—even when my mother's spirits were at the lowest—to spare Polly to go to mass or confession? I am really hurt, and feel that we don't deserve this?"
"It is all true, Mr. Robert, and the Lord reward you, as he will; but don't you see it might be different—I don't say that it would; but I'm bound to do my best for my girl's soul no less than her body—if she was your wife, and so completely in your power? There's no doubt that a young man in love will promise anything, and mean to keep his word too; but ours is a despised religion (God be praised for it!'); it is one among many signs that it is the true one; and you might come to be ashamed that one so near and dear to you belonged to it, and that would breed great unhappiness. Then, again, you might have children, and I should not dare give my consent to their being reared Protestants. Perhaps, if some ancestor of yours had been firm in such a case as this, you and yours might be still of the old faith."
"I'm sure, as far as I'm concerned, Deane, I wish we were. No one will go to heaven, if Polly doesn't; and the religion that would take her there can't be bad for any one. She might make a Catholic of me."
"God grant it, sir; but don't you see that I must not act on chance? If the child was breaking her heart for you, and"—smiling—"it's not come to that yet, I could not let her risk her soul, and perhaps her children's souls."
"Look here, Mr. Deane: I'm quite ready to give you a written promise [{409}] that I will never interfere in any way with Polly's practising her religion, and that all her children—boys as well as girls—shall be brought up in it; and I'm sure my mother will make no difficulty."
"You cannot say more, Mr. Robert; but still, if you please, I will take a week to think the matter over, and talk about it to Father Armand and Polly, and for that time I think she'd better come home. She must feel awkward in the same house with you under present circumstances. Will you give my respects to Mrs. Wickham, and say that I will call for the child this evening?"
Numerous, and all wide of the truth, were Mrs. Wickham's and Robert's conjectures respecting the vicar. They began even to consider whether he had ever shown any symptoms of insanity, and were thankful to know that it was not hereditary in the family.
The week stipulated for by Mr. Deane passed; and after consulting Father Armand and Mr. Scharderlowe, he agreed to give his consent to Polly's marrying Robert at the end of a year, if he were then equally willing to bind himself by a written promise to respect her faith, and have his children brought up in it. They said they thought that the kind, liberal, honorable character of the Wickhams being considered, and having been proved in all their conduct to the Deanes, and the difficulty of Catholic marrying Catholic (which was far, far greater in England then than it is now) being weighed, the case was as hopeful as a mixed marriage could be.
Robert grumbled about the delay, every one else approved of it. His mother thought a man young to even at twenty-two; and the time seemed to Polly none too long for becoming accustomed to new feelings and new prospects.
Two days after all this was arranged came the vicar's anxiously-expected letter, dated Scarborough. It said:
"MY DEAR ROBERT,—The punishment of my youthful sins and follies, which has been pursuing me for years, has at last fallen so heavily upon me, that I feel inclined to cry out, like Cain, that it is greater than I can bear. Try to believe, as you read my humiliating confession, that the bitterest portion of my suffering is the fact that I have injured my uncle's family; and that I shall regret my pangs less if they prove a useful warning to you and your brothers. I can hardly remember when I was not in debt. Before I was eight years old I owed pence continually for fruits, sweets, toys. I suffered torture for fear of detection while these trifles were owing, but directly they were paid, I began a fresh score. At school I borrowed money of every one who would lend it, and had a bill at every shop to which a boy would be attracted. The misery I continued to endure while I could not pay was always forgotten directly I had paid; and I was in the same difficulty over and over again. I must own, moreover, that I was absolutely without excuse. I had as much money and indulgence of every kind as any boy of my age and position. I went to the university. My allowance was liberal, but my debts became tremendous. I gave endless wine-parties; drove to London frequently; entered into all its pleasures, made expensive presents, bought horses, and betted; and was of course done; finally, I got into the hands of Jews. It is singular that my father never suspected my delinquencies, and that I was wonderfully helped by circumstances. I was young when I succeeded to the living and a large amount of ready money. All was swallowed up in the dreadful gulf that my unprincipled extravagance had made. Year after year the greater portion of my income has gone in payment of exorbitant interest. Your dear father's legacy went that way; and my infamous creditors, having ascertained that his will placed a great deal in my power, threatened me with exposure—which would have [{410}] been fatal to a man in my position—till I had pacified them with thousands not my own—with, in fact, a considerable portion of your brothers' inheritance.
"At first I stifled my conscience by representing to myself that being released from pressure which had worried me for years, I should have a clear head for business; and recover, by judicious speculation, the sums that I had appropriated—as I hoped—but for a time. I have speculated unfortunately, and made matters infinitely worse; for whereas my previous creditors were rapacious rascals to whom, in justice, nothing was due, my present ones are the helpless children of my warm-hearted, trustful, dead uncle.
"By this time old Smith is, I suppose, dead, and you are aware of his will—as singular as all we know of his life—but he is necessary to my story. A day or two before I told you that I thought of marrying Polly he sent for me, said that he felt himself breaking, and wished me to witness his will, and be aware of its purport, that it might not be said, when he was gone, that he had acted at the priest's instigation. He said that at that moment no one knew he was a Catholic, that he had led a godless life for years, but he meant to make his peace with God before he died. He had no relations who had any claim on him; he had left £100 to Mr. Armand for religious uses, and the rest of his money—nearly £20,000—to Polly. I thought the man mad, and humored him. He understood me, and said so; told me that existence had ceased to be more than endurable when, twenty years ago, he entered Upfield a stranger; and that therefore he had confined himself to the necessaries of life, and been glad to be believed poor. That he had thought of leaving his money to a hospital; but that Polly had become so like the only woman he had ever loved—and whom he had lost by death—that he had grown to feel very fatherly toward her; and his intention to make her his heiress had been decided by a little fact very characteristic of Polly. She was walking with your mother one very windy day, when he was out for nearly the last time, and his hat blew off. He was too infirm to follow it, and every one but Polly was too lazy or too much amused to do so. She ran for it, and brought it to him with a kindness which seems to have thoroughly melted him. If he be still living, this must not be mentioned; but, as I said before, I think it is impossible. It is an old saying that 'drowning men catch at straws.' Oppressed as I was by hopeless remorse, I caught at the notion that I would marry Polly. Her father, I thought, would be pleased with her elevation. I did not anticipate any difficulty in making such a gentle creature love me. I intended to do my utmost to make her life happy; and I knew that she would give up anything to do good to your family. I calculated that, living moderately, my income would be ample, and that I could appropriate Polly's fortune to repaying what I had misused, and still without wronging her—for that, as my wife, she would have advantages far beyond her father's expectations. How all this scheming is defeated, you know. The only reparation now in my power, I make willingly. Deducting a curate's stipend and eighty pounds a year for myself, I will furnish you with full powers to receive the residue of my income, and apply it to your brothers' use. I will appoint Deane guardian in my stead, and furnish him with all necessary documents. If I live—and I pray that I may live for that object—your brothers will not suffer ultimately. I have made my will, and left them whatever property I may possess when I die. I have, you know, expectations from the Heathcotes.
"There is, I hope, some guarantee for my reform in the willingness with which I accept my punishment. I am glad that, with luxurious tastes, I must exist on very narrow means for years; [{411}] that with sturdy English prejudices I must live among foreigners. I had not courage to make my shameful confession verbally, or to see any of you afterward. I cross hence to Hamburg to-morrow. My further course is undecided, but I will write to you; and Hangham and Hunt, Fleet street, will forward letters to me. Think of all I have lost, of all I have suffered secretly, for years, of my dreary prospects, and try to be merciful to your miserable cousin,—WILLIAM WICKHAM."
Polly had returned to the Grey House. Mrs. Wickham fretted, and Robert—to be candid—was disagreeable in her absence. Shy and conscious though she felt, she was quite willing to go back. Her father was never at home till the evening—not always then. Aunt Lizzie wanted no help or cheering up, and Polly's happiness depended mainly on her being necessary to some one. There is, moreover, no denying that, differently educated as she had been, her aunt's habits and notions were not hers; and I could not say positively that she did not miss Robert, and admit to herself that it was pleasant to expect him at certain times, and to spend a good deal of time in his society. When the vicar's letter arrived, she was at the breakfast-table, doing the duties of president deftly and satisfactorily, as she did everything—housewifely genius as she was.
"What a long affair!" exclaimed Robert, as he glanced at the letter. "What can he have to say? I can't wait to read it now; I must be off to the brewery. Here, my mother, you take it, and tell me all about it when I come back."
She put it in her pocket, remembering that Polly was concerned in it, and not liking to read it before her without mentioning its purport. The thoughtful, methodical damsel soon departed for an hour's duty among birds and flowers, and then the thunderbolt fell on poor Mrs. Wickham. Her darling younger sons were not only fatherless, but almost dependent on their brother. She was no woman of business; but she guessed that there would not be more than £300 a year to come from the vicar, when the deductions he mentioned had been made. She could of course spare £100. What did she want with money? This would meet all the expenses of education, supposing the vicar lived—and if he died! In any case there was no capital to start her sons in their professions; and, unluckily, Alfred, who would want it first, had never been a favorite of Robert's. His assumption of superiority and his sarcasm had nettled him extremely; and he dropped expressions occasionally which showed he had not forgiven him. But Robert would be very well able to help. Even supposing that—as she hoped he would— he did marry Polly, and have a family, his brothers would be off his hands before his children became expensive. If the story about poor old Mr. Smith proved true, he would be a rich man. Polly would of course do something handsome for her father and aunt, and yet have a large fortune. That incident about the hat Mrs. Wickham remembered perfectly; the poor old man looked enraptured when, lovelier even than usual, glowing from her running and good-nature, she gave it to him. It was, however, very wonderful. How much had happened in quiet Upfield during the last two years! Then she began to pity the vicar heartily; to make excuses for him, and forgive him. The sacrifices he made proved the sincerity of his repentance: how miserable he would be for years, poor and lonely in a foreign land! In those days anywhere "abroad" seemed to simple inland folk something terrible. He might get yellow fever, or the plague. She believed them to be imminent anywhere out of the British Isles. She must talk to Polly, and have her for a staunch ally before Robert came home. He had not his father's noble impulsiveness, but he was just and honorable, and she and Polly could do a great deal with him. Of [{412}] course she should omit telling her about the vicar's having thought of marrying her, and the story about old Smith. One fact would be painful to her; the other might be untrue.
The two guileless creatures agreed fully that Robert must be worked upon to forgive his cousin, and do all that was necessary for his brothers. They were so radiant with hope and charity that their countenances struck Robert peculiarly when he returned, and he said he saw plainly that they had good news to tell him. It was an awkward beginning: his mother feared that the contrary character of her intelligence would displease him the more, and said timidly, "You had really better read William's letter yourself, my dear boy; he tells his story much better than I can."
The rush of events at Upfield seemed, for a few days, overpowering to those whom it concerned; and those whom it concerned not were very much excited. There was the vicar gone—no one knew wherefore or whither, or for how long; and a curate with a wife and seven children had taken possession of his trim bachelor's hall. Then there was Mr. Smith, not very old, probably not more than fifty, dead. And he had turned out to be a rich man! why who could have guessed it? He had appeared one day at the inn, as suddenly as if he had dropped from the clouds—had evidently come a long way afoot—had no luggage but a valise; and was altogether so equivocal-looking that Mr. Mogg, the veterinary surgeon, would not take him as a lodger without his paying six months' rent in advance. He had paid his way regularly, certainly; but no one could have supposed that he had anything to spare. He would never talk of his affairs except to say that he had out-lived all his near relations, and been a great deal in foreign parts. People had suggested that he might be an escaped felon, a man resuscitated after hanging, a deserter, a Jew. On the strength of the last notion Mr. Mogg tested him with roast pig; and he liked it.
Then he never went to church. To be sure he was not the only person in Upfield of whom that might be said; but no one guessed that he was a papist. They had, at last, no proof that he was; but it was understood, though not formally acknowledged, that the librarian at Edward's Hall was a Catholic priest, and that persons of his communion could and did benefit by his ministrations. Such things were winked at, in spite of penal enactments, in the case of some Catholics of high social standing, like Mr. Scharderlowe.
Now this librarian, Mr. Armand, had been sent for by Mr. Smith when he was taken ill, had visited him frequently, and been with him when he died. No doubt he was a papist. That might be the reason he left his money to Polly Deane. Well, well! what luck some people had! Upfield wouldn't be surprised if Robert Wickham married her; and the neighborhood supposed it must call upon her, whether he did or not. It wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Wickham had known all along of Mr. Smith's intention; it wouldn't be surprised; there was something odd in the way they had educated the girl, and taken her out of her sphere. But, after all, Mrs. Pogram said, she mightn't like Robert Wickham; and with such a fortune as hers, she could afford to please herself. Mrs. Pogram's own sons were decidedly finer young men, had more dash, and were in the army—every one knew that girls liked red coats. Lancaster would be coming home soon, on leave. She would call at once; let others do as they pleased. Deane was a highly-respectable man, and no one could be ashamed of his daughter.
A year later there was a large family-gathering at the Grey House at dinner, and Mrs. Wickham presided. Her grief had settled into a placid, subdued character, which, with the weeds, gave a kind of moonlight tone to her appearance, and became her so [{413}] well that no one could wish to see her ever otherwise.
Robert and Polly, man and wife, had returned that day from a bridal excursion to the English lakes. The younger brothers were assembled to meet them. Aunt Heathcote was there with her ear-trumpet; and queer-tempered Mrs. Trumball, all smiles. Mr. Deane, of the firm of Wickham and Deane, urbane in shorts, black-silk stockings, and silver knee and shoe buckles, was a father of whom the lovely bride felt proud, as she did too of Aunt Lizzie; who looked as if she had worn silks and laces, and kept her soft white large hands in mittens all her life. Deep in every one's heart was the memory of warm-hearted, generous George Wickham, gone for ever from those whose meeting there, and in their mutual relations, he would have made more joyous; but no one named him, for no one could have done it then and there in a voice which would not have been thick with emotion. Tears must have followed any mention of him; and who would have caused their flow at such a happy gathering? Every one knew what every one was feeling and what a long pause meant, which Robert broke by saying with a sigh, "Well, I do wish that poor dear William were here; I am so happy that I wish every one else was; and I hate to think of him, hospitable, affectionate creature, dragging out his days among fat phlegmatic Dutch boors, without a single soul to speak to." Polly, at his side, contrived to give him, under the table, a little squeeze expressive of the fullest approbation.
"I'm glad you have forgiven him, Bob," said his mother.
"Well, really, mother, it was but natural that I should be savage at first. Men can't be quite as tender-hearted as women, I suppose; and they see the consequences of pecuniary frailties more clearly, and suffer more from them, than they do; but I must be a brute if, happy as I am, I didn't wish well to everybody, especially to that good fellow. Now don't cry, Polly."
Her father observed that there were great excuses for the vicar, and that every one must admit that he had done his utmost to make reparation.
"Yes," said Alfred, with mock gravity. It was his delight to puzzle Aunt Lizzie; she never could make out whether he were joking or oracular. "I have learned wisdom through the rudiments of a painful experience; and, steady reformed man of mature years as I find myself, I pronounce that William might have done much worse."
"Shall I write and urge him to come back?" asked Robert.
"Do! do! do!" resounded in various voices all around the table.
"Very well; I'm more than willing. Polly told me confidentially a few days ago that she had no turn for extravagance; and I feel so domestic and moderate, that I fancy we may manage to provide for the fine young family that William's indiscretions have thrown on our hands, though he will be able to give less help than if he remained at Rotterdam."
"Mr. Ridlem's stipend would be saved, you know, Bob."
"Not exactly, mother. William couldn't live at home as he lives now; that would be painful to us and impossible for him."
"True; I forgot that."
"It is difficult for me to put in a word," said Alfred, "because I've been a great expense to Bob, and he hasn't done with me yet; in fact I've no right to make a suggestion; but it is my full intention to reimburse him one of these days. I shouldn't have said so, only the chance of helping to bring William back—"
"You're a good fellow, Alfred; I believe you; and must confess that I have found you less trouble than I expected."
The result of the consultation was a letter to the vicar, signed by every one present, entreating him to return forthwith; a letter over which he cried like [{414}] a girl. It brought him back speedily, a wiser and not a sadder man. He said indeed that, though down among the dykes, he had never been so happy as since he made all square with his conscience.
To follow the affairs of Upfield and the Wickhams further would involve a series of stories. It must suffice to say that Robert's marriage turned out really well; and that from the day of her betrothal, the dearest wish of Polly's heart was gratified; for he, unasked, joined her and the other stragglers who—the laws notwithstanding—made their way on Sundays and holidays to a side-entrance in venerable old Edward's Hall, and were admitted to mass in the little well-loved chapel; Mr. Armand the librarian, identical with Father Armand the priest, thanking God devoutly for the addition to the fold.
From The Month.
A LOST CHAPTER OF CHURCH HISTORY RECOVERED.
BY JAMES SPENCER NORTHCOTE, D.D.
If we set before a skilful professor of comparative anatomy a few bones dug out of the bowels of the earth, he will re-construct for us the whole form of the animal to which they belonged; and it sometimes happens that these theoretical constructions are singularly justified by later discoveries. It is the province of an archaeologian to attempt something of the same kind. A historian transcribes for our use annals more or less fully composed and faithfully transmitted by his predecessors. He may have to gather his materials from various sources; he must distinguish the true from the false; and he gives shape, consistency, and life to the whole; but, for the most part at least, he has little to supply that is new from any resources of his own. The archaeologian, on the contrary, if he be really a man of learning and science, and not a mere collector of old curiosities, aims at discovering and restoring annals that are lost, by means of a careful and intelligent use of every fragment of most heterogeneous materials that happens to come across him. And there is certainly nobody in the present age whose talent and industry in this branch of learning, so far at least as Christian archaeology is concerned, can at all compare with that of Cavaliere G. B. de Rossi. For more than twenty years he has devoted himself to the study of the Roman catacombs, and at length we begin to enter upon the fruit of his labors. He has just published (by order of the Pope, and at the expense, we believe, of the Commission of Sacred Archaeology, instituted by his Holiness in 1851) the first volume of Roma Sotteranea; a magnificent volume, splendidly illustrated, and full of new and varied information. An abstract of its contents would hardly be suitable to our pages; but none, we think, can fail to be interested in what we may venture to call the first chapter of the History of the Catacombs—a chapter that had certainly never before been written, even if it had been attempted.
All earlier authors upon subterranean Rome, so far as our experience goes, whilst describing fully, and it may be illustrating with considerable learning, the catacombs as they now exist, and all the monuments they [{415}] contain, have been content to pass over with a few words of apology and conjecture the question of their origin and early history. They have told us that the Jewish residents in Rome had burial-places of a similar character; and they have shown how natural and probable it was that the first Roman Christians, unwilling to burn their dead in pagan fashion, should have imitated the practices of the ancient people of God. When pressed to explain how so gigantic a work, as the Roman catacombs undoubtedly are, could have been carried on by the Christians under the very feet of their bitter persecutors, yet without their knowledge, they have pointed to the rare instance of a cemetery entered by a staircase hidden within the recesses of a sand-pit; they have guessed that here or there some Christian patrician, some senator or his wife, may have given up a garden or a vineyard for use as a burial-ground; and then they have passed on to the much easier task of enumerating the subterranean chapels, tracing the intricacies of the galleries, or describing the paintings, sculptures, and inscriptions. The work of De Rossi is of a very different character. It begins ab ovo, and proceeds scientifically. It shows not only how these wonderful cemeteries may have been made, but also—as far as is practicable, and a great deal further than nine-tenths even of the most learned archaeologians ever supposed to be practicable—how and when each cemetery really was made. From the few scattered bones, so to speak, which lay buried, and for the most part broken, partly in the depths of the catacombs themselves, partly in the Acts of the Martyrs, the Liber Pontificalis, and a few other records of ecclesiastical history, he has reconstructed with consummate skill the complete skeleton, if we should not rather say has reproduced the whole body, and set it full of life and vigor before us. Not that he has indulged in hasty conjectures, or given unlimited scope to a lively imagination; far from it. On the contrary, we fear many of his less learned readers will be disposed to find fault with the slow and deliberate, almost ponderous, method of his progress, and to grow impatient under the mass of minute criticisms with which some of his pages are filled, and by which he insists upon justifying each step that he takes. Indeed, we have some scruple at presenting our readers with the sum and substance of his argument, divested of all these pièces justificatives, as our neighbors would call them, lest they should suspect us of inventing rather than describing. However, we think it is too precious a page of Church history to be lost, and we therefore proceed to publish it, only premising that nobody must pretend to judge of its truth merely from the naked abstract of it which we propose to give, but that all who are really interested in the study should examine for themselves in detail the whole mass of evidence by which, in De Rossi's pages, it is supported, most of which is new, and all newly applied.
To tell our story correctly, it is necessary we should step back into pagan times, and first take a peep at their laws and usages in the matter of burials. No classical scholar need be told how strictly prohibited by old Roman law was all intra-mural interment. Indeed every traveller knows that all the great roads leading into Rome were once lined on either side with sepulchral monuments, many of which still remain; and the letters inscribed upon them tell us how many feet of frontage, and how many feet at the back (into the field), belonged to each monument, [IN. FR. P. so many. IN. AG. P. so many. In fronte, pedum—. In agro, pedum—.] M. de Rossi (the brother of our author) has published a very interesting plan of one of these monuments with all its dependencies, as represented on an ancient marble slab dug up on the Via Lavicana. On this slab, not only are the usual measurements of frontage and depth carefully recorded, but also the private or public roads which crossed the [{416}] property, the gardens and vineyards of which it consisted, the swampy land on which grew nothing but reeds (it is called Harundinetum), and the ditch by which, on one side at least, it was bounded. Unfortunately the slab is not perfect, so that we cannot tell the exact measurement of the whole. Enough, however, remains to show that the property altogether was not less than twelve Roman jugera, or nearly 350,000 square feet; and other inscriptions are extant, specifying an amount of property almost equal to this as belonging to a single monument (e.g. Huic monumento cedunt agri puri jugera decem). The necessity for so large an assignment of property to a single tomb was not so much the vastness of the mausoleum to be erected, as because certain funeral rites were to be celebrated there year by year, on the anniversary of the death, and at other times; sacrifices to be offered, feasts to be given, etc.; and for these purposes exedrae were provided, or semi-circular recesses, furnished with sofas and all things necessary for the convenience of guests. A house also (custodia) was often added, in which a person should always live to look after the monument, for whose support these gardens, vineyards, or other hereditaments were set apart as a perpetual endowment. It only remains to add, that upon all these ancient monuments may be found these letters, or something equivalent to them, H.M.H.EX.T.N.S. (Hoc monumentum haeredes ex testamento ne sequatur); in other words, "This tomb and all that belongs to it is sacred; henceforth it can neither be bought nor sold; it does not descend to my heirs with the rest of my property; but must ever be retained inviolate for the purpose to which I have destined it, viz., as a place of sepulchre for myself and my family," or certain specified members only of the family; or, in some rare instances, others also external to the family. The same sacred character which attached to the monuments themselves belonged also to the area in which they stood, the hypogeum or subterranean chamber, which not unfrequently was formed beneath them; but it is a question whether it extended to the houses or other possessions attached to them.
Nor were these monuments confined to the noblest and wealthiest citizens. Even in the absence of all direct evidence upon the subject, we should have found it hard to believe that any but the very meanest of the slaves were buried (or rather were thrown without any burial at all) into those open pits (puticoli) of which Horace and others have told us. And in fact, a multitude of testimonies have come down to us of the existence, both in republican and imperial Rome, of a number of colleges, as they were called, or corporations (clubs or confraternities, as we should more probably call them), whose members were associated, partly in honor of some particular deity, but far more with a view to mutual assistance for the performance of the just funeral rites. Inscriptions which are still extant testify to nearly fourscore of these collegia, each consisting of the members of a different trade or profession. There are the masons and carpenters, soldiers and sailors, bakers and cooks, corn-merchants and wine-merchants, hunters and fishermen, goldsmiths and blacksmiths, dealers in drugs and carders of wool, boatmen and divers, doctors and bankers, scribes and musicians—in a word, it would be hard to say what trade or employment is not here represented. Not, however, that this is the only bond of fellowship upon which such confraternities were built; sometimes, indeed generally, the members were united, as we have already said, in the worship of some deity; they were cultores Jovis, or Herculis, or Apollinis et Diana; sometimes they merely took the title of some deceased benefactor whose memory they desired to honor; e. g. cultores statuarum et clipeorum L. Abulli Dextri; and sometimes the only bond of union seems to have been service in the same house or family. A long [{417}] and curious inscription belonging to one of these colleges, consisting mainly of slaves, and erected in honor of Diana and Antinous, and for the burial of the dead, in the year 133 of our era, reveals a number of most interesting particulars as to its internal organization, which are worth repeating in this place. So much was to be paid at entrance, and a keg of good wine beside, and then so much a month afterward; for every member who has regularly paid up his contribution, so much to be allowed for his funeral, of which a certain proportion to be distributed amongst those who assist; if a member dies at a distance of more than twenty miles from Rome, three members are to be sent to fetch the body, and so much is to be allowed them for travelling expenses; if the master (of the slave) will not give up the body, he is nevertheless to receive all the funeral rites; he is to be buried in effigy; if any of the members, being a slave, receives his freedom, he owes the college an amphora of good wine; he who is elected president (magister), must inaugurate his accession to office by giving a supper to all the members; six times a year the members dine together in honor of Diana, Antinous, and the patron of the college, and the allowance of bread and of wine on these occasions is specified; so much to every mess of four; no complaints or disputed questions may be mooted at these festivals, "to the end that our feasts may be merry and glad;" finally, whoever wishes to enter this confraternity is requested to study all the rules first before he enters, lest he afterward grumble or leave a dispute as a legacy to his heir.
We are afraid we have gone into the details of this ancient burial club more than was strictly necessary for our purpose; but we have been insensibly drawn on by their extremely interesting character, reminding us (as the Count de Champagny, from whom we have taken them, most justly remarks) both of the ancient Christian Agapae, or love-feasts, and (we may add) the mediaeval guilds. This, however, suggests a train of thought which we must not be tempted to pursue. De Rossi has been more self-denying on the subject; he confines himself to a brief mention of the existence of the clubs, refers us to other authors for an account of them, and then calls our attention to this very singular, and for our purpose most important fact concerning them: viz., that at a time when institutions of this kind had been made a cover for political combinations and conspiracies, or at least when the emperors suspected and feared such an abuse of them, and therefore rigorously suppressed them, nevertheless an exception was expressly made in favor of those which consisted of "poorer members of society, who met together every month to make a small contribution toward the expenses of their funeral;" and then he puts side by side with this law the words of Tertullian in his Apology, written about the very same time, where he speaks of the Christians contributing every month, or when and as each can and chooses, a certain sum to be spent on feeding and burying the poor. The identity of language in the two passages, when thus brought into juxtaposition, is very striking; and we suppose that most of our readers will now recognize the bearing of all we have hitherto been saying upon the history of the Christian catacombs, from which we have seemed to be wandering so, far.
We have already said that one of the first questions which persons are inclined to ask when they either visit, or begin to study, the catacombs, is this: How was so vast a work ever accomplished without the knowledge and against the will of the local authorities? And we answer (in part at least), as the Royal Scientific Society should have answered King Charles the Second's famous question about the live fish and the dead fish in the tub of water, "Are you quite sure of your facts? Don't call upon us to [{418}] find the reason of a problem which, after all, only exists perhaps in your own imagination." And so in truth it is. The arguments of the Cavaliere de Rossi have satisfied us that the Christians of the first ages were under no necessity of having recourse to extraordinary means of secrecy with reference to the burial of their dead; it was quite possible for them to have cemeteries on every side of Rome, under the protection of the ordinary laws and practices of their pagan neighbors.
But is not this to revolutionize the whole history of these wonderful excavations? We cannot help it, if it be so; it is at least one of those revolutions which are generally accepted as justifiable, and certainly are approved in their consequences; for when it is complete, everything finds its proper place; books and grave-stones, the cemeteries and their ancient historians, every witness concerned gives its own independent testimony, all in harmony with one another, and with the presumed facts of the case. Let us see how the early history of the catacombs runs, when reconstructed according to this new theory. The first Christian cemeteries were made in ground given for that very purpose by some wealthier member of the community, and secured to it in perpetuity in accordance with the laws of the country. There was nothing to prevent the erection of a public monument in the area thus secured, and the excavation of chambers and galleries beneath. And history tells us of several of the most ancient catacombs that they had their origin from this very circumstance, that some pious Christian, generally a Roman matron of noble rank, buried the relics of some famous martyr on her own property (in praedio suo.)
The oldest memorial we have about the tomb of St. Peter himself is this, that Anacletus "memoriam construxit B. Petri, and places where the bishops (of Rome) should be buried;" and this language is far more intelligible and correct, if spoken of some public tomb, than of an obscure subterranean grave; memoria, or cella memoriae, being the classical designation of such tombs. How much more appropriate also does the language of Caius the presbyter, preserved to us by Eusebius, now appear, wherein he speaks (in the days of Zephyrinus) of the trophies of the apostles being to be seen at the Vatican and on the Ostian way? Tertullian, too, speaks of the bodies of the martyrs lying in mausoleums and monuments, awaiting the general resurrection. From the same writer we learn that the areae of the Christian burials were known to and were sacrilegiously attacked by the enraged heathens in the very first years of the third century; and quite recently there has reached us from this same writer's country a most valuable inscription, discovered among the ruins of a Roman building, not far from the walls of the ancient Caesarea of Mauritania, which runs in this wise: "Euelpius, a worshipper of the word (cultor Verbi; mark the word, and call to mind the cultores Jovis, etc.), has given this area for sepulchres, and has built a cella at his own cost. He left this memoria to the holy church. Hail, brethren: Euelpius, with a pure and simple heart, salutes you, born of the Holy Spirit." It is true that this inscription, as we now have it, is not the original stone; it is expressly added at the foot of the tablet, that Ecclesia fratrum has restored this titulus at a period subsequent to the persecution during which the original had been destroyed; but both the sense and the words forbid us to suppose that any change had been made in the language of the epitaph, to which we cannot assign a date later than the middle of the third century. But, finally, and above all, let us descend into the catacombs themselves, and put them to the question. Michael Stephen de Rossi, the constant companion of his brother's studies, having invented some new mechanical contrivance for taking plans of subterranean excavations, [Footnote 78] has made exact [{419}] plans of several catacombs, not only of each level (or floor, so to speak) within itself, but also in its relations to the superficial soil, and in the relations of the several floors one with another. A specimen of these is set before us by means of different colors or tints, representing the galleries of the different levels, in the map of the cemetery of St. Callixtus, which accompanies this volume; and a careful study of this map is sufficient to demonstrate that the vast net-work of paths in this famous cemetery originally consisted of several smaller cemeteries, confined each within strict and narrow limits, and that they were only united at some later, though still very ancient period. For it cannot have been without reason that the subterranean galleries should have doubled and re-doubled upon themselves within the limits of a certain well-defined area; that they should never have overstepped a certain boundary-line in this or that direction, though the nature of the soil and every other consideration would have seemed to invite them to proceed; that they should have been suddenly interrupted by a flight of steps, penetrating more deeply into the bowels of the earth, and there been reproduced exactly upon the same scale and within the same limits. These facts can only be fully appreciated by an actual examination of the map, where they speak for themselves; but even those who have not this advantage will scarcely call in question the conclusion that is drawn from them, when they call to mind how exactly it coincides with all the ancient testimonies we have already adduced on the subject, and when they learn the singular and most interesting fact, that the Cav. de Rossi has been able in more than one instance, by means of the sepulchral inscriptions, to identify the noble family by whom the site of the cemetery was originally granted.
[Footnote 78: It was highly commended and received a prize at the International Exhibition of 1862.]
It will be of course understood that we have been speaking of the earliest ages of the Church's history, and that we are far from denying that there were other periods during which secrecy was an essential condition of the Christian cemeteries; on the contrary, did our space allow, we could show what parts of the catacombs belonged to the one period, and what to the other, and what are the essential characteristics of each. We might unfold also, with considerable minuteness, the economy of these cemeteries, even during the ages of persecution; under whose management they were administered, whether they were parochial or otherwise, together with many other highly interesting particulars. But we have already exceeded the limits assigned us, and we hope that those of our readers who wish to know more on the subject will take care to possess themselves of the book from which we have drawn our information, that so funds may not be wanting for the completion of so useful a work. Nothing but a deficiency of funds, in the present condition of the pontifical treasury, hinders the immediate issue of other volumes of this and its kindred work, the Inscriptiones Christianae, by the same author. He announces his intention to bring out the volumes of Roma Sotterranea and of the Inscriptions alternately, for they mutually explain and illustrate one another, and are in fact parts of the same whole; and the public has been long impatient for the volume which is promised next, viz., the ancient inscriptions which illustrate Christian dogma.
MISCELLANY.
ART.
Domestic.—The fortieth annual exhibition of the National Academy of Design was opened to the public on the evening of April 27th, under circumstances which may well mark an era in the history of that institution. After drifting from place to place through forty long years, now deficient in funds, and now in danger of losing public sympathy or support, sometimes unable to carry out its specific purposes, and almost always cramped for space, or otherwise perplexed in the details of its public exhibitions, the Academy, like Noah's ark, long buffetted by waves and driven by tempests, finds a resting place, not on Mount Ararat, but at the corner of Fourth avenue and Twenty-third street. And as the "world's gray fathers," after their troubled voyage, regarded with infinite satisfaction terra firma and the blue sky, so doubtless the older of the academicians, those who have accompanied the institution in all its wanderings, are doubtless both pleased and amazed to find themselves arrived at a goodly haven with secure anchorage. To drop the figure, the Academy is now permanently established in an attractive and convenient building, well situated in a central locality, and bids fair to enter upon a career of usefulness far beyond the results of its previous experience.
The new building has been for so long a time completed externally, that its merits have been canvassed with every shade of opinion, from enthusiastic commendation to quite as decided disapprobation. The majority of critics, having their reputation at stake, are afraid to hazard an opinion, and prudently remain neutral, until some authoritative decision shall be made. As an architectural effort it may be called an experiment, on which account it presents perhaps as many claims to critical notice as the works of art which adorn its walls. The style, singularly enough, is assigned to no special era or country, but is described to be of "that revived Gothic, now the dominant style in England, which combines those features of the different schools of architecture of the Middle Ages which are most appropriate to our nineteenth-century buildings," which means probably that the building is of an eclectic Gothic pattern. All modern styles since the renaissance may be said to be eclectic, whether founded on antique or mediaeval models, and the building in question differs from other Gothic edifices, of more familiar aspect to us, chiefly in form, external decoration, and the arrangement of its component parts. In the American mind Gothic architecture is associated chiefly with ecclesiastical structures and is popularly supposed to be subject to no fixed laws, beyond an adherence to the irregular and picturesque. Given a cruciform ground-plan, a pointed spire, steep roof, narrow arched windows, buttresses, and pinnacles ad libitum, and you have as good a Gothic building as the public taste can appreciate. Here, however, is a nearly square building, covering an area of eighty by about a hundred feet, which is neither a church nor a college, and is without steep roof, spire, buttresses, or pinnacles. The public evidently do not fathom the mystery at present, and those whose praise of the new Academy borders on the extravagant, are perhaps as much astray in their adherence to the omne ignotum pro magnifico principle as those wiseacres who tell you knowingly that the architect has tried to palm off upon us a palpable imitation of the doge's palace in Venice. If the latter class of critics will refresh their memory a little, or consult any good print of Venetian architecture, they will find about as much resemblance between the two buildings as exists between the old Custom House in Wall street and the Parthenon. The plain fact is that we are so unused to Gothic architecture, applied to secular purposes, and to any other forms of it than the ecclesiastical, as to be without sufficient data to form a correct idea of the present edifice. And yet, such is the conceit of criticism, that thousands of persons pronounce their judgment upon it with as much confidence as they would upon a trivial matter perfectly [{421}] familiar to them. These may yet find that hasty opinions are dangerous.
The Academy, as has been hinted above, is of rectangular shape, having three stories, of which the first is devoted to the life school and the school of design, the second to the library, reception rooms, council room, and similar apartments, and the third to the exhibition galleries, five in number, with which at present we have specially to deal. The main entrance to the building is on Twenty-third street. Passing up a double flight of marble steps and through a magnificent Gothic portal into a vestibule, the visitor next enters the great hall, in the centre of which commences a broad stairway, consisting at first of a double flight of steps, and ultimately of a single flight, leading to the level of the exhibition floor. Running all around the open space on this story caused by the stairway is a corridor, two sides of which, parallel with the stairway, comprise a double arcade, supported on columns of variegated and polished marble, the capitals of which, of white marble, are hereafter to be sculptured in delicate leaf-and-flower work from nature. Opening from this corridor are the exhibition rooms, which also communicate with each other, and of which the largest is thirty by seventy-six feet, and the smallest, used as a gallery of sculpture, is twenty-one feet square. These are all lighted by sky-lights, and are intended for the purposes of the annual exhibitions. In the corridor surrounding the stairway are to be hung the works of art belonging to the Academy, although at present its walls are covered with pictures contributed to this year's exhibition. The several rooms described are well-lighted, and though smaller perhaps than the large outlay upon the building might have led the public to expect, seem excellently adapted for their purposes. The largest of them is a model exhibition gallery in respect to proportions and light, and all are tastefully finished and pannelled with walnut from floor to ceiling. Throughout the building the same costly and durable style prevails, the wood-work being of oak and walnut, and the vestibules floored with mosaic of tiles.
So much for the interior, against which no serious complaint has been uttered. Externally the walls of the basement story are of gray marble relieved by bands of graywacke, those of the story above of white marble with similar bands, while the uppermost story is of white marble with checker-work pattern of oblong gray blocks, laid stair-fashion. The whole is surmounted by a rich arcaded cornice of white marble. The double flight of white marble steps on Twenty-third street, leading to the main entrance, is, perhaps, the most marked feature of the building, at once graceful, rich, and substantial, and may fairly challenge comparison with any similar structure of like pattern in the country. Under the platform is a triple arcade, inclosing a drinking-fountain, and profusely decorated with sculpture, and from the upper landing springs the great arched Gothic portal, large enough almost for the entrance to a cathedral. On either side of this are two columns of red Vermont marble with white marble capitals and bases, on which rests a broad archivolt enriched with sculpture and varied by voussoirs, alternately white and gray. The tympanum above the door is to be filled with an elaborate mosaic of colored tile work. The basement windows, on Fourth avenue, are double, with segmental arches, each pair of which is supported in the middle on a clustered column with rich carved capital and base. All the other windows in the building have pointed arches, and the archivolts of those in the first story are decorated like that of the doorway. In the place of windows on the gallery floor are circular openings for ventilation, filled with elaborate tracery. The building was designed by Mr. P. B. Wight, and erected at a cost of over two hundred thousand dollars.
Without attempting to inquire whether this or that portion of the building is correctly designed, or even whether the whole is entirely satisfactory, or the reverse, we may say that in the opinion of most persons the external flight of steps and the entrance are too large and elaborate for the building, reminding one of those remarkable edifices for banking or other public purposes occasionally to be seen in this city, which are all portico, as if the main structure had walked away, or had not been considered of sufficient importance to be added to the entrance. It is partly owing to this defect, and partly to the insufficient area on which it is built, [{422}] that the Academy seems wanting in height and depth, and therefore devoid of just proportions—has in fact an unmistakable dumpy look. Many an architect before Mr. Wight has been prevented by want of space from effectively developing ideas intrinsically good, and perhaps the severest criticism that can be pronounced against him in the present instance is that ambition has led him to attempt what his better judgment might have taught him was impossible. "Cut your coat according to your cloth," is a maxim of which the applicability is not yet exhausted. Again, the obtrusive ugliness of the skylights, rising clear above the sculptured cornices, can hardly fail to offend the eye, and suggests the idea of an encumbered or even an overloaded roof. If to these defects be added the curious optical delusion by which the gray marble checker-work on the upper story appears uneven and awry, and which denotes a radical error in design, we believe we have mentioned the chief features of the building which even those who profess to admire it unite in condemning. The objection that the building is of unusual form and appearance, and out of keeping with the styles of architecture in vogue with us, is not worthy of serious consideration.
Having said so much in depreciation of the Academy, we must also say that it conveys on the whole an elegant, artistic, and even cheerful impression to the mind, relieving, with its beautiful contrasts of white and gray and slate, the sombre blocks of red or brown buildings which surround it, and actually lightening up the rather prosaic quarter in which it stands. Too much praise cannot be accorded to the architect for the combinations of color which he has infused into his design; and, granting that in this respect he has committed some errors of detail, they are trifling in comparison with the good effects which will probably result from the future employment of this means of embellishment. What if the idea, imperfectly embodied in this experimental building, should in the end compass the overthrow of that taste which leads us to build gloomy piles of brown houses, overlaid with tawdry ornamentation, and pronounce them beautiful? When such an innovation is attempted and finds even a moderate degree of favor, there is hope that the era of architectural coldness and poverty may yet pass away. The carving profusely distributed on both the exterior and interior of the building, and of which, we are told, "the flowers and leaves of our woods have furnished the models," is for the most part exquisite in design and execution. Here, at least, is naturalistic art, against which the sticklers for idealism can offer no objection, so beautiful and appropriate are the designs, and so suggestive of the necessity of going back to nature for inspiration. If the new Academy possessed no other merit than this, it would nevertheless subserve a useful purpose in the development of taste.
Having devoted so much space to the building, we can only allude generally to the contents of its galleries, of which we propose to speak more at length in a future notice. The exhibition, though inferior to those of some years in the number, exceeds them all in the quality of its pictures, and presents on the whole a creditable and encouraging view of the progress of American art. If the capacity of the galleries is not so great as was expected, there is on the other hand less danger that the eye will be offended by a long array of unsightly works, and we may probably bid good-bye to the monstrosities of composition and color which the Academy was formerly compelled to receive, in order to eke out its annual exhibitions. Such has been the increase in the number of our resident artists of late years, that but a limited number of pictures, and those consequently their best efforts, can henceforth be contributed by each. This fact alone will ensure a constantly increasing improvement to succeeding exhibitions. As usual, landscape predominates, with every variety of treatment and motive, from Academic generalization and pure naturalism down to Pre-Raphaelitism and hopeful though somewhat imperfect attempts at ideal sentiment. Portraiture and genre are also well represented, with a fair proportion of animal, flower, and still-life pieces, and of the numerous family of miscellaneous subjects which defy classification. History is even less affected than usual, the dramatic episodes of the great rebellion failing to suggest subjects to our painters other than those of an indirect or merely probable character. So far as the present exhibition may be supposed to afford an [{423}] indication, "high art," and particularly that branch of it which illustrates sacred history, is defunct among us—a circumstance which those who have witnessed previous efforts by contemporary American painters in that department will not perhaps regret. The pictures are generally hung with judgment, and in a spirit of fairness which ought to satisfy, though it will not probably in every instance, the demands of exhibitors. And it may be added that they appear to good effect, and are daily admired, using the word in its derived as well as its more common sense, by throngs of visitors.
Church, the landscape painter, has recently gone to the West Indies, with the intention of passing the summer in the mountain region of Jamaica, where he will doubtless find abundant materials for study. He leaves behind a large unfinished work of great promise, "The Rainbow in the Tropics," and some completed ones of less dimensions.
Augero, an Italian artist, has recently completed for a church in Boston a picture of St. Andrew bearing the cross, of which a contemporary says: "Mr. Augero has departed from the traditional types that have descended to him, and has treated the picture in a manner entirely his own. The head of the saint is finely handled, and, without being too much spiritualized, has sufficient of the ideal to give it value both as a church picture and a work of art. In general arrangement and color the work is especially to be admired." This artist is said to have received quite a number of commissions for ecclesiastical decoration.
Palmer is completing a bust of Washington Irving, which has been pronounced by the friends of the latter a successful likeness.
An essay on Gustave Doré, by B. P. G. Hamilton, will soon be published by Leypoldt of Philadelphia.
The spring exhibition of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts is now open in Philadelphia. The collections are said to be large and to represent all departments of painting.
Foreign.—The Exhibition of the Society of British Artists and the General Exhibition of Water Color Drawings opened in London in the latter part of April. The former contains more than a thousand pictures, few of which, it is said, rise above the most common average of picture-making, while the greater part fall below it. "There is something very depressing," says the Reader, "about such a large display of commonplace art. It is almost painful to have the fact forced upon one's mind, that the thought and labor represented in all these pictures is misapplied, if not wasted; for to this conclusion we must come, if we bring the display in Suffolk street to the test of comparison with any real work of art. A fine picture by Landseer or Millais would outweigh, in intrinsic value, the whole collection. Denude the Royal Academy exhibition of the works of Landseer, Millais, Philip, and other of its most accomplished contributors, and subtract from it at the same time the works of promise which lend to it so great an interest, and we should have a second Suffolk street exhibition, characterized by a similar dead level of mediocrity and insipidity; for neither highly accomplished work nor sign of promise is to be seen in this the forty-second annual exhibition of the Society of British Artists." From which it would appear that contemporary art in England gives no remarkable promise.
A large collection of the late John Leech's sketches, etc., was lately sold in London. It comprised the original designs for the political cartoons and pictures of life and character which have appeared in Punch during the last twenty years; the designs for the "Ingoldsby Legends," "Jorrock's Hunt," "Ask Mamma," "Mr. Facey Romford's Hounds," and other sporting novels, and several pictures in oil. The prices ran very high, the net result being £4,089.
The collection of paintings and water color drawings by the best modern British artists, formed by Mr. John Knowles, of Manchester, was recently disposed of in London at very handsome prices. The chief attraction was Rosa Bonheur's "Muleteers Crossing the Pyrenees," which brought 2,000 guineas. The collection realized £21,750.
Preparations are making to remove the cartoons of Raphael from Hampton Court to the new north fire-proof gallery in the South Kensington Museum, formerly occupied by the British pictures of the National Gallery.
The Great Pourtalès sale has closed [{424}] after lasting upward of a month and realizing a sum total of nearly three millions of francs. A Paris paper states that, considering the interest of the sums expended in forming the collection as money lost, the sale will give a profit on the outlay of a million and a half of francs, or about a hundred per cent.—a notable illustration of the mania for picture buying now prevailing in Europe. The owner died ten years ago, leaving directions that the collection should not be sold until 1864, for which his heirs and representatives are doubtless properly grateful. The following will give an idea of the prices fetched by the best pictures: Campagne, Ph. de: The Marriage of the Virgin, formerly the altar-piece of the chapel of the Palais Royal, sold for 43,500f. Hals, Francis: An unknown portrait of a man; his left hand leaning on his hip and touching the handle of his sword, 51,000f. Rembrandt: Portrait of a Burgomaster, 34,500f. By the same: Portrait of a veteran soldier seated at a table, 27,000f. Murillo: The Triumph of the Eucharist; with the words "In finem dilexit eos," 67,500f.; bought for the Louvre. By the same: The Virgin bending over the infant Christ, whom she presses to her bosom, 18,000f. By the same: St. Joseph holding the infant Christ by the hand, 15,000f. Velasquez: The Orlando Muerto, a bare-headed warrior, in a black cuirass, lying dead in a grotto strewn with human bones, his right hand on his breast, his left on the guard of his sword; from the roof of the grotto hangs a lamp, in which the flame is flickering, 37,000f. Albert Durer: A pen drawing, representing Samson, of colossal size, routing the Philistines with the jaw-bone of an ass, 4,500f. A portrait by Antonelli di Messina, bought years ago in Florence by Pourtalès for 1,500f., and appraised in his inventory at 20,000f., was sold to the Louvre, where it now hangs in the salon carré, for 113,000f.
Gustave Doré is announced to have undertaken to illustrate Shakespeare and the Bible.
The sale of the Due de Moray's gallery of paintings will take place in June. It contains six Meissoniers, which cost, at the utmost, not above 60,000 francs, but which will now probably fetch more than double that price.
A picture by Ribera, representing St. Luke taking the likeness of the Virgin, was sold recently in Paris for 21,000f.
French landscape art has lost one of its chief illustrators in the person of Constant Troyon, who died in the latter part of March, aged about fifty-two. He has been called the creator of the modern French school of landscape, and delighted in cheerful aspects of nature, which he rendered with masterly skill. Rural life, with its pleasing accessories of winding streams, picturesque low banks, groups of cattle, and shady hamlets, formed the favorite subjects of his pencil; and though his style was not always exact, he succeeded in infusing an unusual degree of physical life into his pictures, without ever degenerating into mere naturalism. As a colorist he excelled all contemporary animal and landscape painters, and used his brush with a freedom rivalling that of Delacroix. He died insane, and is said to have left a fortune of 1,200,000 francs. Some of his pictures are owned in New York.
A painting by Murillo, from the collection of the late Marquis Aguado, representing the death of Santa Clara, has been sold to the Royal Gallery of Madrid for 75,000 francs.