OUR NEIGHBOR.
Set it down gently at the altar rail,
The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet;
Long have we seen that pious face so pale
Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.
These many years her heart was hidden where
Nor moth nor rust nor craft of man could harm;
The blue eyes seldom lifted, save in prayer,
Beamed with her wished for heaven's celestial calm.
As innocent as childhood's was the face,
Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart;
Each trouble came as winged by special grace
And resignation saved the wound from smart.
On bead and crucifix her fingers kept
Until the last, their fond, accustomed hold;
"My Jesus," breathed the lips; the raised eyes slept.
The placid brow, the gentle hand, grew cold.
The choicely ripening cluster lingering late
Into October on its shriveled vine
Wins mellow juices which in patience wait
Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine.
Then set it gently at the altar rail,
The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet;
How can we hope if such as she can fail
Before the eternal God's high judgment-seat?
From The Literary Workmen
JENIFER'S PRAYER.
BY OLIVER CRANE.
IN THREE PARTS.
[CONCLUSION.]
PART III.
Lady Greystock drove on briskly. They were out of the shadow of the trees and again on the broad, white gleaming gravelled road that led to the west lodge, and the turnpike road to Blagden. Not a word was spoken. On went the ponies, who knew the dark shadows of the elms that stood at intervals, in groups, two or three together, by the side of the road, and threw their giant outlines across it, making the moon-light seem brighter and brighter as it silvered the surface of the broad carriage drive, and made the crushed granite sparkle--on went the ponies, shaking their heads with mettlesome impatience when the pulling of the reins offended them, not frightened at the whirling of the great droning night insects, which flew out from the oak-trees on the left, nor shying away from the shadows--on they went through the sweet, still, soft, scented night air, and the broad, peaceful light of the silent moon--on they went! Not one word mingled with the sound of their ringing hoofs, not a breath was heard to answer to the sighing of the leaves; the "good night" that had been spoken between the stranger and themselves still seemed to live in the hearing of those to whom he had spoken, and to keep them in a meditative and painful silence.
At last the lodge was reached. The servant opened the gates; the carriage was driven through; the high road was gained, and all romantic mystery was over; the dream that had held those silent ones was gone; and like one suddenly awoke, Lady Greystock said: "Eleanor! how wonderful; you knew that man! Eleanor! he knew you; asked about you; had been seeking you. Why was he there in the Beremouth woods--appearing at this hour, among the ferns and grass, like a wild creature risen from its lair? Eleanor! why don't you speak to me? Why, when he spoke of you by your name, did you not answer for yourself? Why did you send him to Jenifer? Oh! Eleanor; I feel there is something terrible and strange in all this. I cannot keep it to myself. I must tell my father. It can't be right. It cannot be for any good that we met a man lurking about, and not owned by you, though he is here to find you. Speak, Eleanor! Now that I am in the great high road I feel as if I had gone through a terror, or escaped some strange danger, or met a mystery face to face."
Lady Greystock spoke fast and in a low voice, and Eleanor, bending a little toward her, heard every word.
"You have met a mystery face to face," she said in a whisper, which, however, was sufficiently audible. "I did know that man. And I am [{319}] not denying that he sought me, and that he had a right to seek me. But many things have changed since those old days, when, if I had obeyed him, I should have done better than I did. I know what he wants; and Jenifer can give it to him. Here we are at Blagden; think no more of it, Lady Greystock."
No answer was given to Eleanor's words; they met Dr. Blagden on the steps at the door. "You are later than usual--all right?" "All quite right," said Eleanor. "The beauty of the night tempted us to come home through Beremouth," said Lady Greystock. "How lovely it would look on such a sweet, peaceful night," said Mrs. Blagden, who now joined them; and then Eleanor took the carriage wraps in her arms up stairs, and Lady Greystock went into the drawing-room, and soon after the whole household--all but Eleanor--were in bed.
Not Eleanor. She opened a box where she kept her letters, and many small objects of value to her, and carefully shutting out the moonlight, and trimming her lamp into brilliancy, she took out letter after letter from Henry Evelyn calling her his beloved one, and his wife; then the letter from Corny Nugent, saying that Henry Evelyn and Horace Erskine were one; and the one thing that Corny Nugent had sent to her as evidence--it seemed to be proof sufficient. It was a part of a letter from Horace to his uncle, Mr. Erskine, which had been flung into a waste-paper basket, and which, having the writer's signature, Corny had kept, and sent to Eleanor. Not, as he said, that he knew the man's handwriting, but that she did; and that, therefore, to her it would have value as proving or disproving his own convictions.
Eleanor had never brought this evidence to the proof. She had laid by Corny's letter, and the inclosure. She had put it all aside with the weight of a great dread on her mind, and "Not yet, not yet," was all she said as she locked away both the assertion and the proof.
But her husband was at Beremouth now. Yes; and on what errand? She knew that too.
Mrs. Brewer had called that morning to see Lady Greystock. Mrs. Brewer had come herself to tell Claudia that Mary would arrive, and that Horace would bring her. She would not trust any one but herself to give that information. She never let go the idea of Horace having behaved in some wrong way to Claudia. She knew Claudia's disposition, her bravery, her determination; and her guesses were very near the truth. "Mother Mary" had those womanly instincts which jump at conclusions; and the truths guessed at through the feelings are truths, and remain truths for ever, though reason has never proved them or investigation explained them.
Then, too, there was her sister's letter, which Mrs. Brewer had sent to Father Daniels. There the passing fancy for Claudia had been spoken of. In that letter the love of money had peeped out, and supplied the motive; but Mrs. Brewer knew very well that Claudia's disposition was not of a sort to have any acquaintance with passing fancies. If she had loved Horace, she had loved with her whole heart; and if she had been deceived in him, her whole heart had suffered, and her whole life been overcast. "Mother Mary" had felt to some purpose; and now, only herself should say to Lady Greystock that he was coming among them again.
She had arrived at Blagden and she had told Claudia everything; what Horace wished as to Mary, and what her sister and Mr. Erskine desired; and she had not hidden her own unwillingness to lose her child, or her own wish that Mary might have married, when she did marry, some one more to her mother's mind, and nearer to her mother's [{320}] house. And it was in remembrance of this conversation that Lady Greystock, when she took Jenifer into the carriage, had said: "If you ever pray for my father, and all he loves, pray now?"
Something of all this had been told by Lady Greystock to Eleanor. And in the time that the aunt and niece had been together that day, Eleanor had said to Jenifer, "He is down at the park wanting to marry Miss Lorimer."
Jenifer's darling--Jenifer's darling's darling; how she loved "Mother Mary," and Lansdowne Lorimer's child, only her own great and good heart knew. What could she do but go to God, and his priest? What human foresight could have prevented this? What human wisdom could set things right? And after all, they did not surely know that Eleanor's husband and Claudia's lover were met in one man, and that man winning the heart of lovely, innocent Mary Lorimer, and pressing marriage on her. But for her prayer, Jenifer used to say, she should have gone out of her mind. Oh, the comfort that grew out of the thought that GOD KNEW! and that her life and all that was in it were given to him. Such a shifting of responsibility--such a supporting sense of his never allowing anything to be in that life that was not, in some way, for his glory--such practical strength, such heart-sustaining power, grew out of Jenifer's prayer that even Eleanor's numbed heart rested on it, and she had learnt to be content to live, from hour to hour, a life of submission and waiting.
But was the waiting to be over now?--was something coming? If so, she must be prepared. And so, diligently, by the lamp-light, Eleanor produced her own letters, and opened that torn sheet to compare the writing. It was different in some things, yet the same. As she gazed, and examined, and compared terminations, and matched the capital letters together, she knew it was the same handwriting. Time had done its work. The writing of the present was firmer, harder, done with a worse pen, written at greater speed. But that was all the change. She was convinced; and she put away her sorrow-laden store, locked them safe from sight, said her night prayers, and went to bed. Not a sigh, nor a tear. No vain regrets, no heart-easing groans. The time for such consolations had long been passed with Eleanor. Within the last nine years her life had as much changed as if she had died and risen again into another world of intermediate trial. A very great change had been wrought in her by Lady Greystock's friendship. Eleanor had become educated. The clever, poetical girl, who had won Horace Erskine's attention by her natural superiority to everything around her--even when those surroundings had been of a comparatively high state of cultivation, had hardened into the industrious and laborious woman. When it pleased Lady Greystock to hear her sing, in her own sweet, untaught way, the songs of her own country, she had sung them; and then, when Lady Greystock had offered to cultivate the talent, she had worked hard at improvement. She had been brought up by French nuns, at a convent school, and had spoken their language from childhood; when Lady Greystock got French books, it was Eleanor's delight to read aloud; and she had made Mrs. Blagden's two little girls almost as familiar with French as she was herself. Those things had given rise to the idea that Mrs. Evelyn, as she was always called, had seen better days; and no one had ever suspected her relationship to Jenifer. Mr. Brewer alone knew of it. As to Mr. Brewer ever telling anything that could be considered, in the telling, as a breach of confidence, that was, of course, impossible.
That night--that night so important in our story, Jenifer, having done all her duties by her mistress, which were really not a few, and having seen that the girl who did the dirty [{321}] work was safe in the darkness of a safely put out candle, opened her lattice to look on the night. Her little room had a back view. That is, it looked over the flagged kitchen court, and the walled-in flower garden, and beyond toward the village of Blagden and the majestic woods at the back of the house at Beremouth.
Jenifer had gone to bed, and had risen again, oppressed by a feeling that something was, as she expressed it, "going on--something doing somewhere--'something up,' as folks say, sir. I can't account for it. I fancied I heard something--that I was wanted. And I thought at first that some one was in my room. Then I went into mistress's room, without my shoes, not to wake her. She was all right, sleeping like a tender babe. Then I went to Peggy's room. The girl was asleep. I sniffed up and down the passage, just to find if anything wrong in the way of smoke or fire was about. No; all was pure and pleasant; and then I went down stairs to make sure of the doors being locked. Everything was right, sir"--such was Jenifer's account to Mr. Brewer; who, when she paused at this point, asked: "What next did you do? Did you go upstairs again to bed?" "I went upstairs," the woman answered, "but not to bed. I sat at the window, and looked out over the garden, and over the meadows beyond the old bridge, and on to Beremouth. And the night was the brightest, fairest, loveliest night I ever beheld. And so, sir, I said my prayers once more, and went again to bed; and slept in bits and snatches, for still I was always thinking that somebody wanted me, till the clock struck six; and then I got up." "You don't usually get up at six, or before the girl gets up, do you?" "No, sir; never, I may say. But I got up to ease my mind of its burthens. And when Peggy had got up, and was down stairs, I started off for the alms-house; I thought Mr. Dawson might be up to say mass there, for it was St. Lawrence's Day." "Well?" "But there had been no message about mass, and no priest was expected. And as I got back to our door there was Mrs. Fell, the milk-woman. She had brought the milk herself. I asked how that should be. She said they had had a cow like to die in the night, and that their man had been up all night, and that she was sparing him, for he had gone to lie down. Then I said, 'Why, I could never have heard any of you busy about the cattle in the night'--you see they rent the meadows. But she said they were not in the meadows; the beasts were all in the shed at the farm. 'But,' she said, it's odd if you were disturbed, for a man came to our place just before twelve o'clock, and asked for you.' 'For me!' I cried--'a man at your place in the middle of the night, asking for me!' She said, 'Yes; and a decent-spoken body, too. But tired, and wet through and through. He said he had fallen into the Beremouth deer pond, up in the park. That is, he described the place clear enough, and we knew it was the deer pond, for it could not be anywhere else!'" "And did you ask where the man went to?" "No, sir. I lifted my eyes, and I saw him." "And who was he?" "Oh, Mr. Brewer, it must all be suffered as he gives it to me to suffer; but I am not clear about telling his name."
Mr. Brewer took out his watch and looked at it. "It is nearly ten o'clock," he said. "Where's your mistress?"
"Settled to her work, sir."
Mr. Brewer held this long talk with Jenifer in that right-hand parlor down stairs where he had paid that money to Mrs. Morier, when the reader first made his acquaintance. He had great confidence in Jenifer. He knew her goodness, and her patience, and her trust. He knew something, too, of her trials, and also of her prayer; but he had come there to investigate a very serious matter, and he was going steadily through with it.
"Listen, Jenifer."
"Yes, sir."
"Last night, just after our night prayers, Father Daniels being in the house, my friend, Mr. Erskine, who escorted my step-daughter, Mary Lorimer, home, went out into the park, just, as was supposed, to have a cigar before going to bed. Mrs. Brewer and I were in Mary's room when we heard Mr. Erskine leave the house. He certainly lighted his cigar. Mary's window was open, and we smelt the tobacco. Jenifer, he never returned."
They were both standing and looking at each other. "My life, and all that is in it!" Up went Jenifer's prayer, but voicelessly, to heaven. "My life, and all that is in it!" But a strong faith that the one terrible evil that her imagination pictured would not be in it, was strong within her.
"He never returned. My man-servant woke me in my first sleep by knocking at the bed-room door, and saying that Mr. Erskine had not returned. I rose up and dressed myself. I collected the men and went out into the park. We went to the south lodge, to ask if any one had seen him. 'No,' they said. 'But the west lodge-keeper had been there as late as near to ten o'clock, and he had said that a man had been in their house asking a good many questions about Beremouth, and who we had staying there, and if a Mr. Erskine was there, or ever had been there, and inquiring what sort of looking man he was, whether he wore a beard, or had any peculiarity? how he dressed, and if there had ever been any report of his going to be married? They had answered his questions, because they suspected nothing worse than a gossiping curiosity; and they had given him a rest, and a cup of tea. He said that a friend, a cousin of his, had lived as servant with Mr. Erskine; and he also asked if Mr. Erskine would be likely to pass through that lodge the next day, for that he had a great curiosity to see him. He said that he had known him well once, and wanted greatly to see him once more. He, after all this talking, asked the nearest way to Marston. He was directed through the park, and he left them. Our inquiries about Horace Erskine having been answered by this history told by one lodge-keeper to the other, we could not help suspecting that some one had been on the watch for the young man, and taking Jones from the lodge, and his elder boy with us, we dispersed ourselves over the park to seek for him, a good deal troubled by what we had heard. We got to the deer pond, but we had sought many places before we got there; it did not seem a likely place for a man to go to in the summer night. We looked about--we went back to get lanterns--they were necessary in the darkness made by the thick foliage; one side was bright enough, and the pool was like a looking-glass where it was open to the sloping turf, and the short fern, which the deer trample down when they get there to drink; but the side where the thorns, hollies, and yew-trees grow was as black as night; and yet we thought we could see where the wild climbing plants had been pulled away, and where some sort of struggle might have taken place. As we searched, when we came back, we found strong evidence of a desperate encounter; the branches of the great thorn-tree were hanging split from the stem, and, holding the lantern, we saw the marks of broken ground by the margin of the pond, as if some one had been struggling at the very edge of it. Then, all at once, and I shall never understand why we did not see it before--the moonbeams grew brighter, I suppose--but there in the pond was the figure of a man; not altogether in the water, but having struggled so far out as to get his head against the bank, hid as it was with the grass and low brush-wood, the ferns and large-leaved water-weeds; we laid bold of the poor [{323}] fellow--it was Horace Erskine, Jenifer!"
"My life, and all that is in it. " But the hope, the faith, rather, was still alive, that that worst grief should not be in it--so she prayed--so she felt--for Jenifer! "Master," she gasped, "not dead--not dead--Mr. Brewer."
"Not dead!" he said gravely; "he would have been dead if we had not found him when we did. He was bruised and wounded; such a sight of ill-treatment as no eyes ever before beheld, I think. He must have been more brutally used than I could have believed possible, if I had not seen it. His clothes were torn; his face so disfigured that he will scarcely ever recover the likeness of a man, and one arm is broken." "But not dead?" "No; but he may die; the doctor is in the house, and the police are out after the man whom we suspect of this horrible barbarity. Now, Jenifer, hearing some talk of a stranger who seemed to know yon, I came here to ask you to tell me, in your own honest way, your honest story."
But Jenifer seemed to have no desire to make confidences.
"Who told you of a stranger?"
"Have you not told me yourself, in answer to my first questions, before giving you my reasons for inquiring?"
"No, sir; that won't do. I judge from what you said that you had heard something of this stranger before you came here."
"I had, Jenifer." And Mr. Brewer looked steadily at her.
"Well, sir?"
"Jenifer, I have really come out of tenderness to you, and to those who may belong to you."
"No one doubts your tenderness, sir; least of any could I doubt it. Tell me who mentioned a stranger to you, so as to send you here to me?"
"Lady Greystock's groom, coming to Beremouth early, and finding us in great trouble, made a declaration as to a stranger who had appeared and stopped his mistress as she was driving through the park last night. He says this man asked if they could tell where Mrs. Evelyn lived, and Mrs. Evelyn, immediately answering, said that she lived somewhere in the neighborhood, and that he could learn by inquiring for you. The groom says that the man evidently knew Mrs. Morier's name, as well as year name; and that after speaking to him, Mrs. Evelyn asked Lady Greystock to drive on, and that she drove rapidly, and never spoke till they had almost got back to Blagden."
"It is quite true," said Jenifer. "He told me the same story this day."
"Can you say where this man is? He will be found first or last; and it is for the sake of justice that you should speak, Jenifer. The police are on his track. Let me entreat you to give me every information. Concealment is the worst thing that can be practised in such a case as this--have you any idea where he is? I do not ask you who he is; you will have to tell all, I fear, before a more powerful person than I am. I only come as a friend, that you may not be induced to conceal the evil-doer."
"The evil-doer," said Jenifer; "who says he did it?"
"I say he will be tried for doing it; and that a trial is good for the innocent in such a case of terrible suspicion as this."
"May be," said Jenifer, "may be!"
Then, once more, that prayer, said, from her very heart, though unspoken by her lips; and then these quiet words--"And as to the man himself. He is my brother. My mother's child by her second husband." "Your brother--he with whom Eleanor lived in Ireland?" "Yes, Mr. Brewer; he of whom I told you when you saved Eleanor so [{324}] many years ago. And as to where he is--step into the kitchen, sir, and you may see him sleeping in a chair by the fire--any way, I left him there, when I came to open the door to you."
Mr. Brewer had really come to Jenifer in a perfectly friendly way; exactly as he had said--out of tenderness. He had known enough to send him there, and to have those within call who would secure this stranger, whoever he was, and wherever he was found. Now, known, he walked straight into the kitchen, and there stopped to take a full view of a man in a leathern easy chair, his arm resting on Jenifer's tea-table, and sound asleep. A finer man eyes never saw. Strong in figure, and in face of a remarkable beauty. He was sunburnt; having pulled his neckcloth off, the skin of his neck showed in fair contrast, and the chest heaved and fell as the strong breath of the sleeper was drawn regularly and with healthy ease. It was a picture of calm rest; it seemed like a pity to disturb it. There stood Mr. Brewer safely contemplating one who was evidently in a state of blissful unconsciousness as to danger to others or himself.
"Your brother?" repeated Mr. Brewer to Jenifer, who stood stiff and upright by his side.
"My half-brother, James O'Keefe."
"There is some one at the front door; will you open it?"
Jenifer guessed at the personage to be found there. But she went steadily through the front passage, and, opening the door, let the policeman who had been waiting enter, and then she came back to the kitchen without uttering a word. As the man entered Mr. Brewer laid his hand on the sleeper's shoulder, and woke him. He opened his fine grey eyes, and looked round surprised. "On suspicion of having committed an assault on Mr. Horace Erskine last night, in the park at Beremouth," said the policeman, and the stranger stood up a prisoner. He began to speak; but the policeman stopped him. "It is a serious case," he said. "It may turn out murder. You are warned that anything you say will be used against you at your trial." "Are you a magistrate, sir?" asked O'Keefe as he turned to Mr. Brewer. "Yea; I am. I hope you will take the man's advice, and say nothing."
"But I may say I am innocent?" "Every word you say is at your own risk." "I ran no risk in saying that I am innocent--that I never saw this Horace Erskine last night--though if I had seen him--"
"I entreat you to be silent; you must have a legal adviser"--"I! Who do I know?"' "You shall be well looked to, and well advised," said Jenifer. "There are those in this town, in the office where Lansdowne Lorimer worked, who will work for me."
It was very hard for Mr. Brewer not to promise on the spot that he would pay all possible expenses. But the recollection of the disfigured and perhaps dying guest in his own house rose to his mind, and he had a painful feeling that he was retained on the other side. However, he said to Jenifer that perfect truth and sober justice anybody might labor for in any way. And with this sort of broad hint he left the house, and Jenifer saw the stranger taken off in safe custody, and, mounting his horse, rode toward Blagden. He asked for his daughter; and he was instantly admitted, and shown upstairs into her sitting-room--there he found Claudia, looking well and happy, engaged in some busy work, in which Eleanor was helping her.
"Oh, my dear father!" and Lady Greystock threw the work aside, and jumped up, and into the arms that waited for her.
It was always a sort of high holiday when Mr. Brewer come by himself to visit his daughter. When the sound of the brown-topped boots was [{325}] heard on the stairs, like a voice of music to Claudia's heart, all human things gave way, for that gladness that her father's great heart brought and gave away, all round him, to everybody, everywhere--but there, there, where his daughter lived--there, among the friends with whom she had recovered from a great illness and got the better of a threatened, life-long woe--there Mr. Brewer felt some strong influence making him that, which people excellently expressed when they said of him--"he was more than ever himself that day."
Now Mr. Brewer's influence was to make those to whom he addressed himself honest, open, and good. He was loved and trusted. It did not generally enter into people's minds to deceive Mr. Brewer. Candor grew and gained strength in his presence. Candor took to herself the teachings of wisdom; candor listened to the advice of humility; candor threw aside all vain-glorious garments when Mr. Brewer called for her company, and candor put on, forthwith, the crown of truth. "My darling!" said Mr. Brewer, as he kissed Claudia; "my darling!"
"Oh, my dear father--my father, my dear father!" so answered Claudia.
Then she pushed forward a chair; and then Eleanor made ready to leave the room. "Yes, go; go for half an hour, Mrs. Evelyn. But don't be out of the way; I have a fancy for a little chat with you, too, to-day." A grave smile spread itself over Eleanor's placid face as she said she should come back when Lady Greystock sent for her, and then she went away. Once more, when she was gone, Mr. Brewer stood up and taking Claudia's hand, kissed her. "My darling," he said, "I have something to say, and I can only say it to you--I have some help to ask for, and only you can help me. But are you strong enough to help me; are you loving enough to trust me?"
"I will try to be all you want, father; I am strong; I can trust--but if you want to know how much I love you--why, you know I can't tell you that--it is more than I can measure, I am afraid. Don't look grave at me. It can't be anything very solemn, if I can help you; or anything of much importance, if my help is worth your having."
"Your help is absolutely necessary; at least necessary to my own comfort--now, Claudia. Tell your father why you broke off your engagement with Horace Erskine."
"He did it"--she trembled. Her father took her little hand into the grasp of his strong one, and held it with an eloquent pressure.
"He wanted more money, father. It came as a test. He was in debt. I had loved him, as if--as if he had been what you must have been in your youth. You were my one idea of man. I had had no heart to study but yours. I learnt that Horace Erskine was unworthy. He was a coward. The pressure of his debts had crushed him into meanness. He asked me to bear the trial, and to save him. I did. I did, father!"
"Yes, my darling."
He never looked at her. Only the strong fingers closed with powerful love on the little hand within their grasp. "But you were fond of Sir Geoffrey?"
"Yes; and glad, and grateful. I should have been very happy--but--"
"But he died," said her father, helping her.
"But Horace sent to Sir Geoffrey the miniature I had given him--letters--and a lock of my poor curling hair--" How tight the pressure of the strong hand grew. "I found the open packet on the table"--she could not say another word. Then a grave, deep voice told the rest for her--"And your honored husband's soul went up to God and found the truth"--and the head of the poor memory-stricken daughter found a refuge on her father's breast, and she wept there silently.
"And that made you ill, my darling; my dear darling Claudia--my own [{326}] dear daughter! Thank you, my precious one. And you don't like Beremouth now?"
"I love Beremouth, and everything about it," cried Lady Greystock, raising her head, and gathering all her strength together for the effort; "but I dare not see this man--and I would rather never look again on the deer-pond in the park, because there he spoke: there he promised--there I thought all life was to be as that still pool, deep, and overflowing with the waters of happiness and their never-ceasing music. We used to go there every day. I have not looked on it since--I could not bear to listen to the rush of the stream where it falls over the stones between the roots of the old trees, between whose branches the tame deer would watch us, and where old Dapple--the dear old beauty whose name I have never mentioned in all these years---used to take biscuits from our hands. Does old Dapple live, father? Dapple, who was called 'old' nine years ago?" And Lady Greystock looked up, and took her hand from her father's grasp, and wiped her eyes, and wetted her fair forehead from a bowl of water, and tried by this question to get away from the misery that this sudden return to the long past had brought to mind.
"Dapple lives," said Mr. Brewer. And then he kissed her again, and thanked her, and said "they should love each other all the better for the confidence he had asked and she had given."
"But why did you ask?"
"I want to have my luncheon at your early dinner," said Mr. Brewer, not choosing to answer her. "You do dine early, don't you?"
"Yes, and to-day Eleanor was going to dine with me."
"Quite right. And I want to speak to her. Claudia, something has happened. You most know all before long. Everybody will know. You had better be in the room while I speak to Eleanor. Let us get it over. But you had better take your choice. It is still about Horace that I want to speak--to speak to Eleanor, I mean."
"I should wish to be present," said Claudia. And she rose and rang the bell.
"Will you ask Mrs. Evelyn to come to us?" she said, when her servant appeared. In a very few minutes in walked Eleanor.
"Mrs. Evelyn," said Mr. Brewer, "last night you directed a man to seek Jenifer at Mrs. Morier's house. That man was James O'Keefe, Jenifer's half-brother. You knew him?" "Yes, Mr. Brewer, I knew him." "But he did not know you?" "No." "He asked about you. Why did you send him to Marston?" "Because he could there learn all he wanted to know. I am not going to bring the shadow of my troubles into this kind house." "That was your motive?" "Yes. But I might have had more motives than one. I think that was uppermost; and on that motive I believe that I acted."
"That man was in the park. At the lodge-gate he had made inquiries after my guest, Mr. Erskine. That man was at Mrs. Fell's, the dairy-woman, at midnight. He was not through; he had, he said, fallen into the water--he described the place, and they knew it to be the deer-pond."
As Mr. Brewer went on in his plain, straightforward way, both women listened to him with the most earnest interest; but as he proceeded Eleanor Evelyn fixed her eye on him with an anxiety and a mingled terror that had a visible effect on Mr. Brewer, who hesitated in his story, and who seemed to be quite distracted by the manner of one usually so very calm and so unfailingly self-processed.
"Now Mr. Erskine had gone out into the park late. Mr. Erskine, my dear friends,--Mr. Erskine never came back." [{327}] He paused, and collected his thoughts once more, in order to go on with his story.
"We went to seek for him. He was found at last, at the deer-pond, surrounded by the evidences of a hard struggle having taken place there, a struggle in which he had only just escaped with his life. He has been ill-treated in a way that it is horrible to contemplate. He is lying now in danger of death. And this morning I have assisted in the capture of James O'Keefe, whom I found by Mrs. Morier's kitchen fire, for this possible murder. I should tell you that Mr. Erskine is just as likely to die as to live."
"Mr. Brewer," said Eleanor, rising up and taking no notice of Lady Greystock's deathlike face,--"Mr. Brewer, is there any truth in a report that has reached me from a man who was in the elder Mr. Erskine's service in Scotland--a report to the effect that Mr. Horace Erskine wished to propose marriage, or had proposed marriage, to Miss Lorimer?"
"There is truth in that report," said Mr. Brewer.
"Then I must see that man," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Before this terrible affair can proceed, I must see Horace Erskine. If indeed it be true that he has received this terrible punishment, I can supply a motive for James O'Keefe's conduct that any jury ought to take into consideration."
"But O'Keefe denies having ever seen him," said Mr. Brewer. "He does not deny having inquired about him. He even said words before me that would make me suppose that he had come into this neighborhood on purpose to see him, and to take some vengeance upon him. Mr. Erskine is found with the marks of the severest ill-usage about him, and you say you can supply a motive for such a deed. O'Keefe, however, denies all but the will to work evil; he confesses to the will to do the deed, but denies having done it."
"I must see Mr. Erskine," was all that Eleanor answered. "I must see Mr. Erskine. Whether he sees me or not, I must see him. "
The young woman was standing up--her face quite changed by the expression of anxious earnestness that animated it.
"I must see Mr. Erskine. Mr. Brewer, you must so manage it that I must see Mr. Erskine without delay."
"But you would do no good," said Mr. Brewer, in a very stern tone and with an utter absence of all his natural sympathy. "The man is so injured that his own mother could not identify him."
"Then may God have mercy on us!" cried Eleanor, sinking into a chair. "If I could only have seen that man before this woe came upon us!"
And then that woman burst into one of those uncontrollable fits of tears that are the offspring of despair. Lady Greystock looked at her for a moment, and then rose from her chair. "Victories half won are neither useful nor honorable," she said. "Wait, Eleanor, I will show you what that man was."
She opened a large metal-bound desk, curiously inlaid, and with a look of wondrous workmanship. She said, looking at her father, "I left this at Beremouth, never intending to see it again, But it got sent here a few years ago. It has never been opened since I locked it before my wedding day." She opened it, and took out several packets and small parcels. Then she opened one--it was a miniature case which matched that one of herself which had been so cruelly sent to good, kind Sir Geoffrey--she opened it "Who is that, Eleanor?" It was curious to see how the eyes, blinded by tears, fastened on it "My husband--my husband--Henry Evelyn. My husband, Mr. Brewer. Oh, Lady Greystock, thank God that at any cost he did not run his soul still [{328}] farther into sin by bringing on you and on himself the misery of a marriage unrecognized by God."
"And because your unde, James O'Keefe, heard the report that got about concerning that man and Miss Lorimer, he ran his own soul into a guilt that may by this time have deepened into the crime of murder. Oh, Eleanor! when shall we remember that 'vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?'"
"My life, and all that is in it!" The words came forth softly, and Mr. Brewer, turning round, saw Jenifer.
"He has been before the magistrates at Marston, Mr. Brewer. He has denied all knowledge of everything about it. He is remanded on the charge--waiting for more evidence--waiting to see whether Mr. Erskine lives or dies. I hired a gig, and came off here to you as fast as I could be driven. Mr. May, in the old office, says that if Mr. Erskine dies, it will be hard to save him. But the doctor's man tells me Mr. Erskine has neither had voice nor sight since he was found--I saw Father Daniels in the street, and he, too, is evidence against the poor creature. He knows of Corny Nugent's letter; and Corny wrote to Jem also, so Jem told me, and he came off here to make sure that Horace Erskine and Henry Evelyn were the same people. And he walked from the Northend railway station, and asked his way to Beremouth, and got a gossip with the gate-keeper, and settled to come on to Marston. And he met Lady Greys took in the carriage, and asked where Eleanor lived, and inquired his way. Did you know him, Eleanor?"
"Yes, I knew him directly; and it was partly because I knew him that I directed him on to you."
"Then he lost his way, and took to getting out of the park by walking straight away in the direction he knew Marston to be lying in. And he got by what we call 'the threshetts,' sir--the water for keeping the fishponds from shallowing--and there he must have fallen in, for he says he climbed the hedge just after, and walked straight away through the grass fields and meadows, and seeing the lights where the Fells were tending the sick cow last night, he got in there, all dripping wet, as the town-clock struck twelve. He does not deny to the magistrates that if he had found Horace Erskine and Henry Evelyn to be one and the same man, that he might have been tempted to evil; he does not deny that. He says he felt sore tempted to go straight to Beremouth House and have him out from sleep and bed, if to do so could have been possible, and to have given him his punishment on the spot. He says he wished as he wandered through the park that something might send the man who had injured us all so sorely out to him, to meet him in the way, that they might have come hand to hand, and face to face. He says he has had more temptations since Corny Nugent's letter to him, and more heart-stirrings in the long silent time before it came, than he can reckon up; and that he has felt as if a dark spirit goaded him to go round the world after that man, and never cease following him till he had made his own false tongue declare to all the earth his own false deeds--but something, he says, kept him back. Always kept him back till now; till now, when Corny's last letter said that Erskine was surely gone to Beremouth to be married. Then, he said, it was as if something sent him--ah yes; and sent him here to see the man, to make sure who he was. To tell you, as a brother Catholic, the whole truth--to keep from the dear convert mother the bitter grief of seeing her child bound to a man whom she could never call that child's husband. So [{329}] he came, Mr. Brewer. He came, and he was found here--but he knows no more of the punishment of that poor man, that poor girl's husband"--pointing to Eleanor--"than an unborn babe. As I hear him speak, I trace the power of the prayer that I took up long ago in my helplessness--when I could not manage my own troubles, my own life, my own responsibilities, it came into my heart to offer all to him. 'My life and all that is in it. ' You and yours have been in it, Mr. Brewer. Your wife has been in it, her life, and her child's--you, too, my dear," turning to Claudia,--"you whom I have loved like one belonging to me--you have been in it; and that woman, my sister's legacy to my poor helplessness. There were so many to care for, to fear for, to suffer for, and to love--how could I put things right, or keep off dangers? I could only give up all to the Father of us all--'My life, and all that is in it. ' And I tell you this, Mr. Brewer--I tell it [to] you because my very soul seems to know it, and my lips must utter it: In that life there will be no red-handed punishment--no evil vengeance--no vile murder, nor death without repentance. I cannot tell you, I cannot even guess, how that bad man got into this trouble--I have no knowledge of whose hands he fell into--but not into the hands of any one who belongs to me, or to that life which has been so long given into God's keeping."
Jenifer stopped speaking. She had been listened to with a mute attention. Her hearers could not help feeling convinced by her earnestness. She had spoken gently, calmly, sensibly. The infection of her entire faith in the providence of God seized them. They, too, believed. Lady Greystock, the only one not a Catholic, said afterward that she felt quite overpowered by the simple trust that Jenifer showed, and the calm strength with which it endowed her. And Lady Greystock was the first to answer her.
"It is no time for self-indulgence," she said. "Father, Eleanor and I must both go to Beremouth. And we must stay there. We must be there on the spot, to see how these things are accounted for--to know how matters end--to help, as far as we may, to bring them right."
And so, before two hours were over, Jenifer was back in Mrs. Morier's parlor, and Mary Lorimer was with her; sent there to stay; and Lady Greystock and Mrs. Evelyn were at Beremouth.
There was silence in the house, that sort of woful silence that belongs to the anxiety of a dreadful suspense. Toward evening there were whispered hopes--Mr. Erskine was better, people thought. But the severest injuries were about the neck and throat, the chest and shoulders. His hair had been cut off in large patches where the head wounds were--his face was disfigured with the bandages that the treatment made necessary. He lay alive, and groaning. He was better. When more was known about the injuries done to the throat and chest, something less doubtful would be said as to his recovery. "If he can't swallow, he'll die," said one nurse. "He can live long enough without swallowing," said another. And still they waited.
At night, Eleanor and Lady Greystock stood in the room, with Mr. Brewer, far off by the door, looking at him. There was no love in either heart. The poor wife shrank away, almost wishing that the period of desertion might last for ever.
A week passed, a terribly long week. He could swallow. He could speak. He could see out of one eye. He had his senses. He had said something about his arm. He would be ready in another week to give some account of all he had gone [{330}] through. He would be able, perhaps, to identify the man. In the meantime, James O'Keefe was safe in custody. And Jenifer was saying her prayer--"My life, and all that is in it;" still quite sure, with a strong, simple, never-failing faith, that the great evil of a human and remorseless vengeance was not in it. And yet, as time passed on, and, notwithstanding every effort made by the police, backed by the influence of all that neighborhood, and by Mr. Brewer himself, not a mark of suspicion was found against any one else, it seemed to come home to every one's mind with the force of certainty that James O'Keefe had tried to murder Horace Erskine--that James O'Keefe had done this thing, and no one else.
Very slowly did Horace seem to mend--very slowly. When questions were put to him in his speechless state, he seemed to grow so utterly confused as to alarm his medical attendants. It was made a law at Beremouth that he was to be kept in perfect quietness. James O'Keefe was again brought before the magistrates, and again remanded; and still this time of trial went on, and still, when it was thought possible to speak to Horace on the subject of his injuries, he grew so utterly confused that it was impossible to go on with the matter.
Was there to be no end to this misery? The waiting was almost intolerable. The knowledge that now existed in that house of Horace Erskine's life made it very easy to understand his confusion and incoherency when spoken to of his injuries. But the lingering--the weight of hope deferred--the long contemplation of the miserable sufferer--the slowness of the passage of time, was an inexpressible burthen to the inhabitants of Beremouth.
One sad evening, Lady Greystock and her father, on the terrace, talked together. "Come with me to the deer-pond, Claudia." She shrank from the proposal "Nay," he said, "come! You said at Blagden that half victories were powerless things. You must not be less than your own words. Come to the deer-pond--now." So she took his arm and they walked away. It was the beginning of a sweet, soft night--the evening breezes played about them, and they talked together in love and confidence, as they crossed the open turf, and were lost in the thickets that gathered round the gnarled oak and stunted yew that marked the way to the pond.
It had been many years since Claudia had seen its peaceful waters; terrible in dreams once; and now saddened by a history that would belong to it for ever. They reached the spot, and stood there talking.
Suddenly they heard a sound, they started--a tearing aside of the turning boughs--a sound, strong, positive, angry--then a gentle rustling of the leaves, a soft movement of the feathery fern--and Lady Greystock had let go her father's arm, and was standing with her hand on the head, between the antlers, of a huge old deer--Dapple--"Don Dapple," as the children had called him--and speaking to him tenderly--"Oh, Dapple, do you know me? Oh, Dapple--alas! poor beast--did you do it--that awful thing? Are you so fierce, poor beast--were you the terrible avenger?" How her tears fell! How her whole frame trembled! How the truth came on her as she looked into the large, tearful eyes of the once tame buck, that had grown fanciful and fierce in its age, and of whom even some of the keepers had declared themselves afraid. Mr. Brewer took biscuit from his coat-pocket, chance scraps from lunches, secreted from days before, when he had been out on long rounds through the farms. These old Dapple nibbled, and made royal gestures of satisfaction and approval--and there, viewing his stately head in the water, where his spreading antlers were mirrored, they left him to walk home, with one wonder out of their hearts, and another--wondering awe at the thing that had happened among them--to by their for ever.
They came back, they called the doctors, they examined the torn clothes. They wondered they had never thought of the truth before.
Time went on. And at last, when Horace could speak, and they asked him about the old deer at the pond, he said that it was so--it was as they had thought. It had been an almost deadly struggle between man and beast; and Horace was to bear the marks upon the face and form that had been loved so well to his life's end. A broken-featured man, lame, with a stiff arm, and a sightless eye--and the story of his ruined life no longer a secret--known to all.
Lady Greystock and Mrs. Evelyn remained at Beremouth. Mary Lorimer was left at her grandmother's under the care of the trusty Jenifer. James O'Keefe had returned to Ireland, leaving his niece and her history in good guardianship with Father Daniels and Mr. Brewer; and Freddy, being at school, had been happily kept out of the knowledge of all but the surface facts, which were no secrets from anybody, that a man who had been seen in the park and was a stranger in the neighborhood had been suspected of being the perpetrator of the injuries of which the old deer had been guilty. Poor old deer--poor aged Dapple! It was with a firm hand and an unflinching determination that the kindest man living met the beast once more at the deer-pond, and shot him dead. Mr. Brewer would trust his death to no hand but his own--and there in the thicket where he loved to hide a grave was dug, and the monarch of the place was buried in it.
Lady Greystock and Eleanor kept their own rooms, and lived together much as they had done latterly at Blagden. When Horace Erskine was fit to leave his bed-room, he used to sit in a room that had been called "Mr. Brewer's." It was, in fact, a sort of writing-room, fitted up with a small useful library and opening at the end into a bright conservatory. He had seen Lady Greystock. He knew of Eleanor being in the house. He knew also that his former relations with her were known, and he never denied, or sought to deny, the fact of their Catholic marriage.
No one ever spoke to him on the subject. The subject that was first in all hearts was to see him well and strong, and able to act for himself. One thing it was impossible to keep from him; and that was the anger of Mr. Erskine, his unde, an anger which Lucia his wife did not try to modify. Mrs. Brewer wrote to her sister; Mr. Brewer pleaded with his brother-in-law. Not a thing could they do to pacify them. Horace was everything that was evil in their eyes; his worst crime in the past was his having made a Catholic marriage with a beautiful Irish girl, and their great dread for the future was that he would make this marriage valid by the English law. They blamed Mr. Brewer for keeping Eleanor in the house; they were thankless to Mr. Brewer for still giving to Horace care, kindness, and a home. Finally, the one great dread that included all other dreads, and represented the overpowering woe, was that contained in the thought that Horace might repent, and become a Papist.
Mr. Brewer, when it came to that, set his all-conquering kindness aside for the time, or, to adopt his wife's words when describing these seeming changes in her husbands's character, "he clothed his kindness in temporary armor, and went out to fight." He replied to Mr. and Mrs. Erskine that for such a grace to fall on Horace would be the answer of mercy to the prayer of a poor woman's faith--that he and all his household joined in that prayer; that priests at the altar, and nuns in their holy homes, were all praying for that great result; and that for himself he would only say that for such a mercy to fall upon his house would make him glad for ever.
There was no disputing with a man who could so openly take his stand on [{332}] such a broad ground of hope and prayer in such direct opposition to the wishes of his neighbors. The Erskines became silent, and Mr. Brewer had gained all he hoped for; peace, peace at least for the time.
At last Horace was well enough to move, and Freddy's holidays were approaching, and there was an unexpressed feeling that Horace was not to be at Beremouth when the boy came back. Mr. Brewer proposed that Horace should go for change of air to the same house in which Father Dawson was lodging, just beyond Clayton, where the sea air might refresh him, and the changed scene amuse his mind; and where, too, he could have the benefit of all those baths, and that superior attendance, described in the great painted advertisement that covered the end of the lodging-houses in so promising a manner. Horace accepted the proposal gladly. He grew almost bright under the expectation of the change, and when the day came he appeared to revive, even under the fatigue of a drive so much longer than any that he had been before allowed to venture upon.
Mr. Dawson was to be kind, and to watch over him a little; and Father Daniels was to visit him, and write letters for him, and be his, adviser and his friend. Before he left Beremouth he had asked to see Lady Greystock. She went with her father to his room quite with the old Claudia Brewer cheerfulness prettily mingling with woman's strength and woman's experience. He rose up, and said, "I wished to ask you to forgive me, Lady Greystock--to forgive me my many sins toward you!" She trembled a little, and said, "Mr. Erskine, may God forgive me my pride, my anger, my evil thoughts, which have made me say so often I could never see nor pardon you." It seemed to require all her strength to carry out the resolution with which she had entered that room. "Of course," she went on, "the personal trial that you brought upon me, here, in my young days, I know now to have been a great blessing in a grief's disguise. Though not--not yet--a Catholic, I know you were then, as now, a married man." Horace Erskine never moved; he was still standing, holding by the heavy writing-table, and his eyes were fastened on the carpet. She went on: "Since then your wife, a beautiful and even an accomplished woman, has become my own dear friend. We are living together, and until she has a home of her own, we shall probably go on living together. I have nothing, therefore, to say more, except--except--" Here her voice trembled, and changed, and she was only just able to articulate her last words so as to be understood by her hearers, "Except about my dear husband's death--better death than life under misapprehension. That too was a blessing perhaps. Let us leave it to the Almighty Judge. I forgive you; if you wish to hear those words from my poor erring lips, you may remember that I have said them honestly, submitting to the will of him who loves us, and from whom I seek mercy for myself."
She turned round to leave the room. "Stop, Lady Greystock; stop!" cried Horace. "In this solemn moment of sincerity, tell me--do you think Eleanor loves me now?" "I would rather not give any opinion." "If you have ever formed an opinion, give it. I entreat you to tell me what is, as far as you know, the truth. Does Eleanor love me?" "Must I speak, father?" "So solemnly entreated, I should say, yes. " "Does Eleanor love me?" groaned Horace. "No," said Lady Greystock; and turning round quickly, she left her father alone with Horace, and went out of the room.
Five years passed by. Freddy was growing into manhood, enjoying home by his bright sister Lady [{333}] Greystock's side, and paying visits to his other sister, the happy bride, Mrs. Harrington, of Harrington-leigh, the master of which place, "a recent convert," as the newspapers said, "had lately married the convert step-daughter of Mr. Brewer, of Beremouth." Lady Greystock always lived with her father now, united to him in faith, and joining him in such a flood of good works that all criticism, all wonderment, all lamentation and argument at "such a step!" was simply run down, overpowered, deluged, drowned. The strong flowing stream of charity was irresistible. The solemn music of its deep waters swallowed up all the surrounding cackle of inharmonious talk. Nothing was heard at Beremouth but prayer and praise--evil tongues passed by that great good house to exercise themselves elsewhere. Evil people found no fitting habitation for their wandering spirits in that home of holy peace. And all his life Mr. Brewer walked humbly, looking at Claudia, and calling her "my crown!" She knew why. He had repented with a great sorrow of those early days when he had left her to others' teaching. He had prayed secretly, with strong resolutions, to be blessed with forgiveness. And at last the mercy came--"crowned at last. All the mercies of my life crowned by the great gift of Claudia's soul." So the good man went on his way a penitent. Always in his own sight a penitent. Always recommending himself to God in that one character--as a penitent.
Five years were passed, and Lady Greystock had been at Mary's wedding, and was herself at Beremouth, still in youth and beauty, once more the petted daughter of the house--but Eleanor was there no longer. Full three years had passed since Eleanor had gone to London with Lady Greystock, and elected not to return. They heard from her however, frequently; and knew where she was. When these letters came Claudia would drive off to Marston to see Grandmamma Morier, still enjoying life under Jenifer's care. The letters would be read aloud upstairs in the pretty drawing-room where the fine old china looked as gay and bright as ever, and where not a single cup and saucer had changed its place. Jenifer would listen. Taking careful note of every expression, and whispering--sometimes in the voice of humble prayer, sometimes in soft tones of triumphant thanksgiving--"My life, and all that is in it!"
But now this five years' close had been marked by a great fact; the death of Horace Erskine's uncle, and his great estate passing to his nephew, whom he had never seen since their quarrel with him, but whom he had so far forgiven as not to alter his will.
Horace Erskine was in London; and his Beremouth friends were going up to town to welcome him home after four years of life on the continent.
London was at its fullest and gayest. Mr. Erskine had been well known there, making his yearly visits, taking a great house, and attracting round him all the talent of the day. A very rich man, thoroughly well educated, with a fine place in Scotland, and his beautiful wife Lucia by his side, he found himself welcome, and made others in their turn welcome too. Now all this was past. For two seasons London had missed Mr. Erskine, and he had been regretted and lamented over, as a confirmed invalid. Now he was dead. And after a little brief wonder and sorrow the attention of the world was fixed upon his heir, and people of fashion, pleasure, and literature got ready their best smiles for his approval.
Horace had been well enough known once. Never exactly sought [{334}] after by heads of homes, for he was too much of a speculation. He was known to be in debt; and all inquiries as to his uncle's property had been quenched again and again by those telling words, "no entail." But Horace had had his own world; and had been only too much of a hero in it. That world, however, had lost him; and as the wheels of fashion's chariot fly fast, the dust of the light road rises as a cloud and hides the past, and the people that belonged to Horace Erskine had been left behind and forgotten. Now, however, Memory was alive, and brushing up her recollections; and Memory had found a tongue, and was hoping and prophesying to the fullest extent of friend Gossip's requirements, when the news came that Horace Erskine had arrived. "He has taken that charming house looking on to the park. Mr. Tudor had seen him. Nobody would know him. Broken nose, my dear! And he was so handsome. He is lame, too--or if not lame, he has a stiff shoulder. I forget which it is. He was nearly killed by some mad animal in the park at Beremouth. He behaved with the most wonderful courage, actually fought and conquered! But he was gored and trampled on--nearly trampled to death. I heard all the particulars at the time. His chest was injured, and he was sent to a warmer climate. And there he turned Papist. He did, indeed! and his uncle never forgave him. But I suspect it was a love affair. You know he has brought his wife home. And she is lovely, everybody who has seen her says. She is so very still--too quiet--too statuesque--that is her only fault in fact. But all the world is talking of her, and if you have not yet seen her lose no time in getting introduced; she is the wonder of the day."
And so ran the talk--and such was Eleanor's welcome as Horace Erskine's wife. Her husband had really repented, and had sought her, and won her heart all over again, and married her once more.
To have these great triumphs of joy and justice in her life was granted to Jenifer's Prayer.
From The Month.
SAINTS OF THE DESERT.
BY VERY REV. J. H. NEWMAN, D.D.
1. Abbot Cyrus said to a brother: "If thou hadst no fight with bad thoughts, it would be because thou didst bad actions; for they who do bad actions are thereby rid of bad thoughts."
"But," said the other, "I have bad memories."
The abbot answered: "They are but ghosts; fear not the dead, but the living."
2. When Agatho was dying, his brethren would have asked him some matter of business. He said to them: "Do me this charity; speak no more with me, for I am full of business already." And he died in joy.
3. An old man visited one of the fathers. The host boiled some pot-herbs, and said: "First let us do the work of God, and then let us eat."
[ORIGINAL.]
CHRISTINE:
A TROUBADOUR'S SONG,
IN FIVE CANTOS.
BY GEORGE H. MILES. [Footnote 53]
[Footnote 53: Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by Lawrence Kehoe, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.]
(CONCLUDED.)
THE FOURTH SONG.
I.
Amid the gleam of princely war
Christine sat like the evening star,
Pale in the sunset's pageant bright,
A separate and sadder light.
O bitter task
To rear aloft that shining head,
While round thee, cruel whisperers ask--
"Marry, what aileth the Bridegroom gay?
The heralds have waited as long as they may.
Yet never a sign of the gallant Grey.
Is Miolan false or dead?"
II.
The Dauphin eyed Christine askance:
"We have tarried too long," quoth he;
"Doth the Savoyard fear the thrust of France?
By the Bride of Heaven, no laggard lance
Shall ever have guard of thee!"
[{336}]
You could see the depths of the dark eyes shine
And a glow on the marble cheek,
As she whispered, "Woe to the Dauphin's line
When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine
Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak."
She levelled her white hand toward the west,
Where the omen beacon shone;
And he saw the flame on the castle crest.
And a livid glare light the mountain's breast
Even down to the rushing Rhone.
Never braver lord in all the land
Than that Dauphin true and tried;
But the rein half fell from his palsied hand
And his fingers worked at the jewelled brand
That shook in its sheath at his side.
For it came with a curse from earliest time,
It was carved on his father's halls,
It had haunted him ever from clime to clime,
And at last the red light of the ancient rhyme
Is burning on Pilate s walls!
Yet warrior-like beneath his feet
Trampling the sudden fear,
He cried, "Let thy lover's foot be fleet--
If thy Savoyard would wed thee, sweet.
By Saint Mask, he were better here!
"For I know by yon light there is danger near,
And I swear by the Holy Shrine,
Be it virgin spear or Miolan's heir.
The victor to-day shall win and wear
This menaced daughter of mine!"
The lists are aflame with the gold and steel
Of knights in their proud array,
And gong and tymbalon chiming peal
As forward the glittering squadrons wheel
To the jubilant courser's neigh.
The Dauphin springs to the maiden's side,
And thrice aloud cries he,
"Ride, gallants all, for beauty ride,
Christine herself is the victor's bride.
Whoever the victor be!"
[{337}]
And thrice the heralds cried it aloud,
While a wondering whisper ran
From the central lists to the circling crowd,
For all knew the virgin hand was vowed
To the heir of Miolan.
Quick at the Dauphin's plighted word
Full many an eve flashed fire,
Full many a knight took a truer sword,
Tried buckle and girth, and many a lord
Chose a stouter lance from his squire.
Back to the barrier's measured bound
Each gallant speedeth away;
Then, forward fast to the trumpet's sound,
A hundred horsemen shake the ground
And meet in the mad melée.
Crimson the spur and crimson the spear,
The blood of the brave flows fast;
But Christine is deaf to the dying prayer,
Blind to the dying eyes that glare
On her as they look their last.
She sees but a Black Knight striking so well
That the bravest shun his path;
His name or his nation none may tell,
But wherever he struck a victim fell
At the feet of that shape of wrath.
"'Fore God," quoth the Dauphin, "that unknown sword
Is making a merry day!"
But where, oh where is the Savoyard,
For low in the slime of that trampled sward
Lie the flower of the Dauphinée!
And the victor stranger rideth alone,
Wiping his bloody blade;
And now that to meet him there is none.
Now that the warrior work is done,
He moveth toward the maid.
Sternly, as if he came to kill,
Toward the damsel he turneth his rein;
His trumpet sounding a challenge shrill,
While the fatal lists of La Sône are still
As he paces the purple plain.
[{338}]
A hollow voice through the visor cried,
"Mount to the crupper with me.
Mount, Ladye, mount to thy master's side.
For 'tis said and 'tis sworn thou shalt be the Bride
Of the victor, whoever he be."
At sound of that voice a sudden flame
Shot out from the Dauphin's eyes,
And he said, "Sir Knight, ere we grant thy claim,
Let us see the face, let us hear the name,
Of the gallant who winneth the prize."
"'Tis a name you know and a face you fear,"
The Wizard Knight began;
"Or hast thou forgotten that midnight drear,
When my sleeping fathers felt the spear
Of Vienne and Miolan?
"Ay, quiver and quail in thy coat of mail,
For hark to the eagle's shriek;
See the red light burns for the coming bale!"
And all knew as he lifted his aventayle
The Knight of Pilate's Peak.
From the heart of the mass rose a cry of wrath
As they sprang at the shape abhorred,
But he swept the foremost from his path,
And the rest fell back from the fatal swath
Of that darkly dripping sword.
But uprose the Dauphin brave and bold,
And strode out upon the green,
And quoth he, "Foul fiend, if my purpose hold,
By my halidome, tho' I be passing old,
We'll splinter a lance for Christine.
"Since her lovers are low or recreant.
Her champion shall be her sire;
So get a fresh lance from yonder tent.
For though my vigor be something spent
I fear neither thee nor thy fire!"
Swift to the stirrup the Dauphin he sprang,
The bravest and best of his race:
No bugle blast for the combat rang;
Save the clattering hoof and the armor clang,
All was still as each rode to his place.
[{339}]
With the crash of an April avalanche
They meet in that merciless tilt;
Back went each steed with shivering haunch.
Back to the croup bent each rider staunch.
Shivered each spear to the hilt.
Thrice flies the Baron's battle-axe round
The Wizard's sable crest;
But the coal-black steed, with a sudden bound,
Hurled the old Crusader to the ground,
And stamped on his mailed breast.
Thrice by the vengeful war-horse spurned,
Lowly the Dauphin lies;
While the Black Knight laughed as again he turned
Toward the lost Christine, and his visor burned
As he gazed at his beautiful prize.
Her doom you might read in that gloating stare,
But no fear in the maid can you see;
Nor is it the calm of a dumb despair,
For hope sits aglow on her forehead fair.
And she murmurs, "At last--it is he!"
Proudly the maiden hath sprung from her seat,
Proudly she glanceth around,
One hand on her bosom to stay its beat,
For hark! there's a sound like the flying feet
Of a courser, bound after bound.
Clearing the lists with a leopard-like spring,
Plunging at top of his speed.
Swift o'er the ground as a bird on the wing.
There bursts, all afoam, through the wondering ring,
A gallant but riderless steed.
Arrow-like straight to the maiden he sped.
With a long, loud, tremulous neigh,
The rein flying loose round his glorious head.
While all whisper again, "Is the Savoyard dead?"
As they gaze at the riderless Grey.
One sharp, swift pang thro' the virgin heart,
One wildering cry of woe.
Then fleeter than dove to her calling nest,
Lighter than chamois to Malaval's crest
She leaps to the saddle bow.
[{340}]
"Away!" He knew the sweet voice; away,
With never a look behind;
Away, away, with echoing neigh
And streaming mane, goes the gallant Grey,
Like an eagle before the wind.
They have cleared the lists, they have passed her bower,
And still they are thundering on;
They are over the bridge--another hour,
A league behind them the Leaning Tower
And the spires of Saint Antoine.
Away, away in their wild career
Past the slopes of Mont Surjeu;
Thrice have they swum the swift Isère,
And firm and clear in the purple air
Soars the Grand Som full in view.
Rough is their path and sternly steep,
Yet halting never a whit,
Onward the terrible pace they keep,
While the good Grey, breathing free and deep,
Steadily strains at the bit.
They have left the lands where the tall hemp springs,
Where the clover bends to the bee;
They have left the hills where the red vine flings
Her clustered curls of a thousand rings
Round the arms of the mulberry tree.
They have left the lands where the walnut lines
The roads, and the chestnuts blow;
Beneath them the thread of the cataract shines,
Around them the plumes of the warrior pines.
Above them the rock and the snow.
Thick on his shoulders the foam flakes lay.
Fast the big drops roll from his chest,
Yet on, ever on, goes the gallant Grey,
Bearing the maiden as smoothly as spray
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
Onward and upward, bound after bound,
By Bruno's Bridge he goes;
And now they are treading holy ground,
For the feet of her flying Caliph sound
By the cells of the Grand Chartreuse.
[{341}]
Around them the darkling cloisters frown,
The sun in the valley hath sunk;
When right in her path, lo! the long white gown,
The withered face and the shaven crown
And the shrivelled hand of a monk.
A light like a glittering halo played
Round the brow of the holy man;
With lifted finger her course he stayed,
"All is not well," the pale lips said,
"With the heir of Miolan.
"But in Chambery hangs a relic rare
Over the altar stone:
Take it, and speed to thy Bridegroom's bier;
If the Sacristan question who sent thee there,
Say, 'Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.'"
She bent to the mane while the cross he signed
Thrice o'er the suppliant head:
"Away with thee, child!" and away like the wind
She went, with a startled glance behind,
For she heard an ominous tread.
The moon is up, 'tis a glorious night,
They are leaving the rock and the snow,
Mont Blanc is before her, phantom white,
While the swift Isère, with its line of light,
Cleaves the heart of the valley below.
But hark to the challenge, "Who rideth alone?"--
"O warder, bid me not wait!--
My lover lies dead and the Dauphin o'erthrown--
A message I bear from the Monk of Cologne"--
And she swept thro' Chambery's gate.
The Sacristan kneeleth in midnight prayer
By Chamber's altar stone.
"What meaneth this haste, my daughter fair?"
She stooped and murmured in his ear
The name of the Monk of Cologne.
Slowly he took from its jewelled case
A kerchief that sparkled like snow.
And the Minster shone like a lighted vase
As the deacon unveiled the gleaming face
Of the Santo Sudario.
[{342}]
A prayer, a tear, and to saddle she springs,
Clasping the relic bright;
Away, away, for the fell hoof rings
Down the hillside behind her--God give her wings!
The fiend and his horse are in sight.
On, on, the gorge of the Doriat's won,
She is nearing her Savoyard's home,
By the grand old road where the warrior son
Of Hanno swept with his legions dun,
On his mission of hatred to Rome.
The ancient oaks seem to rock and reel
As the forest rushes by her,
But nearer cometh the clash of steel,
And nearer falleth the fatal heel,
With its flickering trail of fire.
Then first the brave young heart grew sick
'Neath its load of love and fear,
For the Grey is breathing faint and quick,
And his nostrils burn and the drops fall thick
From the point of each drooping ear.
His glorious neck hath lost its pride,
His back fails beneath her weight.
While steadily gaining, stride by stride,
The Black Knight thunders to her side--
Heaven, must she meet her fate?
She shook the loose rein o'er the trembling head,
She laid her soft hand on his mane,
She called him her Caliph, her desert-bred,
She named the sweet springs where the palm trees spread
Their arms o'er the burning plain.
But the Grey looked back and sadly scanned
The maid with his earnest eyes--
A moment more and her cheek is fanned
By the black steed's breath, and the demon hand
Stretches out for the virgin prize.
But she calls on Christ, and the kerchief white
Waves full in the face of her foe:
Back with an oath reeled the Wizard Knight
As his steed crouched low in the wondrous light
Of the Santo Sudario.
[{343}]
Blinded they halt while the maiden hies,
The murmuring Arc she can hear,
And, lo! like a cloud on the shining skies,
Atop of yon perilous precipice,
The castle of Miolan's Heir.
"Fail not, my steed!"--Round her Caliph's head
The relic shines like the sun:
Leap after leap up the spiral steep,
He speeds to his master's castle keep,
And his glorious race is won.
"Ho, warder!"--At sight of the gallant Grey
The drawbridge thundering falls:
Wide goes the gate at that jubilant neigh,
And, glory to God for his mercy to-day,
She is safe within Miolan's walls.
THE FIFTH SONG.
I.
In the dim grey dawn by Miolan's gate
The fiend on his wizard war-horse sate.
The fair-haired maid at his trumpet call
Creeps weeping and wan to the outer wall:
"My curse on thy venom, my curse on thy spell,
They have slain the master I loved too well.
Thou saidst he should wake when the joust was o'er,
But oh, he never will waken more!"
She tore her fair hair, while the demon laughed,
Saying, "Sound was the sleep that thy lover quaffed;
But bid the warder unbar the gate,
That the lost Christine may meet her fate."
II.
"Hither, hither thou mailèd man
With those woman's tears in thine eyes,
With thy brawny cheek all wet and wan,
Show me the heir of Miolan,
Lead where my Bridegroom lies."
[{344}]
And he led her on with a sullen tread.
That fell like a muffled groan,
Through halls as silent as the dead,
'Neath long grey arches overhead,
Till they came to the shrine of Moan.
What greets her there by the torches' glare?
In vain hath the mass been said!
Low bends the sire in mute despair,
Low kneels the Hermit in silent prayer.
Between them the mighty dead.
No tear she shed, no word she spoke,
But gliding up to the bier,
She took her stand by the bed of oak
Where her Savoyard lay in his sable cloak,
His hand still fast on his spear.
She bent her burning cheek to his,
And rested it there awhile.
Then touched his lips with a lingering kiss,
And whispered him thrice, "My love, arise,
I have come for thee many a mile!"
The man of God and the ancient Knight
Arose in tremulous awe;
She was so beautiful, so bright,
So spirit-like in her bridal white,
It seemed in the dim funereal light
Twas an angel that they saw.
"Thro' forest fell, o'er mount and dell,
Like the falcon, hither I've flown.
For I knew that a fiend was loose from hell,
And I bear a token to break this spell
From Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.
"Dost thou know it, love? when fire and sword
Flamed round the Holy Shrine,
It was won by thee from the Paynim horde,
It was brought by thee to Bruno's guard,
A gift from Palestine.
"Wake, wake, my love! In the name of Grace,
That hath known our uttermost woe,
Lo! this thorn-bound brow on thine I place!"
And, once more revealed, shone the wondrous face
Of the Santo Sudario.
[{345}]
At once over all that ancient hall
There went a luminous beam;
Heaven's deepest radiance seemed to fall,
The helmets shine on the shining wall,
And the faded banners gleam.
And the chime of hidden cymbals rings
To the song of a cherub choir;
Each altar angel waves his wings,
And the flame of each altar taper springs
Aloft in a luminous spire.
And over the face of the youth there broke
A smile both stern and sweet;
Slowly he turned on the bed of oak,
And proudly folding his sable cloak
Around him, sprang to his feet.
Back shrank the sire, half terrified,
Both he and the Hermit, I ween;
But she--she is fast to her Savoyard's side,
A poet's dream, a warrior's bride,
His beautiful Christine.
Her hair's dark tangles all astray
Adown her back and breast;
The print of the rein on her hand still lay.
The foam-flakes of the gallant Grey
Scarce dry on her heaving breast.
She told the dark tale and how she spurred
From the Knight of Pilate's Peak;
You scarce would think the Bridegroom heard.
Save that the mighty lance-head stirred.
Save for the flush in his cheek;
Save that his gauntlet clasped her hair--
And oh, the look that swept
Between them!--all the radiant air
Grew holier--it was like a prayer--
And they who saw it wept.
E'en the lights on the altar brighter grew
In the gleam of that heavenly gaze;
The cherub music fell soft as dew,
The breath of the censer seemed sweeter too.
The torches mellowed their requiem hue,
And burnt with a bridal blaze.
[{346}]
And the Baron clasps his son with a cry
Of joy as his sorrows cease;
While the Hermit, wrapt in his Rosary,
Feels that the world beneath the sky
Hath yet its planet of peace.
But hark! by the drawbridge, shrill and clear,
A trumpet's challenge rude:
The heart of Christine grew faint with fear,
But the Savoyard shook his mighty spear,
And the blood in his forehead stood.
"Beware, beware, 'tis the Fiend!" quoth she:
"Whither now!" asks the ancient Knight,
"What meanest thou, boy?--Leave the knave to me:
Wizard, or fiend, or whatever he be,
By the bones of my fathers, he shall flee
Or ne'er look on morning light.
"What, thou just risen from the grave,
Atilt with an armèd man?
Dost dream that youth alone is brave,
Dost deem these sinews too old to save
The honor of Miolan?"
But the youth he answered with gentlest tone,
"I know thee a warrior staunch.
But this meeting is meant for me alone.
Unhand me, my lord, have I woman grown?
Wouldst stop the rushing of the Rhone,
Or stay the avalanche?"
He broke from his sire as breaks the flash
From the soul of the circling storm:
You could hear the grasp of his gauntlet crash
On his quivering lance and the armor clash
Round that tall young warrior form.
"Be this thy shield?" the maiden cried,
Her hand on the kerchief of snow;
"If forth to the combat thou wilt ride,
Face to face be the Fiend defied
With the Santo Sudario!"
But the young Knight laid the relic rare
On the ancient altar-stone;
"Holy weapons to men of prayer.
Lance in rest and falchion bare
Must answer for Miolan's son."
[{347}]
Again the challenger's trumpet pealed
From the barbican, shrill and clear;
And the Savoyard reared his dinted shield,
Its motto, gold on an azure field--
"ALLES ZU GOTT UND IHR."
To horse!--From the hills the dawning day
Looks down on the sleeping plain;
In the court-yard waiteth the gallant Grey,
And the castle rings with a joyous neigh
As the Knight and his steed meet again.
And the coal-black charger answers him
From the space beyond the gate,
From the level space, where dark and dim
In the morning mists, like giant grim,
The Fiend on his war-horse sate.
Oh, the men at arms how they stared aghast
When the Heir of Miolan leapt
To saddle-bow sounding his bugle-blast;
How the startled warder breathless gasped.
How the hoary old seneschal wept!
And the fair-haired maid with a sob hath sprung
To the lifted bridle rein;
Fast to his knee her white arms clung,
While the waving gold of her fair hair hung
Mixed with Grey Caliph's mane.
"O Miolan's heir, O master mine,
O more than heaven adored,
Live to forget this slave of thine,
Wed the dark-eyed Maid of Palestine,
But dare not yon demon sword!"
But the Baron thundered, "Off with the slave!"
And they tore the white arms away,
"A woman 's a curse in the path of the brave;
Level thy lance and upon the knave,
For he laughs at this fool delay!
"But pledge me first in this beaker bright
Of foaming Cyprian wine;
Thou hast fasted, God wot, like an anchorite.
Thy cheeks and brow are a trifle white,
And, 'fore heaven, thou shall bear thee in this fight
As beseemeth son of mine!"
[{348}]
The youth drank deep of the burning juice
Of the mighty Marètel,
Then, waving his hand to his Ladye thrice,
Swifter than snow from the precipice,
Spurred full on the infidel.
"O Bridegroom bold, beware my brand!"
The Knight of Pilate cries,
"For 'tis written in blood by Eblis' hand,
No mortal might may mine withstand
Till the dead in arms arise."
"The dead are up, and in arms arrayed,
They have come at the call of fate:
Two days, two nights, as thou know'st, I've laid
On oaken bier"--and again there played
That halo light round the Mother Maid
In the niche by the castle gate.
Each warrior reared his shining targe,
Each plumed helmet bent.
Each lance thrown forward for the charge,
Each steed reined back to the very marge
Of the mountain's sheer descent.
The rock beneath them seemed to groan
And shudder as they met;
Away the splintered lance is thrown,
Each falchion in the morning shone,
One blade uncrimsoned yet
But the blood must flow and that blade must glow
E'er their deadly work be done;
Steel rang to steel, blow answered blow,
From dappled dawn till the Alpine snow
Grew red in the risen sun.
The Bridegroom's sword left a lurid trail,
So fiercely and fleetly it flew;
It rang like the rattling of the hail,
And wherever it fell the sable mail
Was wet with a ghastly dew.
The Baron, watching with stern delight,
Felt the heart in his bosom swell:
And quoth he, "By the mass, a gallant sight!
These old eyes have gazed on many a fight,
But, boy, as I live, never saw I knight
Who did his devoir so well!"
[{349}]
And oh, the flush o'er his face that broke,
The joy of his shining eyes,
When, backward beaten, stroke by stroke,
The wizard reeled, like a falling oak,
Toward the edge of the precipice.
On the trembling verge of that perilous steep
The demon stood at bay.
Calling with challenge stern and deep,
That startled the inmost castle keep,
"Daughter of mine, here's a dainty leap
We must take together to-day.
"Come, maiden, come!" Swift circling round,
Like bird in the serpent's gaze,
She sprang to his side with a single bound.
While the black steed trampled the flinty ground
To fire, his nostrils ablaze.
"Farewell!" went the fair-haired maiden's cry,
Shrilling from hill to hill;
"Farewell, farewell, it was I, 'twas I,
Who sinned in a jealous agony,
But I loved thee too well to kill!"
High reared the steed with the hapless pair,
A plunge, a pause, a shriek,
A black plume loose in the middle air,
A foaming plash in the dark Isére,--
Thus banished for ever the maiden fair
And the Knight of Pilate's Peak.
A mighty cheer shook the ancient halls,
A white hand waved in the sun,
The vassals all on the outer wall
Clashed their arms at the brave old Baron's call,
"To my arms, mine only one!"
But oh, what aileth the gallant Grey,
Why droopeth the barbèd head?
Slowly he turned from that fell tourney
And proudly breathing a long, last neigh,
At the castle gate fell dead.
III.
Lost to all else, forgotten e'en
The dark eyes of his dear Christine,
His fleet foot from the stirrup freed,
The Knight knelt by his fallen steed.
[{350}]
Awhile with tone and touch of love
To cheer him to his feet he strove:
Awhile he shook the bridle-rein--
That glazing eye!--alas, in vain.
Bareheaded on that fatal field.
His gauntlet ringing on his shield,
His voice a torrent deep and strong,
The warrior's soul broke forth in song.
THE KNIGHT'S SONG
And art thou, art thou dead,--
Thou with front that might defy
The gathered thunders of the sky.
Thou before whose fearless eye
All death and danger fled!
My Khalif, hast thou sped
Homeward where the palm-trees' feet
Bathe in hidden fountains sweet,
Where first we met as lovers meet,
My own, my desert-bred!
Thy back has been my home;
And, bending o'er thy flying neck,
Its white mane waving without speck,
I seemed to tread the galley's deck.
And cleave the ocean's foam.
Since first I felt thy heart
Proudly surging 'neath my knee,
As earthquakes heave beneath the sea,
Brothers in the field were we;
And must we, can we part?
To match thee there was none!
The wind was laggard to thy speed:
O God, there is no deeper need
Than warrior's parted from his steed
When years have made them one.
And shall I never more
Answer thy laugh amid the clash
Of battle, see thee meet the flash
Of spears with the proud, pauseless dash
Of billows on the shore?
[{351}]
And all our victor war,
And all the honors men call mine,
Were thine, thou voiceless warrior, thine;
My task was but to touch the rein--
There needed nothing more.
Worst danger had no sting
For thee, and coward peace no charm;
Amid red havoc's worst alarm
Thy swoop as firm as through the storm
The eagle's iron wing.
O more than man to me!
Thy neigh outsoared the trumpet's tone.
Thy back was better than a throne,
There was no human thing save one
I loved as well as thee!
O Knighthood's truest friend!
Brave heart by every danger tried,
Proud crest by conquest glorified.
Swift saviour of my menaced Bride,
Is this, is this the end?--
Thrice honored be thy grave!
Wherever knightly deed is sung.
Wherever minstrel harp is strung,
There too thy praise shall sound among
The beauteous and the brave.
And thou shalt slumber deep
Beneath our chapel's cypress sheen;
And there thy lord and his Christine
Full oft shall watch at morn and e'en
Around their Khalif's sleep.
There shalt thou wait for me
Until the funeral bell shall ring.
Until the funeral censer swing.
For I would ride to meet my King,
My stainless steed, with thee!
----
The song has ceased, and not an eye
'Mid all those mailed men is dry;
The brave old Baron turns aside
To crush the tear he cannot hide.
[{352}]
With stately step the Bridegroom went
To where, upon the battlement,
Christine herself, all weeping, leant.
Well might that crested warrior kneel
At such a shrine, well might he feel
As if the angel in her eyes
Gave all that hallows Paradise.
And when her white hands' tender spell
Upon his trembling shoulder fell.
Upward one reverent glance he cast,
Then, rising, murmured, "Mine at last!"
"Yes, thine at last!" Still stained with blood
The Dauphin's self beside them stood.
"Fast as mortal steed could flee,
My own Christine, I followed thee.
Saint George, but 'twas a gallant sight
That miscreant hurled from yonder height:
Brave boy, that single sword of thine,
Methinks, might hold all Palestine.
But see, from out the shrine of Moan
Cometh the good Monk of Cologne,
Bearing the relic rare that woke
Our warrior from his bed of oak.
See him pass with folded hands
To where the shaded chapel stands.
The Bridegroom well hath won the prize,
There stands the priest, and there the altar lies."
IV.
When the moon rose o'er lordly Miolan
That night, she wondered at those ancient walls:
Bright tapers flashing from a hundred halls
Lit all the mountain--liveried vassals ran
Trailing from bower to bower the wine-cup, wreathed
With festal roses--viewless music breathed
A minstrel melody, that fell as falls
The dew, less heard than felt; and maidens laughed.
Aiming their curls at swarthy men who quaffed
Brimmed beakers to the newly wed: while some
Old henchmen, lolling on the court-yard green
Over their squandered Cyprus, vowed between
Their cups, "there was no pair in Christendom
To match their Savoyard and his Christine?"
----
[{353}]
The Trovère ceased, none praised the lay,
Each waited to hear what the King would say.
But the grand blue eye was on the wave,
Little recked he of the tuneless stave:
He was watching a bark just anchored fast
With England's banner at her mast,
And quoth he to the Queen, "By my halidome,
I wager our Bard Blondel hath come!"
E'en as he spoke, a joyous cry
From the beach proclaimed the Master nigh;
But the merry cheer rose merrier yet
When the Monarch and his Minstrel met.
The Prince of Song and Plantagenet.
"A song!" cried the King. "Thou art just in time
To rid our ears of a vagrant's rhyme:
Prove how that recreant voice of thine
Hath thriven at Cyprus, bard of mine!"
The Minstrel played with his golden wrest,
And began the "Fytte of the Bloody Vest. "
The vanquished Trovère stole away
Unmarked by lord or ladye gay:
Perchance one quick, kind glance he caught,
Perchance that glance was all he sought.
For when Blondel would pause to tune
His harp and supplicate the moon,
It seemed as tho' the laughing sea
Caught up the vagrant melody;
And far along the listening shore.
Till every wave the burthen bore,
In long, low echoes might you hear--
"Alles, Alles zu Gott und Ihr!"
From The Dublin Review.
THE CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS OF ALEXANDRIA.--ORIGEN.
Origenis Opera Omnia, Ed. De la Rue, accurante J. P. Migne. Parisiis. S. Gregorii Thaumaturgi, Oratio Panegyrica in Origenem (Opera Omnia), accurante J. P. Migne. Parisiis.
Last July we commenced a sketch of the history and labors of Origen. We resume our notes on those twenty years (211-280) which he spent with little interruption at Alexandria, engaged chiefly in the instruction of the catechumens. We have already seen what he did for the New Testament; let us now study his labors on the Old.
The authorship of that most famous Greek version of the Old Testament, the Septuagint, seems destined to be a mystery in literature. The gorgeous and circumstantial account of the Jew Aristeas, with all its details of embassy and counter-embassy, of the seventy-two venerable sages, the cells in the rock, the reverence of the Ptolemy, and the wind-up of banquets, gifts, and all good things, seems, as Dom Montfaucon says, to "savor of the fabulous." There is some little difficulty about dates in the matter of Demetrius Phalerius, the literary minister under whose auspices the event is placed. There is a far more formidable difficulty in the elevation of Philadelphus, a cruel, sensual despot, into a devout admirer of the law of Moses, bowing seven times and weeping for joy in presence of the sacred documents, and in the sudden conversion of all the cultivated Greeks who are concerned in the story. The part of Aristeas's narration which regards the separate cells, and the wonderful agreement of the translations, is curtly set down by St. Jerome as a fiction. It seems probable, moreover, that the translator of the Pentateuch was not the same as the translate of the other parts of the Old Testament. In the midst of uncertainties and probabilities, however, four things seem to be tolerably clear; first, that the version called the LXX. was made at Alexandria; secondly, that it was the work of different authors; thirdly, that it was not inspired; fourthly, that it was a holy and correct version, quoted by the apostles, always used in the Greek church, and the basis of all the Latin editions before St Jerome's Vulgate.
All the misfortunes that continual transcription, careless blundering, and wilful corruption could combine to inflict upon a manuscript had fallen to the lot of the Septuagint version at the time when it was handed Origen to be used in the instruction of the faithful and the refutation of Jew and Greek. This was only what might have been fully expected from the fact that, since the Christian era, it had become the court of appeal of two rival sets of controversialists--the Christian and the Jew. Indeed, from the very beginning it had been defective, and, if we may trust St. Jerome, designedly defective; for the Septuagint translation of the prophetical books had purposely omitted [{355}] passages of the Hebrew which its authors considered not proper to be submitted to the sight of profane Greeks and Gentiles. Up to the Christian era, however, we may suppose great discrepancies of manuscript did not exist, and that those variations which did appear were not much heeded in the comparatively rare transcription of the text. The Hellenistic Jews and the Jews of Palestine used the LXX. in the synagogues instead of the Hebrew. A few libraries of great cities had copies, and a few learned Greeks had some idea of their existence. Beyond this there was nothing to make its correctness of more importance than that of a liturgy or psalm-book. But, soon after the Christian era, its character and importance were completely changed. The eunuch was reading the Septuagint version when Philip, by divine inspiration, came up with him and showed him that the words he was reading were verified in Jesus. This was prophetic of what was to follow. The Christians used it to prove the divine mission of Jesus Christ; the Jews made the most of it to confute the same. Thereupon, somewhat suspiciously, there arose among the Jews a disposition to underrate the LXX., and make much of the Hebrew original. Hebrew was but little known, whereas all the intellectual commerce of the world was carried on by means of that Hellenistic Greek which had been diffused through the East by the conquests of Alexander. If, therefore, the Jews could bar all appeals to the well-known Greek, and remove the controversy to the inner courts of their own temple, the decision, it might be expected, would not improbably turn out to be in their own favor. Just before Origen's own time more than one Jew or Judaizing heretic had attempted to produce Greek versions which should supersede the Septuagint. Some ninety years before the period of which we write, Aquila, a Jewish proselyte of Sinope, had issued what professed to be a literal translation from the Hebrew. It was so uncompromisingly literal that the reader sometimes found the Hebrew word or phrase imported bodily into the Greek, with only the slight alteration of new characters and a fresh ending. Its purpose was not disavowed. It was to furnish the Greek-speaking Jews with a more exact translation from the Hebrew, in order to fortify them in their opposition to Christianity. Some five years later, Theodotion, an Ebionite of Ephesus, made another version of the Septuagint; he did not profess to re-translate it, but only to correct it where it differed from the Hebrew. A little later, and yet another Ebionite tried his hand on the Alexandrian version; this was Symmachus. His translation was more readable than that of Aquila, as not being so utterly barbarous in expression; but it was far from being elegant, or even correct, Greek.
Of course Origen could never dream of substituting any of these translations for the Septuagint, stamped as it was with the approbation of the whole Eastern church. But still they might be made very useful; indeed, notwithstanding the original sin of motive to which they owed their existence, we have the authority of St. Jerome, and of Origen himself, for saying that even the barbarous Aquila had understood his work and executed it more fairly than might have been expected. What Origen wanted was to get a pure Greek version. To do this he must, of course, compare it with the Hebrew; but the Hebrew itself might be corrupt, so he must seek help also elsewhere. Now these Greek versions, made sixty, eighty, ninety years before, had undoubtedly, he could see, been written with the Septuagint open before their writers. Here, then, was a valuable means of testing how far the present manuscripts of the Septuagint had been corrupted during the last century at [{356}] least. He himself had collected some such manuscripts, and the duties of his office made him acquainted with many more. From the commencement of his career he had been accustomed to compare and criticise them, and he had grown skilful, as may be supposed, in distinguishing the valuable ones from those that were worthless. We have said sufficient to show how the idea of the "Hexapla" arose in his mind. The Hexapla was nothing less than a complete transcription of the Septuagint side by side with the Hebrew text, the agreement and divergence of the two illustrated by the parallel transcription of the versions of Aquila, Theodotion, and Symmachus; the remaining column containing the Hebrew text in Greek letters. The whole of the Old Testament was thus transcribed sixfold in parallel columns. These extra illustrations were furnished by the partial use of three other Greek versions which Origen found or picked up in his travels, and which he considered of sufficient importance to be occasionally used in his great work. And Origen was not content with the mere juxtaposition of the versions. The text of the Septuagint given in the Hexapla was his own; that is to say, it was an edition of the great authoritative translation completely revised and corrected by the master himself. It was a great and a daring work. Of its necessity there can be no doubt; but nothing except necessity could have justified it; and it is certainly to the bold and unprecedented character of the enterprise that we owe the shape that he has given it in performance. To correct the Septuagint to his own satisfaction was not enough; it must be corrected to the satisfaction of jealous friends and, at least, reasonable enemies. Side by side, therefore, with his amended text he gave the reasons and the proofs of his corrections. He was scrupulously exact in pointing out where he had altered by addition or subtraction. The Alexandrian critics had invented a number of critical marks of varied shape and value, which they industriously used on the works about which they exercised their propensity to criticise. Origen, "Aristarchus sacer," as an admiring author calls him, did not hesitate to avail himself of these profane notae. There was the "asterisk," or star, which marked what he himself had thought it proper to insert, and which, therefore, the original authors of the Septuagint had apparently thought it proper to leave out. Then there was the "obelus," or spit, the sign of slaughter, as St. Jerome calls it; passages so marked were not in the original Hebrew, and were thereby set down as doubtful and suspected by sound criticism. Moreover, there was the "lemniscus," or pendent ribbon, and its supplement, the "hypo-lemniscus;" what these marks signified the learned cannot agree in stating. It seems certain, however, that they were not of such a decided import as the first two, but implied some minor degree of divergence from the Hebrew, as for instance in those passages where the translators had given an elegant periphrasis instead of the original word, or had volunteered an explanation which a critic would have preferred to have had in the margin. The "asterisk" and "obelus" still continue to figure in those scraps of Origen's work that have come down to us; so, indeed, does the lemniscus; but since the times of St. Epiphanius and St. Jerome no MS. seems to make much distinction between it and the "asterisk." Of the other marks, contractions, signs, and references which the MSS. of Hexapla show, the greater part have been added by transcribers who had various purposes in view. Some of these marks are easy to interpret, others continue to exercise the acumen of the keenest critics.
The Hexapla, as may be easily supposed, was a gigantic work. The labor of writing out the whole of the [{357}] Old Testament six times over, not to mention those parts which were written seven, eight, or nine times, was prodigious. First came the Hebrew text twice over, in Hebrew characters in the first column, in Greek in the second. Biblical scholars sigh to think of the utter loss of Origen's Hebrew text, and of what would now be the state of textual criticism of the Old Testament did we possess such a Hebrew version of a date anterior to Masoretic additions. But among the scattered relics of the Hexapla the Hebrew fragments are at once fewest in number and most disputable in character. The two columns of Hebrew were followed by Aquila the stiff, and be by Symmachus, so that the Jews could read their Hebrew and their two favorite translations side by side. Next came the Septuagint itself, pointed, marked, and noted by the master. Theodotion closed the array, except where portions of the three extra translations before mentioned had to be brought in. Beside these formidable columns, which may be called the text of the Hexapla, space had to be found for Origen's own marginal notes, consisting of critical observations and explanations of proper names or difficult words, with perhaps an occasional glance at the Syriac and Samaritan. Fifty enormous volumina would hardly have contained all this, when we take into consideration that the characters were in no tiny Italian hand, but in great broad uncial penmanship, such as befitted the text and the occasion. The poverty and unprovidedness of Origen would never have been able to carry such a work through had not that very poverty brought him the command of money and means. It is always the detached men who accomplish the really great things of the world. Origen had converted from some form of heresy, probably from Valentinianism, a rich Alexandrian named Ambrose. The convert was one of those zealous and earnest men who, without possessing great powers themselves, are always urging on and offering to assist those who have the right and the ability to work, but perhaps not the means or the inclination. The adamantine Origen required no one to keep him to his work; and yet the grateful Ambrose thought he could make no better return for the gift of the faith than to establish himself as prompter-in-chief to the man that had converted him. He seems to have left his master very little peace. He put all his wealth at his service, and it would appear that he even forced him to lodge with him. He was continually urging Origen to explain some passage of Scripture, or to rectify some doubtful reading. During supper he had manuscripts on the table, and the two criticised while they ate; and the same thing went on in their walks and recreations. He sat beside him far into the night, prayed with him when he left his books for prayer, and after prayer went back with him to his books again. When the master looked round in his catechetical lectures, doubtless the indefatigable Ambrose was there, note-book in hand, and doubtless everything pertaining to the lectures was rigidly discussed when they found themselves together again; for Ambrose was a deacon of the church, and as such had great interest in its external ministration. Origen calls him his
, or work-presser. and in another place he says he is one of God's work-pressers. There is little doubt that the Hexapla is in great measure owing to Ambrose. Origen resisted long his friend's solicitations to undertake a revision of the text; reverence for the sacred words, and for the tradition of the ancients, held him back; but he was at length prevailed upon. Ambrose, indeed, did a great deal more than advise and exhort; he put at Origen's disposal seven short-hand writers, to take down his dictations, and seven transcribers to write out fairly what the others had taken down. And so the gigantic work was begun. When it was finished we cannot exactly tell, but it cannot have been till near the end of [{358}] his life, and it was probably completed at Tyre, just before he suffered for the faith. After his death, the great work, "opus Ecclesia," as it was termed, was placed in the library of Caesarea of Palestine. Probably no copy of it was ever taken; the labor was too great. It was seen, or at least quoted, by many; such as Pamphylus the Martyr, Eusebius, St. Athanasius, Didymus, St. Hilary, St. Eusebius of Vercelli, St. Epiphanius, St. Basil, St. Gregory Nyssen, St. Ambrose, St. Augustine, and especially St. Jerome and Theodoret. It perished in the sack of Caesarea by the Persians or the Arabs, before the end of the seventh century. [Footnote 54]
[Footnote 54: A new edition of the fragments of the Hexapla is announced, at we write, by Mr. Field, of Norwich. The first instalment of this important work, for which there are now many more materials than Dom Montfaucon had at command, may be expected almost as we go to press. The editor's new sources are chiefly the recently discovered Sinaitic MSS., and the Syro-Hexaplar version, part of which he has lately re-translated into Greek in a very able manner, by way of a specimen.]
We need not say much here about the Tetrapla. Its origin appears to have been as follows: When the Hexapla was completed, or nearly completed, it was evident that it was too bulky to be copied. Origen, therefore, superintended the production of an abridgment of it. He omitted the two columns of Hebrew, the great stumbling-block to copyists, and suppressed some of his notes. He then transcribed Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodotion, putting his amended version of the Septuagint, without the marks and signs, just before the last. The two first answered the purposes of a Hebrew text, the last was a sort of connecting link between it and the freedom of the Septuagint; and so, for all practical purposes, he had a version that friends might put their trust in, and that enemies could not dispute.
Such was the work that Origen did for the Bible. It was not all done at once, in a year, or in ten years. It was begun almost without a distinct conception of what it would one day grow to. It progressed gradually, in the midst of many cares and much other labor, and it was barely completed when its architect's busy life was drawing to a close. Every one of those twenty years at Alexandria, which we are now dwelling upon, must have seen the work going on. The seven short-hand writers, and the seven young maidens who copied out, were Origen's daily attendants, as he seems to say himself. But the catechetical school was in full vigor all this time. Indeed, the critical fixing of the Bible text, wonderful as it was, was only the material part of his work. He had to preach the Bible, not merely to write it out. His preaching will take us to a new scene and to new circumstances--to Caesarea, where the greater part of his homilies were delivered. But, before we accompany him thither, we must take a glance at his school at Alexandria, and try to realize how he spoke and taught. We have already described his manner of life, and the description of his biblical labors will have given some idea of a very important part of his daily work; what we have now to do is to supplement this by the picture of him as the head of the great catechetical school.
One of the most striking characteristics of the career of Origen is the way in which his work grew upon him. It is, indeed, a feature in the lives of all the great geniuses who have served the church and lived in her fold, that they have achieved greatness by an apparently unconscious following of the path of duty rather than by any brilliant excursion under the guidance of ambition. Origen was the very opposite of a proud philosopher or self-appointed dogmatizer. He did not come to his task with the consciousness that he was the man of his age, and that he was born to set right the times. We have seen his birth and bringing up, we have seen how he found himself in the important place that he held, and we have seen how all his success [{359}] seemed to come to him whilst he was merely bent on carrying through with the utmost industry the affair that had been placed in his hands. We have seen that, so far was he from trying to fit the gospel to the exigencies of a cramped philosophy,--that he was brought up and passed part of his youth without any special acquaintance with philosophy or philosophers. He found, however, on resuming his duties as catechist, that if he wished to do all the good that offered itself to his hand, he must make himself more intimate with those great minds who, erring as he knew them to be, yet influenced so much of what was good and noble in heathenism. At that very time, a movement, perhaps a resurrection, was taking place in Gentile philosophy. A teacher, brilliant as Plato himself, and with secrets to develop that Plato had only dreamt of, was in possession of the lecture-hall of the Museum. Ammonius Saccas had landed at Alexandria as a common porter; nothing but uncommon energy and extraordinary talents can have given him a position in the university and a place in history, as the teacher of the philosophic Trinity and the real founder of Neo-Platonism. Origen, to whom the Museum had been strange ground in his early youth, saw himself compelled to frequent it at the age of thirty. Saccas, to be sure, was probably a Christian of some sort. At any rate, the Christian teacher went and heard him, and made himself acquainted with what it was that was charming the ears of his fellow-citizens, and furnishing ground for half of the objections and difficulties that his catechumens and would-be converts brought to him for solution. That the influence of these studies is seen in his writings is not to be denied. It would be impossible for any mind but the very dullest to touch the spirit of Plato and not to be impressed and affected. The writings of Origen at this period include three philosophical works. There is first the "Notes on the Philosophers," which is entirely lost. We may suppose it to have been the common-place book wherein was entered what he learnt from his teacher, and what he thought of the teacher and the doctrine. Then there is the "Stromata" (a work of the same nature as the Stromata of his master, St. Clement), whose leading idea was the great master-idea of Clement, that Plato and Aristotle and the rest were all partially right, but had failed to see the whole truth, which can only be known by revelation. This work, also, is lost--all but a fragment or two. Thirdly, there is the celebrated work,
, or, "De Principiis." Eusebius tells us expressly that this work was written at Alexandria. Most unfortunately, we have this treatise not in the original, but in two rival and contradictory Latin versions, one by St. Jerome, the other by Ruffinus. Both profess to be faithful renderings of a Greek original, and on the decision as to which version is the genuine translation depends in great measure the question of Origen's orthodoxy or heterodoxy. And yet this treatise, "De Principiis," much as it has been abused, from Marcellus of Ancyra down to the last French author who copied out Dom Ceillier, and waiving the discussion of certain particular opinions that we may have yet to advert to, seems to us to bear the stamp of Origen on every page. It is such a work as a man would have written who had come fresh from an exposition of deep heathen philosophy, and who felt, with feelings too deep for expression, that all the beauty and depth of the philosophy he had heard were overmatched a thousand times by the philosophy of Jesus Christ. It is the first specimen, in Christian literature, of a regular scientific treatise on the principles of Christianity. Every one knows that a discussion on the principles or sources of the world, of man, of life, was one of the commonest shapes of controversy between the [{360}] schools of philosophy; and at that very time, the great Longinus, who probably sat beside Origen in the school of Ammonius Saccas, was writing or thinking out a treatise with the very title of that of Origen. It was a natural idea, therefore, to show his scholars that he could give them better principia than the heathens. The treatise takes no notice, or next to none, of heathen philosophy and its disputes; but it travels over well-known ground, and what is more, it provokes comparison in a very significant manner. For instance, the words wherewith it commences are words which Plato introduces in the "Gorgias," and to those who knew that elaborate dialogue, the sudden and unhesitating introduction of the name of Christ, and the calm position that he and none else is the truth, and that in him is the science of the good and happy life, must have been quite as striking as its author probably intended it to be. The treatise is not in the Platonic form--the dialogue; that form, which was suitable to the days of the Sophists and the sharp-tongued Athenians, had been superseded at Alexandria by the ornate monologue, more suitable to an audience of novices and wonderers. Origen adopts this form. One God made all things, himself a pure spirit; there is a Trinity of divine persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; of the rational creatures of God, some fell irremediably, others fell not at all; others again--that is, the race of man--fell, but not irremediably, having a mediator in Jesus Christ, being assisted by the good angels and persecuted by the bad; the wonderful fact that the Word was made flesh; man's free will, eternal punishment and eternal reward; such are the heads of the subjects treated of in the "De Principiis." The lame and disjointed condition of the present text is evident on a very cursory examination; it is perfectly unworthy of the "contra Celsum." But the reader who studies the text carefully, by the light of contemporary thought, can hardly help thinking that materials so solid and good must have been put together in a form as satisfactory and as conclusive. A first attempt in any science is always more admired for its genius than criticised for its faults. This of Origen's was a first attempt toward a scientific theology. We say a theology, not a philosophy; for, though philosophic in form, and accepted as philosophy by his hearers, it is wholly theological in matter, being founded on the continual word of Holy Scripture, and not unfrequently undertaking to refute heresy. Christianity, as we have before observed, was looked upon by strangers as a philosophy, and its doctors rightly allowed them to think so, and even called it so themselves. Now the "De Principiis" was Origen's philosophy of Christianity. It did not prove so much as draw out into system. It answered all the questions of the day. What is God? asked the philosophers. He is the creator of all things, and a pure spirit, answered the Christian catechist. Is not this Trinity a wonderful idea? said the young students to each other, after hearing Saccas. Christianity, said Origen, teaches a Trinity far more awful and wonderful, and far more reasonable, too--a Trinity, not of ideas, but of persons. The new school talked of the inferior gods that ruled the lower world, and of the demons, good and bad, who executed their behests. The Christian philosopher explained the great fact of creation, and laid down the true doctrine of guardian angels and tempting devils. The constitution of man was another puzzle; the rebellion of the passions, the nature of sin, the question of free-will. Plotinus, who listened to Saccas at the same time as Origen, has left us the attempts at the solution of these difficulties that were accepted in the school of his master; the answers of Origen may be read in the "De Principiis." The earnest among the heathen [{361}] philosophers were totally in the dark as to the state of soul and of body after death. Some were ashamed of having a body at all, and few of them could see of what use it was, or how it could subserve the great end of arriving at union with God. Origen dwells with marked emphasis, and with tender lingering, on the great key of mysteries, the incarnation, and its consequences, the resurrection of the flesh; and shows how the body is to be kept down in this life by the rational will, that it too may have its glory in the life to come. The whole effort and striving of Neo-Platonism was to enable the soul to be united with the Divinity. Origen accepted this; it was the object of the Christian philosophy as well; but he drew into prominence two all-important facts--first, the necessity of the grace of God; secondly, the moral and not physical nature of the purification of the soul; together with the Christian dogma that it was only after death that perfect union could take place. All this must have been perfectly fitted to the time and the occasion. And yet there are evident signs that it was not delivered or written as a manifesto to the frequenters of the Museum; it was evidently meant as an instruction to the upper class of the catechetical school. Its author's first idea was that he was a Christian teacher, and he spoke to Christians who believed the Holy Scriptures. What his words might do for others he was not directly concerned with, but there is no doubt that the subjects treated of in the "De Principiis" must have been discussed over and over again with those students and philosophers from the university who, as Eusebius tells us, flocked to hear him in such numbers, and also with that large class of Christians who still retained their love of scientific learning, though believing most firmly in the faith of Jesus Christ.
Of the matter of his ordinary catechetical instructions we need say little, because it is evident that it would be mainly the same as it has been under the like circumstances in all ages. Those of St. Cyril of Jerusalem, delivered a century later, may furnish us with a good idea of them, saving where doctrinal distinctions are discussed which had not arisen in the time of the elder teacher. It is rather extra-ordinary that so little trace has reached us of any formal catechetical discourse of Origen. We are inclined to think, however, that the "De Principiis," in its original form, must have been the summary or embodiment of his periodical instructions. But we have numerous hints at what he taught in the several works on Holy Scripture, some lost, some still partly extant, which he composed during these twenty years at Alexandria. It appears that he was in the habit of writing three different kinds of commentary on the Scriptures; first, brief comments or notices, such as he has left in the Hexapla; secondly, scholia, or explanations of some length; and thirdly, regular homilies. But his homilies belong to a later period. At Alexandria he commented St. John's Gospel (a labor that occupied him all his life), Genesis, several of the Psalms, and the "Canticle of Canticles," a celebrated work, yet extant in a Latin version, of which it has been said that whereas in his other commentaries he excelled all other interpreters, in this he excelled himself. But the whole interesting subject of his creation of Scripture-commenting must be treated of when we follow him to Caesarea, and listen to him preaching.
What we desire now, to complete our idea of his Alexandrian career, and of what we may call the inner life of his teaching, is, that some one--a contemporary and a scholar, if possible--should describe his method and manner, and let us know how he treated his hearers and how they liked him. Fortunately, the very witness and document that we want is ready to our hands. One of the most famous of Origen's scholars was St. Gregory Thaumaturgus, and the most [{362}] interesting of the extant works of that father is undoubtedly the discourse and panegyric which he pronounced upon his master, on the occasion of bidding farewell to his school. Gregory, or, as he was then called, Theodore, and his brother Athenodorus, were of a noble and wealthy family of Cappadocia; that is to say, probably, descendants of Greek colonists of the times of the Alexandrian conquests, though, no doubt, with much Syrian blood in their veins. When Gregory was fourteen they lost their father, and the two wealthy young orphans were left to the care of their mother. Under her guidance they were educated according to their birth and position, and in a few years began to study for the profession of public speakers. As they would have plenty of money, it mattered little what they took to; but the profession of an orator was something like what the bar is now, and gave a man an education that would be useful if he required it, and ornamental whether he required it or not. The best judges pronounced that the young men would soon be finished rhetores; St. Gregory tells us so, but will not say whether he thinks their opinion right, and before proof could be made the two youths had been persuaded by a master they were very fond of to take up the study of Roman jurisprudence. Berytus, a city of Phoenicia, better known to the modern world as Beyrout, had just then attained that great eminence as a school for Roman law which it preserved for nigh three centuries. Thither the young Cappadocians were to go. Their master had taught them what he could, and wished either to accompany them to the law university or to send them thither to be finished and perfected. It does not appear, however, that they ever really got there. Most biographies of St. Gregory say that they studied there; what St. Gregory himself says is, that they were on their way thither, but that, having to pass through Caesarea (of Palestine), they met with Origen, to whom they took so great an affection that he converted them to Christianity and kept them by him there and at Alexandria for five years. The "Oratio Panegyrica" was delivered at Caesarea, and after the date of Origen's twenty years as catechist at Alexandria; but it will be readily understood that the whole spirit, and, indeed, the whole details, of the composition are as applicable to Alexandria as to Caesarea; for his teaching work was precisely of the same nature at the latter city as at the former, with a trifling difference in his position. The oration of St. Gregory is a formal and solemn effort of rhetoric, spoken at some public meeting, perhaps in the school, in the presence of learned men and of fellow-students, and of the master himself. It is written very elegantly and eloquently, but it is in a style that we should call young, did we not know that to make parade of apophthegms and weighty sayings, to moralize rather too much, to pursue metaphors unnecessarily, and to beat about a thing with words so as to do everything but say it, was the characteristic of most orators, old and young, from the days of Ptolemy Philadelphus till the days when oratory, as a profession, expired before anarchy and the barbarians. But its literary merits, though great, are the least of its recommendations. Its value as a theological monument is shown by the appeals made to it in the controversy against Arius; and in more recent times Bishop Bull, for instance, has made great use of it in his "Defensio Fidei Nicaenae." To us, at present, its most important service is the light it sheds upon the teaching of Origen. We need make no apology for making St. Gregory the type of the Alexandrian or Caesarean scholar; they may not have been all like him, but one real living specimen will tell us more than much abstract description.
First of all, then, the scholar was not of an emphatically philosophic cast of mind. The Greek philosophers were absolutely unknown to him. He was a rich and clever young [{363}] man, bade fair to be a good speaker, studied the law not because he liked it, but because his friends and his master wished it; thought the Latin language very imperial, but very difficult; and had a habit of taking up what opinions he did adopt more after the manner of clothes that he could change as he pleased than as immutable truths. He was of a warm and affectionate disposition, and had a keen appreciation of physical and moral beauty. He was not without leanings to Christianity, but he leaned to it in an easy, off-hand sort of way, as he might have leaned to a new school in poetry or a new style of dress. He had no idea that there is such a thing as the absolutely right and the absolutely wrong in ethics any more than in taste. He was confirmed in this state of mind by the philosophic schools of the day, among whom it was considered disreputable to change one's opinions, however good the reasons for a change might be; which was to degrade philosophy from truth to the mere spirit of party, and to make a philosopher not a lover of wisdom but a volunteer of opinion. So prepared and constituted, the scholar, on his way to Berytus, fell in with Origen, not so much by accident as by the disposition of Providence and the guidance of his angel guardian; so at least he thought himself. The first process which he went through at the hands of the master is compared by the scholar to the catching of a beast, or a bird, or a fish, in a net. Philosophizing had small charms for the accomplished young man; to philosophize was precisely what the master had determined he should do. We must remember the meaning of the word
; it meant to think, act, and live as a man who seeks true wisdom. All the sects acknowledge this theoretically; what Clement and Origen wanted to show, among other things, was that only a Christian was a true philosopher in practice. Hence the net he spread for Theodore, a net of words, strong and not to be broken. "You are a fine and clever young man," he seemed to say; "but to what purpose are your accomplishments and your journeys hither and thither? you cannot answer me the simple question, Who are you? You are going to study the laws of Rome, but should you not first have some definite notion as to your last end, as to what is real evil and what is real good? You are looking forward to enjoyment from your wealth and honor from your talents; why, so does every poor, sordid, creeping mortal on the earth; so even do the brute beasts. Surely the divine gift of reason was given you to help you to live to some higher end than this." The scholar hesitated, the master insisted. The view was striking in itself, but the teacher's personal gifts made it strike far more effectually. "He was a mixture," says the scholar, "of geniality, persuasiveness, and compulsion. I wanted to go away, but could not; his words held me like a cord." The young man, unsettled as his mind had been, yet had always at heart believed in some sort of Divine Being. Origen completed the conquest of his intellect by showing him that without philosophy, that is, without correct views on morality, the worship of God, or piety, as it used to be called, is impossible. And yet wisdom and eloquence might have been thrown away here as in so many other cases had not another influence, imperious and all-powerful, been all this time rising up in his heart. The scholar began to love the master. It was not an ordinary love, the love with which Origen inspired his hearers. It was an intense, almost a fierce, love (we are almost translating the words of the original), a fitting response to the genuineness and kindly spirit of one who seemed to think no pains or kindness too great to win the young heart to true morality, and thereby to the worship of the only God--"to that saving word," says St. Gregory, in his lofty style, "which alone can teach God-service, which to whomsoever it comes home [{364}] it makes a conquest of them; and this gift God seems to have given to him, beyond all men now in the world." To that sacred and lovely word, therefore, and to the man who was its interpreter and its friend, sprang up in the heart of the scholar a deep, inextinguishable love. For that the abandoned pursuits and studies which he had hitherto considered indispensable; for that he left the "grand" laws of Rome, and forsook the friends he had left at home, and the friends that were then at his side. "And the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David," quotes the scholar, noting that the text speaks emphatically of the union of the soul, which no earthly accidents can affect, and finding a parallel to himself in Jonathan, to his master in David, the wise, the holy, and the strong. And though the hour for parting had come, the moment when these bonds of the soul should be severed would never come!
The scholar was now completely in the hands of his teacher---"as a land," he says, "empty, unproductive, and the reverse of fertile, saline" (like the waste lands near the Nile), "burnt up, stony, drifted with sand; yet not absolutely barren; nay, with qualities which might be worth cultivating, but which had hitherto been left without tillage or care, to be overgrown with thorn and thicket." He can hardly make enough of this metaphor of land and cultivation to show the nature of the work that the teacher had with his mind. We have to read on for some time before we find out that all this vigorous grubbing, ploughing, harrowing, and sowing represents the dialectical training which Origen gave his pupils, such pupils, at least, as those of whom Gregory Thaumaturgus was the type. In fact, the dialectics of the Platonists and their off-shoots is very inadequately represented by the modern use of the word logic. It seems to have signified, as nearly as a short definition can express it, the rectifying the ideas of the mind about itself, and about those things most intimately connected with it. A modern student takes up his manual of logic, or sits down in his class-room with his most important ideas, either correct and settled, or else incorrect, beyond the cure of logic. At Alexandria manuals were scarce, and the ideas of the converts from heathenism were so utterly and fundamentally confused, that the first lessons of the Christian teacher to an educated Greek or Syrian necessarily took the shape of a Socratic discussion, or a disquisition on principles. And so the scholar, not without much amazement and ruffling of the feelings, found the field of his mind unceremoniously cleared out, broken up, and freshly planted. But, the process once complete, the result was worth the inconvenience.
It was about this stage, also, that the master insisted on a special training in natural history and mathematics. In his youth Origen had been educated, as we have seen, by his father in the whole circle of the sciences of the day. Such an education was possible then, though impossible now, and the spirit of Alexandrian teaching was especially attached to the sciences that regarded numbers, the figure of the earth, and nature. The schools of the Greek philosophers had always tolerated these sciences in their own precincts; nay, most of the schools themselves had arisen from attempts made in the direction of those very sciences, and few of them had attempted to distinguish accurately between physics and metaphysics. Moreover, geography, astronomy, and geometry, were the peculiar property of the Museum, for Eratosthenes, Euclid, Ilipparchus, and Ptolemy himself, had observed and taught within its walls. Origen, therefore, would not be likely to undervalue those interesting sciences which he had studied with his father, and which nine out of ten of his educated catechumens were more or less [{365}] acquainted, and puzzled, or delighted, with. Happy days when mathematics was little and chemistry in its infancy, when astronomy lived shut up in a tower, clad in mystic vesture, and when geology was yet in the womb of its mother earth! Enviable times, when they all (such at least as were born) could be sufficiently attended to and provided for in a casual paragraph of a theological instruction, or brought into a philosophical discussion to be admired and dismissed! Origen, however, had, as usual, a deeper motive for bringing physics and mathematics into his system. We need not remind the reader that, if Plato can be considered to have a weak part, that part is where he goes into Pythagorean speculations about bodies, numbers, and regular solids. His revivers, about the time we are speaking of, had with the usual instinct of revivers found out his weak part, and made the most of it, as if it had been the sublimest evolution of his genius. We may guess what was taking place from what afterward did take place, when even Porphyry fluctuated all his life between pretensions to philosophy and what Saint Augustine calls "sacrilegious curiosity," and when the whimsical triads of poor old Proclus were powerless to stop the deluge of theurgy, incantations, and all superstitions that finally swamped Neo-Platonism for ever. With this view present to our minds the words of the scholar in this place are very significant "By these two studies, geometry and astronomy, he made us a path toward heaven," The three words that Saint Gregory uses in the description of this part of the master's teaching are worth noticing. The first is Geometry, which is taken to mean everything that relates to the earth's surface. The second is astronomy, which treats of the face of the heavens. The third is physiology, which is the science of nature, or of all that comes between heaven and earth. So that Origen's scientific teaching was truly encyclopaedic. He was, moreover, an experimental philosopher, and did not merely retail the theories of others. He analyzed things and resolved them into their elements (their "very first" elements, says the scholar); he descanted on the multiform changes and conversions of things, partly from his own discoveries, and gave his hearers a rational admiration for the sacredness and perfection of nature, instead of a blind and stupid bewilderment; he "carved on their minds geometry the unquestionable, so dear to all, and astronomy that searches the upper air." What were the precise details of his teachings on these subjects it would be unfair to ask, even if it were possible to answer. We know that he thought diamonds and precious stones were formed from dew, but this is no proof he was behind his age; and his acquaintance with the literature of the subject proves he was, if anything, before it. With regard to naphtha, the magnet, and the looking-glass, it will be pleasing to know he was substantially right. He was, perhaps, the first to make a spiritual use of the accepted notion that the serpent was powerless against the stag; the reason is, he says, that the stag is the type of Christ warring against Anti-Christ. That he believed in griffins is unfortunate, but natural in an Alexandrian, who had lived in an atmosphere d stories brought down from the upper Nile by the ingenious sailors. As to his "denying the existence of the Tragelaphus" we must remain ignorant whether it redounds to his credit or otherwise, until modern researches have exhausted the African continent.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Translated from the Revue Contemporaine.
EVE DE LA TOUR-D'ADAM.
BY G. DE LA LANDELLE.
I hate those pretentious and high-sounding Christian names which certain upstarts inflict as a label of ridicule on their children; but, though I should be accused of having two weights and two measures, I should be pleased to see perpetuated in the descendants of a noble race the most fantastic of those chosen by their ancestors. My antipathy gives way before the religion of remembrance, before heroic or knightly traditions. I love then even their oddity. I can pardon even their triviality. I perceive only the old glory, the reflection of which is preserved by these consecrated names.
Among the Roqueforts, who claim to have sprung from the Merovingians, they have, even to our days, the names of Clodimir, Chilpérie, or Bathilde. Since the time of the Crusades, the youngest son of the Du Maistres is always an Amaury. The Canluries of Gonneville owe their names of Arosca and Essomerie to the discoveries of the celebrated navigator, their ancestor, who brought from southern lands, in 1503, the Prince Essomerie, son of the King Arosca, whom he adopted and married later, in Normandy, to one of his relations. There is a family in Brittany who never part with the names of Audren, Salomon, Grallow, or Conau. The Corréas, originally from Portugal, pride themselves on seeing on their genealogical tree those of Caramuru and of Paraguassus, which signify the Man of Fire and Great River.
Chivalry, the Crusades, some semi-fabulous legend, some marvellous chronicle, the grand adventures of a Tancred or a Bohemond, the exploits of a Tannegry, finally, the great alliances, explain and justify in certain families the privileged use of first names too rare, or too commonplace, fantastic, romantic, strange, or old, to be suitable except for them.
Now, it was thus that, in virtue of an old custom, the grand-daughter of the Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam had received that of Eve at the baptismal fonts of St. Sulpice.
In passing the Gorge d'Enfer, not far from the famous valley of Roncevaux, you have perhaps remarked the ruins, still majestic, of a tower which leans above a frightful precipice. The shepherds of the country maintain that it was built by the fathers of the human race; were I the most profound of archaeologists I should be very careful not to contradict them. Who can prove that the Pyrenees did not rise on the limits of Eden? In the fourteenth century was not all Europe convinced that the terrestrial paradise, engulfed in the Atlantic, rises partly above the water in the form of Saint Brandan's Isle, the promised land of the saints, where Enoch and Elias await the last day?
In the same manner that the erudite La Tour d'Auvergne, as simple as he was brave, has demonstrated in his "Origines Gauloises" that Adam and Eve spoke Bas-Breton, in the same manner the Basque tongue furnishes unexceptionable proofs of the antiquity [{367}] of the times of Adam which the waters of the deluge respected.
Be this as it may, antediluvian or not, Punic or Roman, Gothic, Saracen, or Spanish, the old tower was the cradle of an illustrious family--illustrious on both sides of the Pyrenees. From time immemorial the first-born was given the name of Adam or of Eve.
At the beginning of this simple history we have not the leisure to recount how a royal Moorish prisoner, who, it is said, was called Adam, escaped from the tower, carrying with him the heiress of the castle. Nor can we stop from the wars in Palestine one of the warlike ancestors of our Parisian heroine, a proud Crusader, who brought to his domains an Oriental Eve, the beloved daughter of we know not what Saladin.
These different traditions, which were not the only ones, made the customs of their ancestors very dear to the family of La Tour-d'Adam; but the young and merry companions of the grand-daughter of the last marquis did not care to inquire into the cause of her unusual name. They kept themselves in bounds in finding it tolerably ridiculous that she should be called just like the ancestors of the human species.
"Really, I do not know who could have served as god-mother to our beautiful friend," said Clarisse Dufresnois, biting her lips. "In my days I would not consent to give so dangerous a name. When one hears it one seems to have a too decided fancy for forbidden fruit."
"Oh! Clarisse, that is mean," murmured Leonore.
This charitable and timid observation received no response. Albertine, Valerie, Suzanne, and several other young girls, who were chattering together while waiting the opening of the ball, seemed by their smiles to encourage the mocking spirit of Clarisse Dufresnois. They made a charming group. Blondes and brunettes, red and white, adorned with flowers and ribbons with delicate taste, they presented to the view an adorable reunion of smiles and graces, as they said in the last century. Youth, gaiety, freshness, beautiful black eyes, large blue eyes, lovely figures, wilful airs, piquant countenances, enjoyment, vivacity, delicacy--what then did they lack that the gentlemen cavaliers should make them wait? Truly, we cannot say; but their habitual delay contradicted the olden fame of French gallantry. These gentlemen, without doubt, were a thousand times culpable for Clarisse's little sarcasms.
"With the fortunate name of Eve," she continued, "should one not always be the first to show herself?"
"If you would say, at least the first to arrive," interrupted Leonore.
"But it has a grand air to appear late; it produces a sensation; one seats by her entrance all the most elegant dancers; one would be watched for, desired, impatiently waited for."
"For that matter, I am sure," said Leonore quickly, "Eve thinks little about all that; she is as simple as she is good."
"You see, girls," replied Clarisse, with equal vivacity, "that I have said something evil of our dear Eve! Goodness! I love her with all my heart. She is languid, cool, and sentimental; she has her little eccentricities. Who of us has not? I said simply that she is always the last to arrive; but, however, I do not think she is so much occupied in varying her toilette. She is inevitably crowned with artificial jasmine."
"Nothing becomes her better," said Leonore. "Beside, Eve is sufficiently pretty to be charming in anything."
"Doubtless," replied Clarisse, a little piqued; "only I ask, how can you tell what becomes her best when she has never worn anything else for at least four years."
"Four!" cried nearly all the girls. "Four years! Why, that is an age!"
"Four years of jasmine!" said Valerie; "what constancy!"
"Bouquet, garland, crown, and I don't know what else," continued Clarisse, "Eve always has jasmine in some shape."
"For me," said Suzanne, "I would not, for anything on earth, show myself three times in succession with a branch or wreath of jasmine."
The word jasmine, repeated four or five times, made a young girl tremble as she entered, and, not knowing any of the young ladies, seat herself at a distance; but, as if drawn by the word which affected her so singularly, Louise de Mirefont took her place nearest to Clarisse.
Louise was nineteen; she did not yield in natural grace to Suzanne nor to Valerie; her color was equal in freshness to the charming Albertine's; Lucienne had not such brilliant black hair, Leonore an expression of gentleness not more sympathetic. A timidity acquired, perhaps, by a sudden trouble veiled the looks of the new rival who now disputed with all the palm of beauty; a lively carnation spread itself over her features, which had a faultless purity. With her blushes and her embarrassment was mingled a vague sentiment of sadness; but what physiognomist would have been sufficiently skilful to explain the impression which affected her?
Of all the merry young girls collected at the ball, Louise was the simplest attired. She was beautiful enough to carry off any costume; a simple white dress, a light, rose-colored ribbon around her waist, that was all. All her companions had either flowers or pearls in their hair; she alone had no other coiffure than her waving curls, which rolled round her white shoulders. Each young girl had some rarity in her toilette. Clarisse, for example, had admirable bracelets and ear-rings, Lucienne, had a valuable cameo, Suzanne was distinguished by a spencer of an original pattern, even Leonore by knots of ribbons of exquisite taste, Albertine by bands of coral interwoven in the tresses of her fair hair.
No borrowed ornament could have increased the value of Louise's charms, whom if one could not without hesitation discern as the prize of the concourse, at least as the most faithful lover of the Greek type the model of which she presented in her classic perfection.
At the moment she approached, Leonore had said, indulgently: "Four years! four winters!--without doubt Clarisse exaggerates."
"No, Miss Leonore, I do not exaggerate; I repeat that for four years Eve has worn only jasmine."
Clarisse alone could call up the memories of four years; she was the oldest of all her friends. Some of these had been only a few months out of the convent, others had made their entrance into society only the winter preceding. She was not even of the same age as Eve, who had come out much earlier than any of them.
Clarisse had just passed the age of twenty-five. Having dreamed of six or seven superb marriages, she had the grief of aspiring to a seventh dream, and this was why her indulgence, at all times mediocre enough, went decreasing in hope as hope deceived, or in inverse ratio to the square of her age, to help ourselves for once, by chance, by the algebraic style. Clarisse could have said, but she did not, that she had seen Eve de La Tour-d'Adam, crowned with roses, the first time she appeared at the house of the Comtesse de Peyrolles.
Four or five springs, at most, made a second crown of roses for the brow of that maiden, who conducted an old septuagenary whose ideas and decorations recounted the exploits of a generation almost extinct. Eve advanced on the arm of the Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam, who had not been seen for several years. Man of the world as he had been in his youth, and was no longer, the marquis reserved to himself to introduce her into society. [{369}] Eve was very young, but the weight of years was heavy on the old man. The hour was advanced because he wished it so.
Their entrance made a great sensation; Clarisse remembered that it made too much.
Fair, delicately pale, frail and slender as a wasp, the only and last heiress of the Lords de La Tour-d'Adam, Eve, the child yet unknown, attracted all eyes. Give life to one of those aerial vignettes to which the English sculptors deny nothing, unless it is a soul; render motion to those images of the saints which the simple and pious workmen sculpture and animate in some sort with their faith, for the front of our temples; spread an expression of angelic sweetness and infinite tenderness over the countenance of a virgin purer than the azure of the sky; around this creation of your least profane thought let there reign an atmosphere of generous sympathies, that hearts may be touched, that souls may he captive, that men and women shall be equally attracted by this undefined sentiment, commonly called of interest, that this interest shall extend to every harmonious gesture, to every movement, to every word of the fair young girl; take into account the veneration inspired by the presence of the old gentleman, her grandfather--and you will understand at once what was Eve, and the effect of her first appearance at Madame de Peyrolles'.
Four years had passed since then. Eve now had entered her nineteenth year. Had she grown old in one day, had she grown young again, or some slow suffering, unknown phenomenon, some mysterious illness, was it, that, without wasting the young girl, abruptly arrested her development, up to that time so precocious? But, such as she was seen at Madame de Peyrolles' four winters before, as such Eve reappeared in the same drawing-room; only Clarisse Dufresnois had said enough about it--the crown of roses was replaced by a branch of jasmine entwined in her golden hair.
And, indeed, a branch of jasmine was placed on the front of the girl's dress, when dressed for the ball, and, accompanied by Madame du Castellet, her governess, she presented herself to her grandfather, who awaited her in the west parlor of the mansion of La Tour-d'Adam and welcomed her with a tender smile.
Eve came forward raising to him her sweet blue eyes, and, in melodious accents:
"My father," she said, "I have obeyed you; you see I am ready; but why will you oblige me to leave you again alone for all one long evening?'
"Child, I shall not be alone; I shall think that my Eve is amusing herself, I shall see her as if I were there! Youth should have innocent distractions. Oh! thou hast nobly loved me with all thy heart, but the society of an old man like me does not suffice at thy age."
"God knows I would renounce this ball with happiness, in order to give you your evening reading."
"I do not doubt it, my child; but you have promised me that you will go; go then, amuse yourself with your companions; dance, frolic, receive the homage which is your due. I am not a miser who hides his treasure, I wish that my diamond should shine for all eyes; your triumphs are mine, and your gaiety is the joy of my life."
"My father, I am never gay except by your side."
The old man smiled, not without a little incredulity, but the young girl's clear eyes were fixed on him with a touching expression of veneration and filial love. Eve repeated with affecting candor that the watch by her grandfather's side was to her a thousand times preferable to the noisy pleasures of the world; she grew animated, and, drawing yet nearer, she said:
"When I have passed the evening with you, I return joyously to my room, my heart full of noble thoughts. Often you have recounted to us some incidents of your life, and I am proud of being your child; I wish for power to imitate your generous example; finally, I find an inexpressible charm in your recollections and in your narratives. If you have spoken to me of my father and my mother, whom I have never known, I am still happy; my melancholy is sweet; I represent to myself as my guardian angels those whom your words make me love more every day."
The Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam felt himself touched; the young girl's governess had seated herself. Eve added in a less firm tone:
"On the contrary, when I return from a ball, I feel an indefinable sentiment of void and weariness; I do not know what it is that I want, I am sad, discontented with myself."
"Childishness!" interrupted the old gentleman. "Off with us! A little thoughtlessness and folly, I insist upon it! One is discontented with oneself only when one has failed in some duty; you are good, submissive, pious, charitable."
Eve blushed slightly, and while her grandfather was continuing his eulogy she prepared him a cup of tea, drew the stool near, arranged the cushion on which he rested his head, then, going to the piano, she played an old battle air of which he was very fond.
Meanwhile the marquis addressed the governess.
"My cousin," he said (Madame du Castellet was a distant relative of the Tour-d'Adams), "combat these tendencies, I implore you; pleasures and distractions, they are the remedy! I do not understand why this ball should sadden our darling Eve, why meeting her friends and her partners should make her melancholy. Eve does not know how to be untruthful, she hides nothing from us; but she is ignorant herself why she suffers. Discover this secret, I implore you, that she may be happy."
"Eve's happiness is my only desire," replied the governess. "You know that I love her as my own daughter. I never contradict her; indeed, she never desires anything that is not praiseworthy. She plans to do good with an admirable perseverance and delicacy."
The old marquis at this moment recognized the martial air which Eve was playing for him; he was deeply affected:
"She forgets nothing," he murmured.
Then noticing the flowers the young girl wore:
"Always jasmine," he said to the governess.
"She forgets nothing," said Madame du Castellet, in her turn.
"It is then impossible to overcome the pride of those unfortunate Mirefonts?" replied the marquis.
"My nephew, Gaston, cannot get anything accepted," respondent the governess; "but we will save them in spite of themselves."
"Heaven preserve me," said the marquis immediately, "from blaming their susceptibility; unfortunately, the secret means which Eve has so long employed scarcely suffice; it is necessary to do more."
"Gaston will aid us, I imagine," replied the governess in a low voice; "but hush! my pupil will not pardon me if I betray her secrets."
Eve returned from the piano; the marquis and the governess exchanged a glance of prudent intelligence.
"Off with us, young lady, to the ball, to the ball, the carriage is waiting!" said the old gentleman gaily, kissing the young girl's forehead.
Madame du Castellet dragged off Eve; the marquis, left alone, thought tenderly of his dear grandchild, the bouquet of jasmine, the unfortunate Mirefont family, of all that Eve had said or done with her habitual grace, while the military march she had played still resounded in his heart.
"The noble child!" he murmured; "they counselled me to be severe; how could I be? I have been indulgent; I have repressed nothing, spoiled nothing; her generous nature has freely developed itself; she has made herself blessed even by those who do not know her. Happy, yes, happy, will he be who shall be her husband."
The few words exchanged between the marquis and Eve's governess have shown us that for some time, at least, the secret of one of the young girl's good actions had been revealed to her grandfather. The old gentleman would have thought little enough of the coiffures chosen by Eve, or of her taste for such or such a flower; but Madame du Castellet had been much surprised one day by her pupil's predilection for bouquets and wreaths of jasmine. Questions followed each other; Eve evaded them for a long time; the governess insisted. She blamed the girl's extravagance, which did not cease to expend considerable sums for the same flowers.
"I wish to know if this caprice has anything reasonable in it?" she said finally, with firmness, even at the risk of displeasing the young heiress.
Eve blushed; then in a suppliant tone--
"Be at least discreet," she said. "It is the matter of an honorable family suddenly fallen into extreme poverty, whose only resource is the sale of jasmine. People do not buy it, so it is that I buy so much."
"But still," said Madame du Castellet, "without doubt you know the name of the family."
"No, cousin. Fearing to wound worthy people, I have not asked it. Only my artificial-flower seller told me that this jasmine was the work of the only child of a poor knight of St. Louis, completely ruined by the last revolution, and struck with incurable infirmities. His wife can only take care of him and wait on him. I was much affected by the story, and above all by the courage shown by this young girl, who obtained a living for her father and mother by her work. I promised often to buy jasmine on condition that my name should never be mentioned; do not be surprised, cousin, that I keep my promise."
Madame du Castellet embraced Eve with fervor. But soon going to the source, she knew that the family suffering from so many misfortunes was that of the Mirefonts. The marquis was instructed. Various offers of assistance were made, but proudly refused.
Eve continued to adorn herself with jasmine and to make liberal presents of it to all her friends, which Clarisse Dufresnois pleasantly laughed at.
"Do you love jasmine?" she said, smiling. "Apply to Eve. For a lottery, a vase or a crown of jasmine; for a present, jasmine; for a head-dress, jasmine. Madeline, who has penetrated into the delicious boudoir of Mademoiselle de La Tour-d'Adam, saw only jasmine on every side. Has she not given some to you also?"
"Eve has given me a charming bunch," said Leonore. "It was a master-piece of its kind; a flower was never more perfectly imitated." Nobody listened to Leonore.
"Jasmine is, then, Eve's adoration?" said Albertine.
"Perhaps," suggested Suzanne, "it is the emblem of a deep sentiment, some memory."
"In any case, it is a passion, a mania."
"I do not know what to imagine," said Leonore; "but I would rather believe it a work of charity."
"You hear Leonore, young ladies," cried Clarisse; "would it still be wicked to find this abuse of jasmine monotonous?"
Louise de Mirefont had started several times, for she was the unknown artist whose filial devotion created the bouquets and wreaths which Eve had not ceased to buy.
For the second time in her life Louise penetrated into the drawing-room of the Countess de Peyrolles, where she had been presented the [{372}] preceding winter by Mlle. de Rouvray, an old friend of her mother, and companion to the Countess. At the reiterated requests of Mlle. de Rouvray, Louise's parents consented that their daughter should go among the society in which her birth and education called her to live, had not her entire want of fortune kept her away.
At the time of that single party, which occupied a large place in the young girl's memory, she had remarked one of her masterpieces over the brow of Eve de La Tour-d'Adam. She had blushed, not without an innocent joy.
How different was her feeling now! Every mocking shaft of Clarisse wounded her, the smiles of the other girls put her to torture; and when Leonore, in her indulgent observations, which had consoled her a little, innocently pronounced the word charity, she grew pale and felt humbled. Pride brought to her eyes two tears, which vexation dried on her eyelashes.
"Mlle. de La Tour-d'Adam has done me an act of charity," she thought with a sort of wrath. "We have a disguised alms, and M. Gaston du Castellet has failed in all his promises."
Such were, we are obliged to avow it, Louise de Mirefont's first thoughts; pride rendered her unjust and ungrateful. Alas! as we have been told many times, first thoughts in our weak nature are not always the best. An angry suspicion, moreover, augmented the girl's indignation.
The nephew of Eve's governess, Gaston du Castellet, introduced into the family of Mirefont by Mlle. de Rouvray, had he, in an excess of zeal, revealed the secret of a distress courageously concealed for more than four years? Gaston was, himself, in a position of fortune more than mediocre, he lived honorably, but in a very modest office. He had been received with a noble simplicity; his tact, his delicacy, rendered him worthy of such a reception, and he had also conquered the good graces of M. and Mme, de Mirefont.
Louise, during her long is hours of work, often surprised herself thinking of the amiable qualities, the distinction, the benevolence, of Gaston du Castellet. While with a light hand she cut out or adjusted the green leaves or white flowers on their stem, she could not forbid herself to dream of the prudent attentions which Gaston showed her. Together with her fairy fingers, her imagination, or rather her heart, built a frail edifice of green leaves, hope, and white flowers, like the innocence of her love. A word, a glance, a smile of Gaston's, some mark of solicitude for her venerable parents, a generous word pronounced with feeling, received with eagerness, plunged her in long and sweet reveries. Her floral task was generally finished before her dream.
"He wished to associate his efforts with mine to comfort my parents' old age! With what eagerness he assisted my mother!" thought Louise, trembling with emotion. "'Why can I not always replace you thus?' said he. 'My presence will permit you to continue your pious work.' I succeeded in finishing that evening the crown of jasmine for which my employer waited so impatiently. And on Sunday, what could be greater than Gaston's sincere goodness toward my father while my mother and I had gone to pray for him? When we returned our prayers seemed to have been heard: he suffered less, and attributed the amelioration of his state to Gaston's cares, cordial gaiety, and conversation. Heavens! what were they talking of in our absence?"
And Louise's mind lost itself in sweet and charming suppositions. Add to this, that a year before Gaston had met Louise at a ball at Madame de Peyrolles'; he had noticed her there; and a few days afterward was presented to her parents by their old friend Mlle. de Rouvray. Gaston was the only young man admitted to their intimacy. Six months had not rolled away before he occupied a room in the same house with Louise.
Louise believed herself loved, and did not fear to speak without disguise of the extreme trouble of her family. The young man had already ventured various offers of assistance, he returned to the charge; H. and Mme. de Mirefont constantly with a grateful dignity refused them. Louise, whose delicious work was selling better and better, positively forbade him to attempt any officious proceeding. Gaston promised to make none, and very sincerely kept his word.
"But Gaston was the nephew of Eve de La Tour-d'Adam's governess. As Clarisse Dufresnois said, Eve bought jasmine with devotion; according to Leonore, it was without doubt from charity she did so. Well, then I had Gaston broken his promise? his direct offers being refused, had he employed indirect means? might he not be, finally, Eve de La Tour-d'Adam's agent, her associate, her agent in good works?"
Louise loved Gaston. And you will pardon her injustice, her ingratitude, her jealousy; for her second thought was a burst of repentance; she reproached herself for her pride, she was ashamed of herself for doubting Gaston, and, more than all, for being ungrateful to her benefactress.
Eve entered; she entered crowned with jasmine.
A tear--but this was a tear of gratitude--bathed Louise's eyelashes, and slowly descended down her burning cheeks. Her heart was already refreshed. She no longer heard Clarisse's whispers, she did not see the mocking smiles of Valerie, Albertine, and their companions; she did not even perceive that several young men were coming toward her, and asking her hand for a contra-dance; Eve had entered--she saw only Eve.
"Oh! she is an angel! she murmured rapturously.
"You say truly, Miss Louise, she is an angel!" replied Gaston, taking her hand.
Louise raised her head, dried her eyes, and permitted herself to be carried off by her attentive cavalier, who had observed all, heard all, and understood all, from the moment she had taken her place in the circle of girls.
Eve, conducted by her partner, passed near them, and turning:
"Gaston," she said in a tone of affectionate familiarity, "will you be our vis-â-vis?"
The young girls found themselves in each other's presence, their looks met; Louise's ardent gratitude suddenly aroused Eva de La Tour-d'Adam's sympathy.
"What a charming young girl! Do you know her, sir?"
"No, Miss Eve," answered Eve's partner, and his reply was not finished without the compliment called forth by a natural term of comparison, but the triumphant gentleman expended his eloquence for nothing.
"Does she know me?" said Louise to Gaston; "how she looks at me!"
"Eve does not know who you are; she will doubtless ask me your name; well, in telling it, I shall not relate any of your family secrets."
"Oh! so much the better!" exclaimed Louise.
"Just now you were blushing and turning pale, I heard, I noticed--"
Louise lowered her eyes in embarrassment.
"You were wrong," continued Gaston. "The only indiscretion committed has been by your employer, the flower-merchant. Eve is interested in you, she loves you without knowing your name. Her sincere solicitude goes back already for four years; it is only one, Louise, since I had the happiness of first seeing you. It was here. The next day Mlle, de Rouvray received a visit from me, and a few days afterward your parents kindly admitted me to their house."
An expression of happiness lighted Louise's delicate features.
"Then, just now," she said after a moment's interruption, "you divined my thoughts?"
"I heard Miss Clarisse Dufresnois. I suffered as you suffered. I hastened to justify myself to you."
"Oh, Gaston, how much better is your beautiful cousin than I!"
They now passed in the contra-dance; Eve's hand was not slow in taking Louise's; the two girls shivered at once.
Eve must have seemed singularly absent to her partner; she did not cease to watch Louise and Gaston, she was troubled, and was conscious of a strange uneasiness.
"Why this extreme emotion?" she asked herself; "oh! how my heart beats! I tremble, I suffer, my eyes are growing dim! What is the matter with me? Who is this young girl, and what is Gaston saying to her? They pronounced my name, I believe!"
Gaston was talking enthusiastically to Louise.
"Eve is not of this earth!" he said. "She is a celestial being whom I feel myself disposed to invoke on my knees; the respect with which she inspires me prevents me from seeing even her beauty. I venerate her, but you, Louise, you I love!"
Louise started.
"Oh! do not be vexed by this avowal; I am permitted to make it. During your absence, on Sunday, M. de Mirefont yielded to my request. My happiness, Louise, depends on you alone."
The young girl did not succeed in dissembling her joy, her smiles crowned Gaston's wishes; he continued in a softened voice:
"Oh! it was not without trouble that I triumphed, dear Louise. For a long time your father rejected me on account of his deplorable position; he would not consent, he said, that I should bind my future to the sad destinies of his family. I spoke of my love, he replied by reciting his misfortunes. Permit, I said to him, a son to diminish by his zeal your Louise's task. Would you repulse me if fortune favored you? or do you find me unworthy to share your lot? Her filial virtues even more than her charms have captivated me. If she were destined to opulence like Mlle, de La Tour-d'Adam, for example, I should be insane to dare to aspire to her hand. But your Louise is the companion necessary for a poor, hard-working man like me. She is courageous and devoted. I came to supplicate you to accept my devotion and my courage. Finally, overcome by my insistance, he held out his hand to me; I bathed it with my tears; then, opening his arms: 'Louise shall pronounce,' he said. With what impatience I waited for you that evening! Your mother by this time should be aware of my application, and to-morrow, if you consent, it shall not be simply as a friend, but as your fiancé that I shall enter under your parent's roof."
"Gaston--my fiancé," murmured Louise. "O God! I am too happy."
Eve also was near succumbing under a strange emotion; but by a supreme effort she succeeded in conquering it; but she was so pale she might have been taken for an alabaster statue. She was faint when she seated herself at some distance behind Mme. du Castellet and Mlle. Rouvray, who, retired to one side apart, were talking in a low voice but with animation.
Gaston's aunt and the countesses companion, drawn together by the similarity of their positions, made part of that commendable variety of aristocracy which we are permitted to call the poor of the great world. Resigned, free from envy, devoted, body and soul, to the families in which even their office increased the consideration and the regard which they merited, such persons are always justly respected. Their presence honors the houses which welcome them. They lived in the highest sphere with an admirable abnegation; the firmness of their principles equalled the amiability of their character: they had espoused the interests which exclusively occupied them, and were slaves to their duties.
Eve, still trembling, continued to watch Gaston and Louise, at the same time that, as if her nervous excitement had given her the faculty of hearing the feeblest sounds, she did not lose a word of the conversation of the two old friends.
"You cannot believe how much this marriage contents me," said Madame du Castellet, "I have always been afraid that my nephew was taken with Eve. Eve is so beautiful, so tender, so generous: one cannot know her without loving her. Gaston already loved her like a brother; they saw each other continually in spite of all my skill. I did well, the old marquis did not even suspect the danger. It would have been imprudent to have hinted the possibility; I have lived on thorns for three or four years. Eve and Gaston have known each other from childhood; a formidable friendliness reigned between them; Eve was full of sisterly attentions; I trembled for my poor nephew."
"It is certain that Mlle. de La Tour-d'Adam, with her name and her immense fortune, can only make a grand marriage," said Mlle, de Rouvray. "We can doubly felicitate ourselves on the success of our effort. The old Chevalier de Mirefont was ten years younger this evening, when he announced to me the regular request made by Gaston."
"It is scarcely any time since I said to the marquis how much I relied on my nephew, but I did not know it was so advanced."
"It is a settled thing," said Mlle. de Rouvray, smiling, for Gaston and Louise had been constantly observed by the two old friends.
"My nephew will soon be advanced," said Madame du Castellet, "he will not lack a future, and moreover, he will not refuse the advantages of which our good cousin will assure him by marriage contract. The Mirefont family will soon find themselves in ease."
"Louise is worthy of this good fortune," said Mademoiselle de Rouvray.
"When I shall be permitted to tell Eve that her cousin is to marry her interesting protégé, oh! I am sure she will be transported with joy."
Eve, at these words, thoroughly understood. Detaching from her headdress a little branch of flowers, she contemplated it a moment. Then she regarded Louise and Gaston, seated by each other, wrapped in their happiness, oblivious of the world around them.
"How happy they are!" she thought
The ball was very animated, Albertine, Valerie, and Lucienne had abandoned themselves to the gaiety of their age, but Clarisse, who observed with secret envy sometimes Gaston and Louise, sometimes Eve, pensive, refusing ten invitations,--Clarisse cried out all at once:
"Mademoiselle de La Tour-d'Adam is ill."
The musicians stopped playing. Gaston rushed to his cousin. Louise was the first to take in hers Eve's ice-cold hands; she could not refrain from pressing them to her lips.
Eve soon opened her eyes, saw Louise on her knees, Gaston at her side, smiled on them with angelic sweetness, and addressing herself to the young girl:
"You do not know me," she said, "but I wish you to be my friend. You will come to see me, will you not?"
The little branch of jasmine which Eve had taken from her own forehead remained in Louise's hands. Madame du Castellet, aided by her nephew, carried away Eve de la Tour-d'Adam.
A few minutes after Louise was conducted home.
Clarisse Dufresnois did not fail to attribute Eve's fainting to the desire of appearing interesting; this was at least the version which she gave to the young ladies Suzanne, Valerie, Lucienne, and Albertine, but the supposition which she expressed to the Vicomte de la Perlière, the object of her seventh matrimonial dream, was less inoffensive.
"Mademoiselle de La Tour-d'Adam," said she, "was taken ill of jealousy and vexation, on remarking her cousin's attention to Mlle, de Rouvray's protégé. "
She enlarged on this theme with so much wit, that the Vicomte de la Perlière, a man of sense who did not lack heart, forgot at the end of the winter to propose to her. The autumn following he asked and obtained Leonore's hand, which did not prevent Clarisse from being more witty than ever.
II.
Eve passed a frightful night, a prey to the delirium of fever; the doctors, forced to reassure the old marquis and the governess, did not conceal from Gaston that his cousin's case presented very alarming symptoms. Gaston was uneasy, Louise shared his fears, but their betrothal took place notwithstanding; the promise already made by M. de Mirefont was confirmed in the family, but on account of Eve's illness Madame du Castellet's absence was excused.
In the Castle de La Tour-d'Adam reigned a profound sadness.
Eve had recovered her ordinary calm and serenity, but her weakness and pallor were extreme; the old marquis was conducted to her room.
"Eve, my dear child, when I think of all you said to me before going to the ball, I reproach myself bitterly for having forced you to go."
"Do not regret it, grandfather, for I am delighted to have seen the young girl who is going to marry my cousin Gaston. I wish her to be my best friend."
"My child," said the marquis again, "is anything lacking that you wish? Have confidence in me."
"What can I lack? you refuse me nothing."
"Doubtless, and for all," suggested the old man, with a real timidity, "you fear to unveil for me the state of your heart! I hesitate to say what I think, my dear daughter, but if you have a secret inclination--"
Eve shuddered, and lowered her large eyes.
"Know well, at least, that I shall never be an obstacle to your happiness; my Eve would not know how to make an unworthy choice."
The young girl bent her head and remained silent. Mme. du Castellet observed her sadly.
"Eve," said she, "you answer nothing?"
"What can I answer?" murmured the heiress, "I ask myself," she said with feeling. "My good father," she said again, "words are wanting to express to you my gratitude and my tenderness."
"Then from what does she suffer?" the marquis asked himself in despair.
As a flower scorched by the sun, Eve languished; the fever disappeared, but her strength did not return. Her only pleasure was to put on, one after another, the freshest of her jasmine wreaths.
The doctors understood nothing of her illness; the most skilful of all interrogated the governess.
"I fear that this young girl is struck by a moral hurt; love, when it is opposed, sometimes presents analogous symptoms."
"We have been beforehand with your question, doctor; Eve knows that her choice would be approved; she made no response."
"Has she pronounced any name in her delirium?"
"None; she spoke only of the good works which constantly occupied her."
Madame du Castellet had found that Eve knew the whole history of Louise's filial devotion.
"Madame," replied the physician, "I persist in believing that Mlle, de La Tour-d'Adam conceals her secret from you. A false shame, without doubt, restrains her; send for her confessor, and have him, if possible, oblige her to tell you the truth."
When the doctor had gone, Madame du Castellet burst into tears. Eve was given up by science, because they [{377}] absolutely would have it that her illness had a mysterious origin.
The confessor was called, although the governess hoped nothing from his intervention. An emotion of profound piety was painted on the features of the man of God when he came out of the invalid's chamber, but Eve, calm and with pious recollection, was praying with her eyes raised to heaven. The young girl made no confidence to Mme. du Castellet, only several hours later--
"Cousin," she said, "Mlle. Louise de Mirefont and Gaston are slow in coming to see me."
It was not the first time that Eve had expressed the same desire; the governess ordered the carriage in order to go for Mlle. de Mirefont.
"Louise, generous Louise," murmured Eve, "I would that my soul could be blended with yours!"
Her heart beat violently as she thought of Gaston's happiness; Eve did not account to herself for her poignant emotion, but she prayed that God would permit her to live for her noble grandfather.
"My loss would be too cruel for him," she murmured, weeping.
Then she interrogated herself with a simple severity:
"Would I then be culpable for not speaking of that of which I am myself ignorant?"
Her conscience responded by a firm resolution not to carry trouble to the hearts of all those who cherished her. "My duty, I feel, is to rejoice at the happiness of Gaston and of Louise. Do I deceive myself? My God! enlighten me, guide me!"
Eve was kneeling; the Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam, assisted by his valet, entered, and in a reproachful tone--
"Why do you fatigue yourself thus?" said he; "Eve, I implore thee, be careful of thy strength, if only out of pity for me."
Eve arose with difficulty.
"Forgive me," she said with a sweet smile, "I will not kneel again until I am cured."
Then she sat by her grandfather's side. The marquis, frightened at her mortal pallor, contemplated her with anguish.
"I saw her father perish in the flower of his age," he thought; "her mother a few months after died in giving her life; she was an orphan from her cradle. All my affections are concentrated in her; she has never given me occasion for the least pain. Alas! I suffer to-day for all the happiness she has given me."
"Do not distress yourself, my father," said Eve, who surprised a tear in the old man's dry eyes; "I have asked of God to let me remain to console the rest of your days; my prayer has been heard, it will be granted. Oh, for pity, do not cry more."
The marquis took her hand and pressed it against his heart.
"My father," said Eve after several moments of silence, "our cousin has gone for Gaston and his fiancée; my father, I have a request to make of you."
"Tell it, tell it," said the old man ardently.
Eve bent, and said in a trembling voice:
"They are both of them generous and devoted; both of them have suffered much: make them rich, I implore you, lest your wealth should pass into avaricious hands."
"Oh! my God! you expect, then, to die! Eve, my darling daughter, is this your secret?"
"No! I do not wish to die! no! I wish to live for you!"
"But I am old, very old!" the marquis replied, with hesitation, "and--after me--"
"After you whom shall I love?" said Eve in a melodious voice. "Father, I implore you, make Gaston and Louise's future sure, and you will have crowned all my wishes."
Eve had scarcely finished when Mme. du Castellet entered; Louise and Gaston followed her. The two lovers succeeded in wiping away their tears, but their emotion was [{378}] redoubled when they saw themselves between the young girl and her grandfather.
"Come to me," said Eve, "come, Louise! Do you not know that I loved you before I knew you? See, all that surrounds me is your work. What would I not give to have made, like you, one of these bouquets of jasmine!
"Mademoiselle," murmured Louise, "I have known you and have loved you only for a few days; but my gratitude and my affection for you are boundless."
"Place them on Gaston: he is dear to me as a brother; and you, Louise, call me henceforth your sister."
She held her one hand, with the other she drew Gaston forward; then, addressing the marquis:
"Father," she said, "see them before you; bless them, I pray you."
The old gentleman, weeping, extended his hands, then with a voice choked with sobs:
"Eve, my beloved child! Eve, thou wishest then to die?"
The young girl blushed slightly, a ray of sunlight which played through the curtains crowned her with a luminous halo; she had risen, her ethereal figure mingled with the white flowers which adorned her room.
Gaston said in a low voice to Louise:
"You see plainly, my friend, that she is not of the earth."
They bent reverently; but Eve extended her arms: Louise found herself pressed against her heart.
The marquis, seeing Eve so radiant, renewed his hope:
"She is saved!" he said to Madame du Castellet. "The presence of these young lovers has done her good. Have them come often, I pray you. But I should leave them together. Adieu, my children, adieu!"
He was carried back to the great hall. However, the governess trembled; she saw at last the fatal truth. The heiress's great blue eyes were fixed on hers; the old lady's trouble increased. Eve put her finger on her lips, and drawing her to one side:
"Why are you still distressed, my good cousin," she said to her; "do you not see how happy I am in their happiness?"
Gaston's aunt retired heart-broken, doubtful of her suppositions, not daring to hope for the young girl's recovery.
Eve was seated between the two lovers:
"I demand a part in your joy, my friends, and I wish that my memory may always live with you."
Then she recounted with simplicity the history of her four last years. The praises which she gave to Louise's filial piety penetrated the hearts of the two betrothed, who wished to prostrate themselves before her, her words had so much purity, sweetness, and unction. Louise reproached herself, as if it were a sacrilege, for the thought of pride which she had felt at the ball. Gaston was under an indefinable impression of tenderness and of gratitude. Eve addressed him with noble and tender encouragement. Eve, with a pious ardor, made wishes for the felicity of their union; finally, when they were retiring she divided between them a branch of jasmine.
"Preserve this," she said, "in memory of me."
The sacrifice was accomplished. When they had gone, Eve sighed, prayed, and felt herself weaker. She had expended in this interview the little strength which remained to her.
A despairing cry soon resounded through the house where the young girl's inexhaustible goodness had won all hearts.
"Mademoiselle is dying! Mademoiselle is going to die!"
The Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam, fulfilling his promise, went to add a disposition to his will, in case the heiress should not attain her majority. The pen fell from his hand, the chill of death ran through his veins:
"Eve! Eve! who will take me to her?"
But Eve entered the room, for she, on her side, had prayed the governess to have her conducted there.
The old man saw on her features the certain mark of death, and death struck him. He murmured for the last time the name of Eve, then fell back, cold, in his arm-chair.
However, Eve lived an entire day after her grandfather.
Her agony was slow and gentle. She asked for jasmine, her couch was covered with white flowers, bathed in her tears whose filial love had made them.
"May Louise be your daughter," said Eve to Madame du Castellet "Louise will replace me with you."
Then, addressing Louise:
"My sister, make your husband happy. Love the poor and pray with them for my parents, my grandfather, and myself. God be praised," she murmured finally, "my father's father has preceded me, I go to join him. Adieu, Gaston! my brother, adieu!"
Her voice failed, her heart ceased to beat, heaven counted one angel more.
Madame du Castellet, Gaston, and Louise passed the night in prayers by the two beds of death. Finally, the same hearse conducted to the same tomb Adam, Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam, last of the name, and his grandchild Eve, the last branch of an illustrious stock.
A sword which had never been drawn except in a just and holy cause decorated the aged man's coffin, but that of the child cut down at the threshold of life was covered with the white flowers which she had so piously loved.
To-day the mansion of the Tour-d'Adams is inhabited by M. and Mme. de Mirefont, Mme. du Castellet, her nephew Gaston, and her niece, Louise.
A room hung with crowns and wreaths of artificial jasmine serves as the family oratory.
No one ever penetrates there except with recollection.
The servants call it the saints' chamber.
It is that whence rose toward heaven, as an agreeable perfume to God, the soul of a maiden dying in all the purity of first innocence; dead without knowing there existed a forbidden fruit; dead because she loved with that celestial love which belongs only to the angels in paradise.
From The Month.
BURY THE DEAD
"Give me a grave, that I made bury my dead
out of my sight."--Genesis xxiii.
Enwrapt in fair white shroud.
With fragrant flowers strewn.
With loving tears and holy prayers,
And wailing loud,
Shut out the light!
Bury the Dead, bury the Dead,
Out of my sight!
[{380}] Corruption's touch will wrong
The sacred Dead too soon;
Then wreath the brow, the eyelids kiss;
Delay not long,
Behold the blight!
Bury the Dead, bury the Dead,
Out of our sight!
But there are other Dead
That will not buried be,
That walk about in glaring day
With noiseless tread.
And stalk at night;
Unburied Dead, unburied Dead,
Ever in sight.
Dear friendships snapt in twain.
Sweet confidence betrayed,
Old hopes forsworn, old loves worn out,
Vows pledged in vain.
There is no flight,
Ye living, unrelenting Dead,
Out of your sight.
Oh! for a grave where I
Might hide my Dead away!
That sacred bond, that holy trust,
How could it die?
Out of my sight!
O mocking Dead, unburied Dead,
Out of my sight!
O ever-living Dead,
Who cannot buried be;
In our heart's core your name is writ.
What though it bled?
The wound was slight
To eyes that loved no more, in death's
Remorseless night
O still belovèd Dead,
No grave is found for you;
No friends weep with us o'er your bier.
No prayers are said;
For out of sight
We wail our Dead, our secret Dead,
Alone at night.
Give me a grave so deep
That they may rest with me;
For they shall lie with my dead heart
In healing sleep;
Till out of night
We shall all pass, O risen Dead,
Into God's sight!
[ORIGINAL.]
RELIGION IN NEW YORK.
The city of New York is supposed to contain about one million of inhabitants. Of these, from 300,000 to 400,000 are Catholics, probably 60,000 Jews, and from 550,000 to 650,000 Protestants, or Nothingarians.
We will first speak of the provision made for the religions instruction of the non-Catholic majority of our population.
There are 280 churches of all descriptions, excluding the Catholic churches. Of these, there are:
| Episcopalian | 61 |
| Presbyterian | 56 |
| Methodist | 48 |
| Baptist | 30 |
| Jewish | 25 |
| Dutch Reformed | 20 |
| Lutheran | 9 |
| Congregational | 4 |
| Universalist | 4 |
| Unitarian | 3 |
| Friends | 3 |
| Miscellaneous [Footnote 55] | 17 |
[Footnote 55: These figures are taken from the last Directory. The "Walk about New York" gives the number at 318.]
The number of communicants in Protestant churches is estimated as 64,800. If the churches were all of ample size and equally distributed through the city, they would suffice tolerably well for the accommodation of the people, should they be generally disposed to attend public worship. A large proportion of them, however, are small, and only 80 churches are situated below First street. The lower and more populous portion of the city is therefore very destitute of church accommodation, while the great majority of the churches, especially the largest and finest, are in the upper part of the town, among the residences of the more well-to-do classes of the community. The Protestant population as a whole is, therefore, very poorly provided with church accommodation.
A pamphlet, entitled "Startling Facts: a Tract for the Times, by Philopsukon: Brinkerhoff, 48 Fulton street, 1864," gives a considerable amount of information on this point. The estimates of this gentleman are based on a supposed population of 950,000. For the section of the city below Canal and Grand streets, including the first seven wards, there are, according to him, 12 churches and 8 mission chapels, capable of accommodating about 15,000 persons. The population of this district is 185,000. Twenty Protestant congregations have within the last twenty-five years abandoned their churches in this district, and removed to new ones up town. One of the old churches (St. George's) is retained as a mission chapel, and another, a very fine one, the Rutgers street Presbyterian church, has been converted into a Catholic church. These removals have reduced the church accommodation from 18,000 to 20,000 sittings, while the population has meanwhile doubled.
For the section between Canal and Fourteenth streets, including also seven wards, there are 88 churches for a population of 262,000. Fourteen churches have been abandoned within ten years. Of these 34 abandoned churches, 3 have been turned into livery stables, and the remainder into public offices or stores and factories.
The upper section, extending to Sixty-first street, includes eight wards, with a population of 418,000, and has 82 churches.
This gentlemen has counted only what he calls "Evangelical" churches, in which he estimates the total sittings throughout the whole city at 126,600, but the actual attendance at only 84,400. A "Condensed Statement" which we have in our bands, estimates the total Protestant church accommodation at 200,000, and the number of communicants at 64,800. If we allow 150,000 for the ordinary or occasional attendants at Protestant worship, and 25,000 for the Jewish synagogues, we shall have then from 375,000 to 475,000 of the non-Catholic population who attend no place of religious worship or instruction at all. [Footnote 56] The author of the "Startling Facts," who summarily hands over all except the attendants at "Evangelical" churches to the devil, takes a very gloomy view of the state of things, and considers that "865,600 out of the 950,000 pass to the judgment-seat of Christ WITHOUT THE MEANS OF GRACE;" to be condemned, we are left to infer, because they did not enjoy those means; while those who did enjoy them and failed to provide for the wants of the remainder are to be rewarded.
[Footnote 56: "The Great Metropolis, a Condensed Statement," gives the Protestant church accommodation at 200,000. "Walks about New York, by the Secretary of the City Mission," estimates the number of attendants at "Evangelical churches" at 324,000. Allowing 10,000 more for other Protestant congregations, and 25,000 for the Jewish synagogues, this leaves 240,000 as the minimum number of the non-Catholic population who attend no place of public worship. It appears to us that it is a large calculation to allow 1,000 attendants to each church, which would give the total of 280,000 church-goers, leaving a remainder of 320,000. All the non-Catholic churches together are capable of accommodating less than 225,000 persons at one time, leaving 375,000 who have not sufficient church-room to accommodate them, if all were disposed to attend regularly. Nevertheless, it does not appear that the majority of the Protestant churches are over-crowded. The mass of the non-church-goers are quite apathetic on the subject. They do not wish to have churches, and probably would not frequent them if they were built for them free of expense.]
It must be allowed, however, that he berates them handsomely for their neglect of duty. He says:
"Nor is it intended in these few pages to canvass the question as to the necessity or the expediency, etc., of what is called the up-town removal of so many of the churches (in all 36), first from the lower, and now from the central section of the city. All that can be done is to note the following facts, and leave others to draw their own inference as to their practical effects.
"1. In every instance of such church removal, it has originated in the change of residence of a few of the wealthier families of said church: this, of course, was followed by a diminution of the means of support to the said church. Hence the plea of necessity for its removal; and, making no provision to retain the old church for missionary purposes, the effect has been to scatter by far the larger portion both of the church members and of the congregation to the four winds. For,
"2. The old church property having been sold, the new location has been selected with a sole view to the accommodation of these families of wealth, who left it for an up-town palatial residence, and a costly church edifice has been erected (often largely beyond their means) compatible with their tastes. The result of this has been,
3. To place the privileges of the church beyond the reach of the mediocre and lower classes. And this has led to an ignoring of that divinely appointed law of God, "the rich and the poor meet together, the Lord being the maker of them all" (Prov. xxiii. 12). Hence the origin of caste in the churches. Money has been erected into the standard of personal respectability, by which every man is measured; and hence a courting of the favor of the rich, and a despising of the poor.
"Thus the way is prepared to account for the paucity of attendance at many of these larger and wealthier churches. A consciousness of self-respect operates largely to deter those who might otherwise repair to them. They shrink from an encounter, whether right or wrong, from that invidiousness to which the above principle of the measurement of personal respectability subjects them; and taking human nature as it is, it cannot be otherwise. Hence, finding themselves thus "cut off" from the privileges of the churches, and that by the act of the churches themselves, [{383}] they relapse into a state of absolute "neglect of the great salvation. " [Footnote 57]
[Footnote 57: How this is possible in the case of those who have received the gift of infallible perseverance, it is difficult to see, unless the "elect" are chiefly found among the élite of society.]
"And when there is taken into the account the neglect of these wealthier churches to make provision for the populations in those sections of the city formerly occupied by them, there is furnished an explanation of the vast disparity between the number of churches compared with the immense population as a whole, which remain unprovided for.
"True, in order to escape the imputation of neglecting 'the poor of this world' altogether, some of the wealthier churches have established missionary Sabbath schools outside of their own congregations. The principal denominations--the Episcopalians, Methodists, Baptists, Reformed Dutch Church, and Presbyterians, are also doing something in the way of supporting missionary chapels for the poor; but none of them are making provisions for them in a manner or to an extent at all commensurate either with their duty or their means.
"Take, in illustration, a view of the amount of missionary work being done in this city by the large and wealthy presbytery of New York. True, the Brick church; the Fifth avenue church, corner Twenty-first street; the Fifth avenue church, between Eleventh and Twelfth streets; the Presbyterian church in University place, corner Tenth street, and perhaps one or two others, each support, independently of drawing upon the funds raised for domestic missions, a mission Sabbath school and chapel. But out of the moneys contributed annually by the churches connected with the presbytery, amounting to from $12,000 to $15,000, there are only two regularly organized missionary churches connected with that body. These are the German mission church in Monroe street, comer of Montgomery, and the African mission church in the Seventh avenue, each supported at an expense of $600 per annum. Nor are the ecclesiastical judicatories of other churches doing much better.
"Is this, then, the way to 'continue in God's goodness?' Writing on this subject, so long ago as 1847, the Rev. Dr. Hodge, the oldest professor occupying a chair in the Princeton Theological Seminary, and the learned and able editor of 'The Princeton Review,' had used his pen in refuting the statement of those in the Presbyterian Church who affirm that 'we have already more preachers than we know what to do with,' etc.; and having disposed of that matter, he passes to the subject of the difference in the mode of sustaining and extending the gospel in and by the Presbyterian Church. In reference to the policy adopted by said church to this end, he says:
"'Our system, which requires the minister to rely for his support on the people to whom he preaches, has had the following inevitable results: 1. In our cities we have no churches to which the poor can freely go and feel themselves at home. No doubt, in many of our city congregations there are places in the galleries in which the poor may find seats free of charge; but, as a general thing, the churches are private property. They belong to those who build them, or who purchase or rent the pews after they are built. They are intended and adapted for the cultivated and thriving classes of the community. There may be exceptions to this remark, but we are speaking of a general fact. The mass of the people in our cities are excluded from our churches. The Presbyterian Church is practically, in such places, the church for the upper classes (we do not mean the worldly and the fashionable) of society." And to this Dr. Hodge adds, as the result of the working of 'our system,' the following:
[{384}]
"'The Presbyterian Church IS NOT A CHURCH FOR THE POOR. She has precluded herself from that high vocation by adopting the principle that the support of the minister must be derived from the people to whom he preaches. If therefore, the people are too few, too sparse, too poor, to sustain a minister, or too ignorant or wicked to appreciate the gospel, THEY MUST GO WITHOUT IT.'"
Thus far the author of the tract and Dr. Hodge. The statements of the latter are indorsed by the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church. A Baptist clergyman, writing in the "Memorial Papers," a work which was suppressed after publication, says: "The Church has no conversions and no hold on the masses. The most successful church building is that which excludes the poor by necessity." [Footnote 58]
[Footnote 58: A high price will be paid at this office for a copy of "The Memorial Papers.">[
We do not cite these statements in order to make a point against Protestantism from the admissions of its advocates, or to exult over these admissions. We respect our anonymous friend, and the learned and accomplished Princeton divine, for their candor, honesty, and zeal for the religious instruction of the poor. We have nothing in view except an exposition of the real state of things in New York, and are anxious to arrive at facts. Allowing for all errors and exaggerations, and with a perfect willingness to admit everything which can be said to extenuate the evil, we must admit the palpable, undeniable fact, that some hundreds of thousands of our population are either unprovided with the opportunity of attending any form of worship and religious instruction, or are indifferent to the subject. Sunday is to them a mere holiday from work (to many not even that), to be spent in recreation and amusement, if not in something positively bad.
It appears especially that the lower section of the city has been almost entirely given up by Protestants. [Footnote 59] There is one very notable and very honorable exception, however, in Trinity church, which has always been the best managed ecclesiastical corporation of all the Protestant religious institutions in our country.
[Footnote 59: That is, except as a missionary ground.]
The educational and eleemosynary institutions of New York are on a colossal scale. We will not go into extensive details on this subject, as our topic is properly the religion of the city. It is estimated that there are 144,000 children in New York, of whom 104000 are at school, [Footnote 60] and 40,000 growing up without instruction. The poverty, wretchedness, and indifference of parents is more to blame for the condition of that portion not at school, than the want of accommodation.
Hospitals, refuges, asylums of all kinds, abound in the city; as well as dispensaries where medical assistance and medicine can be obtained by the poor gratuitously. There is, beside, a gigantic system of domestic relief and outdoor charity under the direction of the municipal authorities. The number of individuals relieved in various ways during the year by these public charities is about 57,000; 30,000 receive gratuitous medical attendance from the dispensaries. For education, $1,000,000 a year is expended by the city, and for public charity, $700,000. The collections made for local purposes of benevolence are estimated at $500,000, and the other collections made in Protesant churches at $500,000 more. The ecclesiastical expenses of maintaining the various churches are estimated at $1,000,000. The great Protestant societies whose headquarters are in New York, receive about $2,700,000 annually. $6,000,000 were distributed among the families of soldiers during the late war. Beside these rough estimates of the vast sums expended by great public organizations, there is no counting the amount of individual contributions, often on a large scale, to colleges, etc., and the sums expended in benevolent works by private societies or individuals.
[Footnote 60: This includes also Catholic schools and colleges. The estimate is too small, however, and another gives 206,000 as the number going to school.]
There can be no doubt that the people of New York, possessing means, are a very liberal and philanthropic class. That there is still remaining a great deal of "evangelical" religious zeal and activity is also manifest. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the influence of the old, orthodox Protestant tradition has remarkably diminished, and that the minority of nominal Protestants have lapsed into a state of indifference to positive Christianity. We doubt if 25,000 men can be found in the city who sincerely profess to believe the tenets common to what are called the "evangelical" churches; and of these but a small fraction adhere intelligently to the distinctive doctrines of any one sect; e.g., the Protestant Episcopal, or Presbyterian. The remainder have a general belief in the truth of Protestant Christianity, more or less vague, with a great disposition to consider positive doctrines as matters of indifference. Outside the communion list of the different churches, we believe the general sentiment to be, among the educated, that Christianity is a very useful, moral institution, containing substantially all the truth which can be known respecting ultra-mundane things, but without any final authority over the reason, and completely subject to the criticism of science. Among the uneducated, we believe that negative unbelief, and a supine indifference to everything beside material interests, prevails. We will not attempt to assign causes or reasons for it; but the fact is evident. A vast mass of the population is completely outside of the influence of any religious body, or any class of religious teachers professing to expound revealed truths concerning God and the future life. Moreover, the traditional belief in revealed truths is much weaker in the young and rising generation, even of those brought up under positive religious instruction, than it is in the present adult generation. There appears to be no tangible, palpable reason for thinking that Protestant Christianity, under any form, is in a condition to revive its former sway; to keep what it retains, or to recover what it has lost. The mere lack of church accommodation will not account for this, and if at once this lack were remedied, it would not change it materially. For, in those places which are furnished with a superabundance of churches, the same undermining of religious belief is going on. The fact that the most respectable Protestant publishers make no scruple of republishing the works of such writers as Renan and Colenso, and that these books are read with such avidity, indicates the way the current is setting.
What the result of all this will be, is a matter for very serious consideration. Our political, civil, and moral order is founded on Christianity. The old Christian tradition has been the principle of the interior life of the nation. Take away positive Christian belief, and the moral principles which are universally acknowledged are still only a residuum of the old religion. The spirit of Christianity survives partly in civilization as its vital principle. How long a certain political and social order may continue after faith has died out, we cannot say. We cannot but think, however, that a disintegrating principle begins to work as soon as religious belief begins to die out. There is nothing, therefore, more destructive to the temporal well-being of men, than the spread of sceptical and infidel principles. Merely from this point of view, therefore, the decay of religious belief and earnestness ought to be deplored as the greatest of evils, and one for which no advance in physical science or material prosperity can compensate. What the moral fruits already produced by this decay are, and what the prospects are for the future in this direction, we leave our readers to gather from the perusal of the secular papers; and it may be estimated from the cry of alarm which is from time to time forced from them, as new and startling developments of the progress in vice and criminality are made.
We turn our attention now to the Catholic population of the city, and the religious institutions under the control of the Catholic Church.
The Catholic population is variously estimated at from 300,000 to 400,000. As no census has been taken, all estimates must be merely approximate. One way in which an estimate may be made, is by taking the returns of the census giving the total population of foreign birth, and getting the proportion of Catholics to non-Catholics among the various nationalities. Some probable estimate of the native-born Catholics must then be made and added to the number of foreign-born. In 1860 the number of inhabitants of foreign birth was 383,717, out of a total of 813,669. If we suppose that the foreign-born population has increased to 460,000, it seems not improbable that the Catholic proportion of it, with the home-born Catholics added, will reach the total of 400,000.
Another basis of calculation is the ratio of baptisms to the whole population. A register is kept with the utmost exactness in each parish, and the result transmitted once a year to the chancery, where it is entered in the diocesan record. We are furnished, therefore, with an authentic census of births from Catholic parents each year, and if the exact multiplier could be ascertained by which to multiply this number, we should reach a certain result. It can only be conjectured, however, with more or less probability, and varies in different localities remarkably according to the character of the population. The baptisms for one year are 18,000. Multiply the number by 33, as is usually done in making the estimates of the general census, and you have 594,000. This number is too large, however. If we take 20, it gives us 360,000; 25, 450,000. We do not profess to come any nearer than this to an estimate of the actual Catholic population. The two conjectural calculations, compared with each other, appear to settle the point that it is, as we have already stated, between 300,000 and 400,000.
The number of churches is 32, or one to from 10,000 to 12,000 people; and the number of priests 93, or one to about 4,000 people. In the lower section, embracing the first seven wards, there are five churches: St. Peter's in the Third ward, St. James's in the Fourth, St. Andrew's and Transfiguration in the Sixth, and St. Teresa's in the Seventh. These churches furnish nearly three times as much accommodation as the Protestant churches in the same district. It must be remembered that the capacity of a Catholic church includes standing room as well as sittings, and must be multiplied by the number of masses. A church which will hold, when crowded, 2,000 persons, and where four masses are celebrated, will accommodate 8,000 on one Sunday; and, considering the causes which keep many from attending church regularly, 12,000 different individuals who attend regularly or occasionally. One of these churches, St. Teresa's, is a very fine building of stone, which was purchased about four years ago from the Presbyterians, and was called in former times the Rutgers street Presbyterian church. No Catholic church in the lower part of the city has ever been closed, or moved up town, with the exception of St. Vincent de Paul's.
The middle district has nine churches: St. Alphonsus' in the Eighth ward (German and English), St. Joseph's in the Ninth, St Bridget's in the Eleventh, St. Mary's in the Thirteenth, St. Patrick's in the Fourteenth, St. Ann's in the Fifteenth, Holy Redeemer (German), St. Nicholas's (German), Nativity, in the Seventeenth.
Below Fourteenth street we have, therefore, fourteen churches, most of them very large, surrounded by a dense Catholic population, and crowded with overflowing congregations. A very large proportion of our Catholic population is in this part of the city.
Between Fourteenth and Eighty-sixth streets we have fifteen churches: St. Columba's and St. Vincent de Paul's (French) in the Sixteenth ward, St. Francis Xavier's and the Immaculate Conception in the Eighteenth, St. Francis's (German), St. John Baptist's (German), and St. Michael's in the Twentieth, St. Stephen's and St. Gabriel's in the Twenty-first, Holy Cross, Assumption (German), and St. Paul's in the Twenty-second, St. Boniface's, St. John's, and St. Lawrence's in the Nineteenth. Above Eighty-sixth street we have St. Paul's, Harlem, and the Annunciation and St. Joseph's (German), Manhattanville. [Footnote 61]
[Footnote 61: Of these churches, St. Teresa's, Immaculate Conception St. Michael's, St. Gabriel's, St. Boniface's, Assumption, St. Paul's, and St. Joseph's (German), are comparatively new; and a very large cathedral, capable of containing 10,000 persons is building. St. Stephen's is also being enlarged to a capacity of 5,000, and a church has been purchased for the Italians.]
After the old Catholic fashion of jamming and crowding, all these churches might allow somewhere near 200,000 persons, or two-thirds of the adult Catholic population, to hear mass on any one Sunday, if they should all attempt to do so on the same day. Judging by the way churches are crowded, we would suppose that more than two-thirds attend occasionally; and of those who do not, the majority neglect it through poverty, discouragement, indolence, and a careless habit, or some other reason which does not imply loss of faith. As to confessions and communions, they flow in a ceaseless stream throughout the year, as if the paschal time were perpetual. In cachone of our churches there are from 100 to 500 communions every week, and a much greater number on the principal festivals. Probably the usual number of communions in the city, on any Sunday taken at random, is not short of 5,000. At least 8,000 children receive first communion and confirmation every year; and from 40,000 to 50,000 are instructed every week in the catechism, the Sunday schools varying in their numbers from 500 to 2,500.
The Catholic population is increasing at the rate of at least 20,000 a year. New York is now about the fourth city in the world in Catholic population, and bids fair, in a few years, to rank next to Paris in this respect.
The Catholic institutions for education, strictly within the city limits, are:
1. Two colleges, St. Francis Xavier's and Manhattan colleges, the first conducted by Jesuits, and the second by Christian Brothers.
2. Two academies for boys and twelve for girls.
3. Twenty-one parochial schools for boys, and twenty for girls, the whole containing about 14,000 pupils.
There are other very large and fine establishments in the vicinity of New York, practically belonging to the city, but not within its limits.
There are 4 orphan asylums, a protectory for the reception of vagrant children in two departments, male and female, which is out of town, another for servant girls out of place, a very fine industrial school for girls, 2 hospitals, 4 religious communities of men; and 11 of women. The most numerous of these religious congregations are the Jesuits and the Sisters of Charity; the former having in the diocese 39 fathers, beside numerous members of inferior grade, and the latter 333 sisters and 39 different establishments.
In every sense except as regards municipal government, Brooklyn, which is on the other side of East River, is a part of New York; and there we have another diocese of immense proportions, with another great congeries of Catholic institutions. On the opposite side of the town, and on the Jersey shore of the Hudson, the churches of Jersey City, which is remarkably advanced in Catholic institutions, are plainly visible.
Our object in this article has been to give a general idea of the provision made for the religious wants of the mass of the population in the city of New York.
In spite of the uncertainty of the estimates and statistics we have given in regard to exact numbers, it is plain that this provision is very inadequate; that a vast mass of our population is unprovided for or totally indifferent; that the orthodox Protestant societies have lost to a great extent their influence over the mass of the population, and that a great body of practically heathen people has been gradually forming and accumulating in the very bosom of our social system.
Where are we to look for a remedy to this state of things? It is necessary to our political and social well-being that crime and vice should be restrained, that the mass of the people should be instructed and formed in virtue, taught sobriety, chastity, honesty, obedience to law, fidelity to their obligations, and universal morality. Soldiers, policemen, prisons, poor-laws, and all extrinsic means of this kind are insufficient preventives or remedies for the disorders caused by a prevalence of vice and immorality. They will burst all these bonds, and disrupt society, if not checked in their principle. Can liberal Christians, philanthropists, philosophers, political economists, and our wealthy, well-informed gentlemen of property, who have thrown away their Bibles, and who sneer at all positive revelation, indicate to us a remedy? Can they apply it? Is it in their power, by scientific lectures, by elegant moral discourses, by material improvements, by societies, by laws, by any means whatever, to tame, control, civilize, reform, make gentle, virtuous, conscientious, this lawless multitude? Can they give us incorruptible legislators, faithful magistrates, honest men of business, a virtuous commonalty? Can they create truth, honor, and magnanimity, patriotism, chastity, filial obedience, domestic happiness, integrity? If not, then give them their way, let their doctrines prevail, throw away faith in a positive revelation, and they will not be safe in their houses. The rogues will hang the honest men, and might will be the only right. One of the leaders of the party has not hesitated to avow that the prevalence of his principles would necessarily produce a social and moral chaos of disorder, before mankind could learn in a rational way that their true happiness lies in intellectual and moral cultivation. What has the sect of the philosophers ever done yet to produce virtue and morality in the mass of mankind? What can they do now? They cannot even reproduce what was good in heathenism, for that was due to an imperfect and corrupted tradition of the ancient revelation, and the influence of the sophists tended to destroy even that. Our modern sophists act on the same principle, and are busily at work to destroy the Christian tradition of faith, and with it the principle which vitalizes Christian civilization.
Can orthodox Protestantism recover its ancient sway, and reproduce a state of religions belief and moral virtue equal to that which once prevailed? We would like to have them prove their ability to do so, and show that they have even made a fair beginning toward recovering their lost ground. We leave them to do what they can, and to try out their experiment to the end on the non-Catholic majority of our population. If their intelligence, wealth, zeal, and prestige of position were thrown into the defence of the common cause of Christian revelation by union with the Catholic Church, the victory would be certain. Unbelief and indifferentism could never make any stand against a united Christianity, in a population so full of religions reminiscences and predilections, and so susceptible to persuasive logic and genuine eloquence, as our own. The Christian cause is weakened by its divisions, and by the political and social schisms which are bred by the schisms in religion. Not only those who are separated from the common trunk of the Catholic Church suffer from the separation, but the trunk itself suffers and is mutilated by the loss. [{389}] The Catholic Church cannot do her work completely where the majority of those who prefer Christianity are opposed to her, especially when this majority includes the greater part of the more elevated classes.
It is evident, nevertheless, that the Catholic Church in New York has done a great work in our population, and has a great work to do. We have much more than one-third of the whole population, and the majority of the laboring class, and of the poor people, on our hands. The Catholic clergy alone possess a powerful and extensive religions sway over the masses of the people. The poor are emphatically here, as they have been always and everywhere, our inheritance. Nearly all that has been done, and is now doing, in an efficacious manner and on a large scale, for the religions welfare of the populace, is the work of our priesthood and their coadjutors. It is impossible to estimate the benefit to society in a political, social, and moral point of view, accruing from the influence and exertions of the Catholic clergy. This is persistently denied by a certain class of writers, who never do justice to the Catholic Church except under compulsion. One of them, writing in one of our principal weeklies, recently qualified the Catholic Church in the United States, whose growth and progress he could not ignore, as a mere empty shell without any moral life or power. He accused the Catholic clergy of not exercising that moral influence in the country at large which they ought to exercise, and have exercised in other times and places.
What a change of base this is! But now, the Catholic religion was a kind of embodied spirit of evil, and her ministers had to vindicate their title to the rank of men and Christians. Religion, morality, liberty, happiness, would be swept from the country if they were not exterminated! Now, forsooth, we are gravely asked why we do not exert a greater influence for promoting the general well-being of the country? The truth is, that the influence of the Catholic clergy on the people at large has until now been a cipher. They have had no recognized position, and have been counted for nothing, except so far as certain individuals have commanded a personal respect. There is, moreover, a great amount of sham and trumpet-blowing about the great moral demonstrations of the day. The Catholic clergy have not chosen to meddle with questions which were none of their business, or to parade and speechify on platforms or at anniversaries. They have enough to do in looking after the immediate and pressing spiritual and temporal wants of their own people. And in doing this they prevent and reform more vice, produce more solid morality, and work more effectually for the well-being of their fellow-men, than could be done by the best devised philanthropic schemes. One mission in a city congregation, one paschal-time with its labor in the confessional, will do more to uproot drunkenness, dishonesty, and licentiousness, or to hinder these upas-trees from striking root in virgin soil, than our amateur philanthropists could describe if they were all to write and lecture on the subject for a year.
The one great, palpable fact which confronts us on every side is, that the religious and moral education of nearly one-half our population is in the hands of the Catholic Church, and that the well-being of our commonwealth depends, therefore, to a great degree on the thorough fulfilment of this task. It is evident that we have enough to do in making provision for our vast and increasing Catholic population, to employ all the energies and resources which can possibly be brought into play, both by the clergy and the laity.
Translated from Le Correspondant
A PRETENDED DERVISH IN TURKESTAN.
BY ÉMILE JONVEAUX.
IV.
The next day the hadjis assembled in the court of the monastery in which they had resided since arriving in Khiva. The caravan, thanks to the generosity of the faithful, presented a very different appearance from that which it offered at its arrival. They were no more those ragged beggars, covered with sand and dust, whose pious sufferings the multitude had admired; every pilgrim had the head enveloped in a thick turban as white as snow, the haversacks were full, and even the poorest had a little ass for the journey.
"It was Monday, toward the close of the day," relates our traveller, "that making an end of our benedictions, and tearing ourselves with difficulty from the passionate embraces of the crowd, we left Khiva by the gate Urgendi. Many devotees in the excess of their seal followed us more than a league; they shed many tears, and cried despairingly, 'When will our city have the happiness again to shelter so many saints?' Seated upon my donkey, I was overwhelmed with their too lively demonstrations of sympathy, when happily for me, the animal, fatigued by so many embraces, lost patience and started off at a grand gallop. I did not think it proper at first to moderate his ardor; only when at a considerable distance from my inconvenient admirers I endeavored to slacken somewhat his pace. But my long-eared hippogriff had taken a fancy to the course; my opposition only vexed him, and he testified his ill-humor in noisy complaints which displayed the extent and richness of his voice, but which I could have preferred to hear at a distance."
The travellers, after a day's march, encamped on the bank of the Oxus, which they wished to cross at this point. The river, swollen by the melting of the snows, becomes so wide in the spring that one can hardly see the opposite bank. The yellow waves, hurried rapidly along, contrast with the verdure of the trees and cultivated lands which extend as far as eye can reach. Toward the north, a mountain--Oveis-Karaine--is defined like an immense cloud upon the azure sky. The passage of the Oxus, begun in the morning, lasted till sunset. It would not have required so long a time, but the current carried the voyagers into the midst of little arms from which it was necessary afterward to ascend or re-descend, and this accident occurred every few paces. The transportation of the donkeys, which it was necessary now to put upon land, and again to gather into the boats, was, as one may imagine, a prodigious labor. "We were reduced," says our traveller, "to carry them in our arms like so many babies, and I laugh yet when I think of the singular figure of one of our companions, named Hadji Yakaub. He had taken his monture upon his back, and while he tenderly pressed the legs to his bosom, the poor animal, all trembling, tried to hide his head upon the shoulder of the pilgrim."
The caravan followed the banks of the Oxus for many days, or rather during many nights, for the heat was so great that it was impossible to travel until sunset. The pale light of the moon gave to the landscape something fantastic; the long file of camels and travellers extended itself in tortuous folds upon the flinty soil, the waters of the river flowing slowly with a mournful noise, and beyond extended afar the formidable desert of Tartary. This district, which bears the name of Toyeboyun (camel's back), no doubt on account of the curves described by the Oxus, is inhabited at certain seasons of the year by the Kirghiz, a nomad people among the nomads. A woman to whom Vambéry made some remarks on the subject of this vagabond existence, replied laughing, "Oh, certainly! one never sees us, like you other mollahs, remain days and weeks sitting in the same place; man is made for movement. See! the sun, the moon, the stars, the animals, the fish, the birds, everything moves in this world; only death remains motionless." As she finished these words, the cry was heard, "The wolf! the wolf!" The shepherdess cut short her philosophical dissertation to fly to the assistance of her flock, and made so good a use of voice and gesture, that the ferocious beast took flight, carrying with him only the beautiful fat tail of one of the sheep.
The Kirghiz are very numerous in central Asia; they inhabit the immense prairies situated between Siberia, China, Turkestan, and the Caspian sea; but it is difficult to compute their number. Ask them a question on this subject, and they will reply emphatically, "Count first the sands of the desert, then you will be able to number the Kirghiz." Their wandering habits have secured them against all authority, and Europeans are in an error when they believe them to be subject to the government of Russia or that of the Celestial Empire. None of these nations have ever exercised the least power over the Kirghiz; they send, it is true, officers charged to left taxes among them, but the nomads regard these functionaries as the chiefs of a vast foray, and they only admire how, instead of despoiling them of everything, they content themselves with levying upon them only a slight tax. Revolutions have often changed the face of the world, the inhabitants of the desert have remained the same for thousands of years; singular types of savage virtue and vice, they offer today a faithful image of the ancient Turani.
The pilgrims were anticipating with delight the end of their journey; only six or eight stages remained, when one morning at break of day, two men almost naked approached the caravan, crying in suppliant tones: "A morsel of bread, for the love of God!" Every one hastened to assist them, and when food had somewhat restored their strength, they informed the dervishes that, surprised by a band of Cossacks, ataman Tekke, they had lost baggage, clothes, provisions, and were only too happy not to have lost their lives. The brigands, one hundred and fifty in number, were planning a raid upon the troops of Kirghiz camped upon the banks of the Oxus: "Fly, then, or hide yourselves," added the men, "or else you will meet them in a few hours, and in spite of your sacred character, these bandits without faith or law will abandon you in the Khalata, after robbing you of all you possess." The kervanbashi, who had already been pillaged twice, no sooner heard the words Tekke and ataman than he gave the order to beat a retreat. Consequently after having rested the animals a short time and filled their bottles, the hadjis, casting a look of inexpressible regret upon the tranquil banks of the Oxus, made their way toward those frightful solitudes which had already swallowed up so many caravans. They advanced in perfect silence, not to arouse their enemies; the step of the camels upon the dusty soil returned no sound, and very soon the shades of night enveloped them.
Toward midnight all the pilgrims were obliged to dismount and walk, because the animals buried themselves to the knees in the sand. It was a severe trial for Vambéry; his infirmity doubled the fatigue of a tramp over a moving ground, in the midst of a continuous chain of little hills, therefore he hailed with joy the point designated for the morning station. The place, however, bore a name little calculated to inspire confidence. Adamkyrylgan (the place where men perish) justified in appearance its sinister appellation. As far as the eye could reach, extended only a sea of sand, which, on one side raising itself in hills like furious waves, still bore the visible imprint of the tempest, and on the other resembled a tranquil lake hardly ruffled by a light breeze. Not a bird traversed the air, not an animal, not an insect gave an appearance of life to this desolate spot. Far and near were seen only the blanched bones of men and camels, frightful witnesses of the disasters caused by the Tebbad or fever-wind, which from time to time poured upon the desert its burning breath.
The travellers were not pursued; the Tekkes themselves, bold cavaliers, hesitated to penetrate the Khalata. According to the calculation of the kervanbashi, six days' journey at most separated the caravan from Bokhara; the bottles being well filled, the pilgrims hoped they should not suffer from thirst; they had not counted upon the burning sun of the dog-days, which evaporated the precious liquid. In vain, to escape from this cursed region, they endeavored to double the hours of march; many camel died of fatigue, and the water diminished all the more rapidly. At last two hadjis, exhausted by privations, became so ill that it was necessary to bind them upon their donkeys with cords, for they were unable to hold themselves up. "Water! Water!" they murmured in dying accents. Alas, their best friends refused to sacrifice for them the least swallow of this liquid, each drop of which represented an hour of life; so, on the fourth day, when the pilgrims reached Medemin Bulag, one of these unhappy men was released by death from the cruel tortures of thirst. His palate had assumed a grayish tint, his tongue had become black, the lips like parchment and the open mouth displaying the naked teeth. Horrible to relate, the father hides from the son, brother from brother, the provision of water which would relieve his torture! Under any other proof, these men would, perhaps, have shown themselves generous and devoted, but thirst drives from the heart every sentiment of compassion.
Vambéry soon experienced himself its terrible effects. He managed with the parsimony of a miser the contents of his bottle, until he perceived with fright a black point formed upon the middle of his tongue. Then, blinking to save his life, he swallowed at once half the water which he had left. The fire which devoured him became more violent toward the morning of the fifth day, the pains in the head increased, and he felt his strength failing him. Meanwhile, they approached the mountains of Khalata, the sand became less deep, all eyes eagerly sought the tracks of a flock, or the hut of a shepherd; in this instant the kervanbashi called the attention of the pilgrims to a cloud of dust which rose at the horizon, warning them to lose not a moment in dismounting from their camels.
"The poor animals," relates Vambéry, "felt the approach of the Tebbad. Uttering a doleful cry, they threw themselves upon their knees, extended their long necks upon the ground, and endeavored to hide their heads in the sand. We sheltered ourselves near them as behind a wall; hardly were we upon the ground when the tempest broke over us with a sullen roar, leaving us the moment after, covered with a thick coat of dust. When this rain of sand enveloped me, it seemed to me burning like fire. If we had been attacked by this tempest two days before in the midst of the desert, we must all have perished.
"The air had become of an overwhelming weight; I could not have remounted my camel without the aid of my companions; I suffered intolerable pains, of which no words can give the least idea. In face of other perils, courage had now left me, but in this moment I felt broken down, my head ached so that I could not think, and a heavy sleep overcame me. On awaking, I found myself lying in a hut of clay, surrounded by long-bearded men whom I recognized as Iranians."
They were, in fact, Persian slaves sent into the desert to watch the flocks of their master; these brave fellows made Vambéry swallow a warm drink, and, soon after, a beverage composed of sour milk, water, and salt, which soon restored his strength. Before quitting the Sunnite pilgrims, in whom they must have recognized the bitterest enemies of their race, the poor prisoners shared with them their slender provision of water, an act of meritorious charity which without doubt was regarded with complacency by the God of mercy who is the Father of all.
The caravan at last reached Bokhara, the most important city of central Asia, but which preserves to-day few traces of its ancient grandeur. Still, it possesses fine monasteries and colleges which rival those of Samarcand. These schools, founded at a great expense and sustained by great sacrifices, have given Europeans a high idea of Asiatic learning; but it must be remembered, they are controlled by a blind fanaticism. The exclusive spirit of the Bokhariots restricts singularly the circle of studies, all instruction turning upon the precepts of the Koran and religious casuistry. We do not find to-day a single disciple who occupies himself with history or poetry; if any one were tempted to do it, he would be obliged to conceal it, for attention given to subjects so frivolous would be considered a proof of weakness of mind.
Vambéry and his companions found asylum in a Tekki or convent, a vast square building, of which the forty cells opened upon a court planted with fine trees. The Khalfa, or "reverend abbot," as our Hungarian traveller calls him, was a man of agreeable exterior and gentle and published manners. He received Vambéry most graciously, and the two interlocutors opened a pompous, subtle conversation, full of reticence and mental reserves, which charmed the good Khalfa and gave him also the highest opinion of his new guest; so from his arrival in Bokhara, our traveller acquired a great reputation for learning and sanctity.
The next day, accompanied by Hadji Bilal, he went out to see the city. The streets and houses of this noble city are chiefly remarkable for their slovenly appearance and ruinous condition. After having crossed the public squares, where they went up to the ankles in a blackish dust, the two friends arrived at the bazaar which was filled with a noisy and busy crowd. These establishments by no means equal those of Persia in extent and magnificence, but the mingling of races, of costumes and habits, forms a bizarre spectacle which captivates the eye of a stranger. Persians, their heads wrapped in their large blue or white turbans, according to the class to which they belong, jostle the savage Tartar, the Kirghiz with his slouching gait, the Indian with his yellow and repulsive face, bearing upon the forehead the red brand, and, finally, the Jew, who preserves here, more than anywhere else, his distinctive type, his noble features, his deep-sunk eyes, where an astute intelligence glitters. Here and there we meet also a Turcoman, easily recognized by his proud mien and bold glance; motionless before the shops of the merchants, they think perhaps of the precious booty which the riches displayed before them will furnish for their forays.
The pilgrims received everywhere marks of enthusiastic sympathy; the foreign appearance of Vambéry excited particular admiration. "What [{394}] faith he must have," said one, "to come from Constantinople to Bokhara, and endure the fatigue of a journey through the great Desert, in order to meditate at the tomb of Baveddin!" [Footnote 62] "Without doubt," replied another, "but we also go to Mecca, the holy city by eminence, and in order to accomplish this pilgrimage we leave our business, and endure, I should think, quite enough fatigue. These people," and he pointed his finger at Vambéry, "have no business to occupy them; their whole life is consecrated to exercises of piety and to visiting the tombs of the saints."--"Bravo, very well imagined!" thought our traveller, while he cast glances which he tried to render indifferent, upon the display of Russian and other European goods exposed for sale; he often had great difficulty in repressing an imprudent emotion when he saw articles of merchandise bearing the stamp of Manchester or Birmingham. Quickly turning his head for fear of betraying himself, he fixed his attention upon the products of the soil and of native industry, examined a fine cotton fabric called Aladja, where two colors alternate in narrow stripes, silken stuffs, rich and various, from the elegant handkerchief as thin as the lightest gauze, to the heavy atres, which falls in large luxurious folds. Leathers play an important part in Bokharist manufactures, the shoemakers of the country make of them long boots for both sexes; but the shops towards which the people pressed most eagerly were those of the clothes-merchant, where ready-made garments strike the eye by their dazzling colors, for Bokhara is the Paris of central Asia, regarded by the Turcomen as the centre of elegance.
[Footnote 62: An ascetic celebrated throughout Islam, founder of the order of the Nakishbendi, to which the Hungarian traveller pretended to belong.]
When he had sufficiently contemplated this curious tableau, Vambéry asked Hadji Bilal to take him to a place where he might rest and refresh himself; and the two friends went together to a place called Lebi Hanz Divanbeghi(quay of the reservoir of Divanbeghi), where all the fashionables of the city collect. In the middle of the square is a reservoir one hundred feet deep and eighty wide, bordered with cubic stones forming a stair of eight steps to the water's edge. All around magnificent elms shade the inevitable tea-shop, and the colossal samovar, not less inevitable, invites every passer-by to take a cup of the boiling liquid. On three sides of the square, little stalls, sheltered by bamboo matting, display to the eye bread, fruits, confectionery, hot and cold meats. The fourth side takes the form of a terrace, and close by rises the mosque Mesdjidi Divanbeghi, Before the doors are planted a number of trees, under which the dervishes and meddah (popular orators) recount to the wondering crowd, the exploits of heroes, or the holy deeds of the prophets. Just as Vambéry arrived, the Nakishbendis crossed the square, making their daily procession. "Never shall I forget," says our traveller, "the impression which these wild enthusiasts made upon me: their heads covered with pointed hats, with flowing hair, and long staves in their hands, they danced a round like the orgies of witches, yelling sacred songs, of which their chief, an old man with a gray beard, intoned alone the first strophe."
The secret inquisition established in Bokhara began very soon to annoy Vambéry in spite of his reputation for sanctity. Spies sent by the government came almost every day, upon one pretext or another, to open with the stranger conversations which always turned upon Europeans, their diabolical artifices, and the chastisements which had punished the audacity of many of them. They hoped that some imprudent word would drop to justify their suspicions, but the European was too much on his guard to be caught; he listened at first with patience, and then affecting an air of contemptuous indifference, "I left Constantinople," said he, "to get away from these [{395}] cursed Europeans, who, no doubt, owe their arts and sciences to the demon. Now, Allah be praised! I am in Bokhara, and I don't want to be troubled with thinking about them."
The emir was then absent; the minister who directed the inquest, seeing that his emissaries were completely foiled, resolved to make the stranger appear before a tribunal composed of onlemas, where his orthodoxy would be scrupulously examined. He had, in fact, to sustain a running fire of embarrassing questions which would be sure some day to pierce his incognito. Fortunately, he perceived the snare in time, and changing his character, took himself the part of questioner. Urged by a pious zeal, he consulted the learned doctors on the most minute cases of conscience, wished to know the differences, often imperceptible, between the Farz and the Sunnet, precepts of obligation, and the Tadjib and the Mustahab, simple religious counsels. This artifice had complete success; many an obscure text furnished material for an animated discussion, in which Vambéry never lost an occasion of making a pompous eulogium of the Bokharist oulemas, and loudly proclaiming their superiority. Then the judges, gained to his cause, told the minister that he had committed a grave mistake. Hadji Reschid was a very distinguished mollah, well prepared to receive the divine inspiration, precious heritage of the saints.
Vambéry, free henceforth from all fear, could study at leisure the character and aptitudes of the people of Bokhara. This city, which is, according to him, the Home of Islam, since Mecca and Medina represent Jerusalem, is not a little proud of its religious supremacy. Though it recognizes the spiritual authority of the Sultan, it does not, like Khiva, blindly submit to it, and it hardly pardons the emperor for permitting himself to be corrupted by the detestable influence of Europeans. Our traveller, in his supposed quality of Turk, was frequently obliged to defend Constantinople from the reproaches addressed to him: "Why," demanded, for example, the fervent Bokharists,--"why does not the sultan put to death all the Europeans who live in his states? why does he not ordain every year a holy war against the unbelievers?" Or again: "Why do not the Turks wear the turban and the long robe which the law prescribes? Is not this a frightful sin? and also, why have they not the long beard and short moustache which the Prophet wore?"
The emir Mozaffar ed Din watches carefully over the maintenance of the sacred doctrines. Every city has its Reïs or guardian of religion, who, whip in hand, runs through the streets and public squares, interrogating every one he meets upon the precepts of Islam. Woe to the unhappy passenger taken in the flagrant crime of ignorance: if it were a gray-headed old man he is also, all business ceasing, sent for a fortnight to the benches of the school. A discipline equally rigorous, obliges every one to go to the mosques at the hour of prayer. Finally, the espionage of the Reïs does not stop at the threshold of the private dwelling, and in the privacy of his family a Bokharist takes care not to omit the least rite, or even to pronounce the name of the emir without adding the sacramental formula, "May Allah give him a hundred and twenty years of life!" It needs not to say that all joy and gaiety are banished from social life, except the momentary animation of the bazaar. Bokhara presents a sad and monotonous aspect. During the day, every one fears perpetually to find himself in the presence of a spy; in the evening, two hours after sunset, the streets are deserted; no one ventures to visit a friend, the sick may perish for want of help, for Mozaffar ed Din forbids any one to go out under the most severe penalties.
Nevertheless, this prince is generally beloved by his subjects: he is strictly faithful to the policy of his predecessors, but they cannot reproach [{396}] him with any crime, or arbitrary or cruel act. A pious and instructed Mussulman, he has taken for device the word "justice," and he conforms himself to it scrupulously. This Bokharist justice might appear a little summary to Europeans, and the war against Khokand, is not, as we shall see by-and-bye, just in the full acceptation of the word, yet a prince of central Asia, educated in the bosom of the most fiery fanaticism, must be judged with some indulgence. It must be said in his praise, that if he is sometimes lavish of the blood of his nobles, he spares at least that of the poorer class, so that his people have surnamed him "the destroyer of elephants, and the protector of, mice."
A declared enemy of all innovation, the emir applies himself especially to maintain the austere manners of the ancient Bokhara. The importation of articles of luxury is forbidden, very rigorous sumptuary laws regulate not only dress, but even the structure and furniture of the dwellings. Mozaffar ed Din gives the first example of the contempt of all luxury; he has reduced by half the number of his servants; and one vainly seeks in his palace the least appearance of princely pomp. The same simplicity resigns in the harem, the oversight of which is intrusted to the mother and grandmother of the sovereign; the wise direction of these two princesses merits for this sanctuary a high reputation for chastity. Its doors, carefully closed to laics, open only to the mollahs, whose sacred breathings bring with them only happiness and piety. The sultanas, four in number, are accustomed to the exercise of domestic virtues; their table is frugal, their dress modest; they make their own garments and sometimes those of the emir, who exercises over all expenses a minute control.
Before quitting Bokhara, Vambéry wished to visit the tomb of Baveddin, the supposed end of his long pilgrimage.
This saint, the patron of Turkestan, is the object of profound veneration throughout all Asia. They regard him as a second Mohammed; and even from the heart of China, the faithful come in crowds to kiss his relics. The sepulchre is in a little garden, near which they have built a mosque; troops of blind, lame or paralytic beggars completely obstruct the approach. In front of the mausoleum is found the famous Stone of Desire, which has been much worn by the contact of the foreheads of pilgrims; on the tomb are placed rams' horns, a banner, and a broom sanctified by a long service in the temple of Mecca. Many times they have tried to cover all with a dome, but Baveddin prefers the open air, and always after three nights the buildings are thrown down. At least such is the legend, related by the sheiks, descendants of the saint.
V.
The two companions of Vambéry, Hadji Salih and Hadji Bilal, were impatient to quit Bokhara in order to reach before winter the distant province where they lived. Our traveller proposed to accompany them to Samarcand; he wished to see this celebrated city, and anticipating an interview with the emir, he wished to secure for himself the support of the pilgrims. The day of departure the caravan was already much reduced, being contained entirely in two carts. The European, sheltered from the sun by a hanging of mats, expected to repose comfortably in his rustic carriage, but this illusion was soon broken. The violent jolting of the vehicle threw the pilgrims every instant here and there, now against each other, now against the heavy wagon-frame; their heads were beaten about like billiard-balls. "For the first few hours," adds Vambéry, "I was literally sea-sick; I suffered much more than when mounted upon the camel, the swaying of which, [{397}] resembling the rolling of a ship, I had dreaded very much."
The travellers followed, at first a monotonous road; short, stinted pastures extended everywhere to the horizon, but nothing justified the marvellous stories of the inhabitants of the charming villages and enchanted gardens which lie between Bokhara and Samarcand. The caravan crossed the little desert of Chol Melik, and reached the next day the district of Kermineh; there the landscape suddenly changes, beautiful hamlets, grouped near each other, offer to the eye their inns, before which the gigantic samovar makes the traveller dream of solace and comfort; their farms, surrounded by rich harvests, by prairies where magnificent cattle feed, and by farm-yards sheltering their feathered population. Everything breathed life and abundance, and Vambéry could not contemplate without emotion this smiling picture, which recalled his fertile Germany.
After a journey of five days the hadjis arrived within sight of Samarcand. Thanks to the remembrances of the past, and the distance which separates it from Europe, the ancient capital of Timour excites a lively curiosity. We will permit the Hungarian traveller to describe, himself, this famous city.
"Let the reader," says he, "take a seat beside me in my modest carriage. He will perceive toward the east a high mountain, the cupola-like summit of which is crowned by a small edifice; there reposes Chobanata, the venerated patron of shepherds. Below extends the city. Its circumference nearly equals that of Teheran, but it must be much less populous, for the houses are much more scattered; on the other hand its ruins and public monuments give it an air more grand and imposing. The eye is first attracted by four lofty dome-like buildings, which are the midresses or colleges. Further on we perceive a small, guttering dome, then toward the south another, larger and more majestic; the first is the tomb, the second the mosque of Timour. Just in front of us, at the extreme southwest of the city, rises on a hill the citadel (Ark), itself surrounded by temples and sepulchres, which define themselves against the blue sky. If now we imagine all this intermingled with gardens of the most luxuriant vegetation, we shall have an idea of Samarcand. A feeble and imperfect idea, it is true, for the Persian proverb justly says 'It is one thing to see and another to hear.'
"Alas! why must we add that in entering this city all this prestige vanishes, and gives place to a bitter disappointment? We were obliged to cross the cemetery before reaching the inhabited quarters, and in spite of myself, this line of a Persian poet, which to-day seems tinged with a cruel irony, came to my mind?
"Samarcand is the sun of the world."
The same evening Vambéry and his companions were received in a house very near the tomb of Timour. Our traveller was delighted to learn that his host filled important functions near the Emir. The return of this prince, who had just finished a victorious campaign in Khokand, being expected very soon, Hadji Salih and Haji Bilal consented, out of regard to their friend, to prolong their stay in Samarcand until Vambéry had obtained an audience of Mozaffar ed Din, and found a caravan with which he might return to Persia. While waiting the pilgrims visited the ancient monuments of the city, which, in spite of its miserable appearance, is the richest city in Central Asia in historical remembrances. The plan of this sketch does not permit us to follow the author in the details which he gives of these remarkable buildings. We only cite.
1. The summer palace of Timour, which preserves, even to-day, some vestiges of its ancient magnificence. The apartment, to which we ascend by a marble staircase of forty steps, [{398}] contains rich mural paintings, made with colored bricks, and the pavement, entirely of mosaic, preserves the freshness and brilliancy of the first day.
2. The citadel, where we admire in a vast apartment called "Timour's audience-hall," the celebrated Köktash (green stone) upon which was placed the throne of the famous conqueror.
3. The tomb of Timour, surmounted by a very beautiful stone of deep green, two spans and a half wide, ten long, and of the thickness of six fingers. Not far from this a black stone shades the sepulchre of Mir Seid Berke, the spiritual director of the emir, near whom the powerful monarch wished to be buried. In the vaults of this mausoleum is preserved a copy of the Koran written upon gazelle skin, by the hand of Osman, the secretary and successor of Mohammed.
4. The Midusses, of which many, entirely abandoned, are falling into ruin; others, yet flourishing, are maintained with care. The most remarkable is that of Tillakair, so called from its golden ornaments.
The new city is much smaller than the ancient capital of Timour; it has six gates, and several bazaars where they sell at a very low price manufactured articles, confessedly of European workmanship. Vambéry, without thinking, like the Tartars, that "Samarcand resembles Paradise," still found it quite superior to other Turcoman cities, by the beauty of its situation, the splendor of its monuments, and the richness of its vegetation.
Meanwhile, days passed and the emir did not arrive, the caravan which was to take Vambéry back prepared to start, when the conqueror of Khokand at last made his triumphant entry. Mozaffar ed Din, following the unscrupulous policy adopted in the east, had organized a vast conspiracy against the sovereign of the rival khanat; then hired assassins, by his orders, delivered him from his enemies; and profiting by the confusion thus caused, Mozaffar succeeded in making himself master of the capital. At this news Samarcand burst into transports of joy, the people considered Mozaffar as a new Timour, who was about to reduce successively under his dominion, China, Persia, Afghanistan, India, and Europe; in their warlike ardor the Turcomen saw already the world divided between their prince and the Sultan of Constantinople. Nor must we be so much surprised that the taking of Khokand had so greatly excited them; this city, four times as large, they say, as Teheran, is the capital of a powerful khanat, which has for a long time remained in a state of perpetual hostility to the Bokharists. But one foresees that the Russian government will soon establish peace between these two enemies, in assuming the part of the judge in the fable. It slowly pursues its end, sows division, and already its bayonets have subjected Tashkend, the most western city of Khokand, and equally important in a commercial and military point of view.
At the period when Vambéry visited Samarcand, the intoxication of the victory obtained by the emir dispelled all gloom; the Europeans and their encroachments were forgotten in the noisy rejoicings. The happy return of Mozaffar ed Din was celebrated by a national festival, in which rice, mutton, tallow, and tea were distributed to the people with royal prodigality; the next day, the emir having granted his subjects a public audience, our traveller seized the occasion to be presented. Accompanied by his friends the pilgrims, he was preparing to enter the palace, when a Mehrem stopped him, saying that his Majesty desired to see the hadji of Constantinople alone. "We were extremely alarmed," relates Vambéry; "this distinction seemed to us an ill omen. Nevertheless, I followed the officer with a firm step. He introduced me into a spacious hall, where I perceived the emir seated upon an ottoman, and surrounded with books and manuscripts of all sorts. I did not suffer myself to be intimidated by the cold and severe air of the [{399}] prince, and after having recited a short sura, followed by the habitual prayer for the sovereign, I seated myself without asking permission near the royal person. He did not appear offended, for my character of dervish authorized this conduct, but he fixed upon me his great black eyes with a suspicious and interrogatory air, as if he would read to the bottom of my soul. Fortunately, for a long time I have lost the habit of blushing, therefore I sustained this scrutiny with coolness.
"Hadji," at last the emir said to me, "you have come from Turkey, I understand, to visit the tombs of Baveddin and the saints of Turkestan?"
"'Yes, Takhsir' (Your Majesty), but I wished also to refresh myself with the sight of your divine beauty.'
"'It is very strange! how, have you no other motive for undertaking so long a journey?'
"'No, Takhsir; I have always had an ardent desire to behold the noble Bokhara, the enchanting Samarcand, the sacred soil of which, according to the remark of the sheikh Djilal, ought to be trodden with the head rather than with the feet. I have beside no other business in this world, and for a long time I have wandered about like a pilgrim of the universe.'
"A pilgrim of the universe! you, with your lame leg!'
"'Remember, Takhsir, that your glorious ancestor Timour, [Footnote 63] peace be with him, had the same infirmity, which did not hinder him from being the conqueror of the universe.'
[Footnote 63: This prince, from whom the emirs of Bokhara pretend to descend, was lame, from whence came the surname of Timonr-leuk, or Timour the lame, of which we make Tamerlan (Fr.), Tamerlane (Eng.) ]
"These words charmed the emir; he addressed to me various questions relating to my journey, asking the impression which Bokhara and Samarcand had made upon me. My answers, all wrapped in Persian sentences and verses of the Koran, gained the confidence of the prince. Before dismissing me, he gave an order to remit to me a complete suit of clothes, and to count me out thirty tenghes."
Vambéry, much elated, hastened to inform his friends of the result of the interview; they advised him not to count too surely on the royal protection, and not to defer his departure. It cost him much to quit these good dervishes, generous and devoted hearts, the faithful companions of his hours of suffering. The bold explorer, the witty and sarcastic writer, full of pungent humor, here finds words which indicate deep feeling "I cannot describe," says he, "the emotion with which we parted. For six months, we had lived the same life, shared the same perils; perils in the midst of the burning sands of the desert, perils from the savage Turcomen, perils from the inclemency of nature and the elements. Differences of age, of position, of nationality, had disappeared; we were members of one family. Now we were to separate, never to meet again; death could not have parted us more widely, nor left in our souls a deeper grief. My heart overflowed, and I sobbed aloud, when I thought that even in this supreme hour, I could not confide to these men, my best, my dearest friends, the secret of my disguise. I must deceive those to whom I owed my life. This thought caused me a real remorse: I sought, but in vain, an occasion for bringing out the dangerous confidence."
How, in fact, could he tell these pious pilgrims, zealous believers, that the friend whose religious learning they had admired, whose faith and virtue they respected, was an impostor, who, urged by the thirst for secular learning, had surprised their confidence, profaned their ministry, had trifled, in a word, with their dearest sentiments? Such an avowal might not, perhaps, have broken the bonds of affection which united him to the two dervishes, but what a bitter deception for these fervent and sincere souls t [{400}] And why destroy an illusion so sweet? Vambéry retained the secret ready to escape him; his eyes swimming in tears, he tore himself from the embraces of his friends. "I see them always," he adds, "motionless in the place where I had quitted them, the hands raised toward heaven, imploring the blessing of Allah for my journey. Many times I turned my head to see them again; at last they disappeared in the fog, and I could distinguish only the domes of Samarcand, feebly lighted by the rays of the moon."
The journey home was marked by fewer dramatic incidents. Vambéry had to cross the country of Bokhara, but avoiding the capital, he arrived after three days at Karshi, the second city of the khanat in extent and commercial relations. It contains six caravansaries and a well-supplied market, where are seen very remarkable articles of native cutlery, which are largely exported into central Asia, Persia, Arabia, and even into Turkey. These fine blades, richly damaskeened, the handles covered with incrustations of gold and silver, are far superior to the best products of Sheffield or Birmingham. Vambéry's new companions advised him to use such funds as he had left, in purchasing knives, needles, and glass-ware, the exchange of which would secure a pilgrim the means of existence among the nomad tribes. Our traveller thought it best to follow this prudent counsel, and add, as he gaily remarks, "the profession of merchant to that of antiquary, hadji and mollah, without prejudice to a crowd of not less important functions, such as bestowing benedictions, holy breathings, amulets, and talismans."
The caravan passed through Bokhara without disturbance; the rigor with which the emir enforces the police regulations rendering all the roads from across the desert perfectly secure, not only for caravans, but even for individual travellers. Vambéry could hardly contain his joy in crossing the frontier: at every step he approached the West; he was about to revisit Persia, the first stage of civilization, the object of his ardent desires. Other members of the caravan were not less impatient, these were Iranian slaves, returning to their own country. One of them, an old man, bent under the weight of years, had been to Bokhara to pay the ransom of his son, the only support of his family, the price demanded was fifty ducats, and the poor father had exhausted his resources in the payment. "But," said he, "better to fear the staff of the beggar than to leave my son in chains." Another of these unhappy men greatly excited Vambéry's compassion; his wasted features, and hair prematurely white, proved sufficiently his sufferings, eight years previous, a Turcoman raid had carried away his wife, his sister and his six children; the unfortunate man pursued them, vainly sought them in the two Khanats of Khiva and Bokhara; when at last he discovered the place of their captivity, his wife, his sister and two children had perished under the rigors of slavery. Of the four who remained he was able to ransom only two; the others having become men, their master exacted so heavy a ransom that the unhappy father was unable to raise the sum.
These instances give but a faint idea of the scourge which has for centuries depopulated the north of Persia and neighboring countries. The Turcomen Tekkes number to-day more than fifteen thousand mounted plunderers, whose only occupation consists in organizing a system of vast brigandage, to decimate families and ravage hamlets. The travellers crossed whole districts desolated by war and exactions of all sorts; the laws are powerless to repress disorders, a bribe suffices to exculpate one from the most odious crime; therefore every one speaks with admiration of Bokhara, whose emir is regarded as a model of justice and wisdom. An inhabitant of Audkuy acknowledged that his compatriots envied the happiness of being [{401}] subject to the sceptre of Mozaffar ed Din, and added that the Europeans would be preferable to the present Mussulman chiefs.
Meanwhile, the journey was long, and Vambéry saw with anxiety his little package of merchandise diminish. He hoped to obtain assistance at Herat; but unfortunately, when they arrived in this city, the key of central Asia, it had just been put to sack by the Afghans. The fortifications and houses were only a heap of ruins, the citadel trembled, half demolished upon its crumbling base, some few inhabitants here and there showed themselves, the celebrated bazaar, which had stood so many sieges, alone offered some animation, but the shops were opened timidly, the remembrance of the foray still terrifying the people. Moreover, the custom-house system, established by the rapacity of the Afghans, promises little prosperity either to commerce or industry, an article of fur which has been purchased for 8 francs, pays 3 francs tax; they levy one franc upon a hat of the value of two francs, and so of every thing else. When we add to that, for articles brought from distant provinces, the rights already collected in intermediate districts, we see how much the merchant must raise his price in order to realize anything.
In a city so ravaged, the trade of a dervish is not lucrative; no one asked Vambéry for his holy breathing, his cutlery and pearls were exhausted; his travelling companions, very different from Hadji Bilal, lent him no help. Only one young man named Ishak, remained faithful to him. Every morning he begged the food for the day, and prepared the frugal repasts of our traveller, whom he regarded as his master, and served with affectionate respect.
In order to neglect nothing which might enable him to continue his journey, Vambéry resolved to apply to the Viceroy of Herat, Serdar Mehemmed Yakoub, the son of the King of Afghanistan. The halls of the palace were filled with servants and soldiers; but the large turban of the pretended dervish, and the hermit-like air which long fatigues had given him, were letters of recommendation which opened all doors. The prince, not more than sixteen years old, sate in a large easy chair, surrounded by high dignitaries. Vambéry, faithful to his character, went directly to him, and sat by his side, pushing aside the vizier to make himself a place. This behavior excited general hilarity. Serdar Mehemmed regarded the stranger attentively, then rose suddenly, and cried, half-laughing, half-bewildered: "You are an Englishman, I'll take my oath!" He approached our traveller, clapping his hands like a child who has made a happy discovery: "Say, say," added he, "are you not an Englishman?" In the presence of this innocent joy, Vambéry had half a mind to discover himself, but remembering that the fanaticism of the Afghans might yet expose him to great perils, he resolved not to raise the mask which protected him. Taking, then, a serious air: "That will do," said he to the prince, "have you then forgotten this proverb--'He who even in joke treats a true believer as an infidel, makes himself worse than an infidel?' Give me rather something for my benediction, that I may have the means of pursuing my journey." Vambéry's look, and the maxim which he so appropriately recalled, put the young viceroy out of countenance. He stammered some excuses, alleging the singular physiognomy of the stranger, which was not of the Bokhariot type. Vambéry hastened to reply that he was a native of Stamboul; he showed to Serdar Mehemmed and to the vizier his Turkish passport, spoke of an Afghan prince residing in Constantinople, and succeeded in completely effacing the impression which he had at first made.
The 15th of November, 1868, the grand caravan which was going to Meshed, left Herat, taking with it our traveller. It comprised not less than two thousand persons, at least [{402}] half of whom were Afghans, who, in spite of the most frightful misery, had undertaken, with their families, a pilgrimage to the tombs of the Shiite saints. In proportion as Vambéry approached civilization, he let fall little by little the veil of his incognito, and let it be understood that in Meshed he should find powerful protectors, and financial resources which would enable him to recompense the services of his companions. The doubtful light which surrounded him furnished inexhaustible matter for conjecture, and gave rise to some lively discussions, which very much amused Vambéry. At last, twelve days after leaving Herat, the dome of the mosque, and the tomb of Iman-Riza, gilded by the first rays of the sun, announced the approach to Meshed. The sight caused the European deep emotion, his dangerous exploring expedition was finished, and he had no further need of disguise. In passing the gates of the city he forgot the Turcoman, the desert, the Tebbad, to think of the happiness of seeing friendly faces, and of speaking at his ease of Europe. He passed successively through Meshed, Teheran, and Constantinople, where he bade adieu to Oriental life; then through Pesth, where he left his Turcoman companion, the faithful Ishak, who had followed him even to Europe, and the 9th of June, 1864, he arrived in London.
Singular force of habit. Vambéry had so identified himself with the character of a learned effendi, he was so impregnated with Asiatic manners and customs, that this son of Germany found himself ill at ease in England. "It cost me," says he, "incredible difficulty to accustom myself to my new life, so different from that which I had led at Bokhara some months previous. Everything in London seemed strange and novel; one would have said that the remembrances of my youth were a dream; only my travels had left upon my mind a deep impression. Is it astonishing that sometimes in Regent street or in the saloons of the English aristocracy I felt myself as embarrassed as a child, and that often I forgot everything around me to dream of the profound solitudes of central Asia, of the tents of the Kirghiz and the Turcomen?"
Vambéry's book paints in vivid colors the real condition of central Asia; it contains curious and characteristic details regarding the three khanats of Turkestan (Khiva, Bokhara, and Khokand), on the particular manners of each people, the commerce and industry of the cities. We follow there the slow but continuous progress of the Russian government, whose ambition is excited by the riches of these fertile provinces. It advances with persevering obstinacy toward the conquest of Turkestan, the only country which is wanting to-day to the immense Asiatic kingdom dreamed of, four centuries ago, by Ivan Vasilievitch. Since that period the czars have never lost an opportunity to extend their influence in the Orient. Russia maintains with the khanats regular and active commercial relations; her exportations into central Asia were valued in 1850 at twenty-five millions of francs, and her importations from thence at not less than thirty-three millions. England, whose possessions in India approach Turkestan, has not taken so deep root there, she understands less the tastes, and submits less to the exigencies, of the Tartar populations. At the same time, the protection which she gives the Afghans, the declared enemies of the Khivites and Bokhariots, gives her a part to play in the events which are preparing, and which the taking of Tashkend by Russian troops will perhaps precipitate.
Central Asia is destined to be absorbed by one or other of the rival powers which every day embrace her more closely. Will she be Russian or English? that is the only form the question takes to-day.
Persia and Turkey, tottering themselves, cannot protect her. The grand contest, commenced centuries ago, between the two hostile civilizations, between the sword of Mohammed and the cross of Christ, to-day touches its term. Of the different oriental tribes, these endeavor to revive themselves by the contact of our arts and sciences, those intrench themselves behind their mountains and their deserts; but these powerless barriers cannot hinder European activity from reaching them. They are, moreover, condemned to inevitable ruin by barbarism, superstition, and fatalism, which form the basis of their character and their creeds, the populations, bent under an implacable despotism, consider even the encroachments of Europeans as a benefit, their faith, moreover, delivers them without defence to misfortune, to tyranny, to the joke of the stranger, for it persuades them that an inflexible destiny, against which the will of man is powerless, rules the lot of individuals and nations. "Who can prevail agamst the Nasib?" said to Vambéry an unfortunate man whose wife and children had been carried off. "It was written!" replied the Mussulmans when their most beautiful provinces were snatched from them.
The European race, on the contrary, energetic and indefatigable, makes all obstacles yield before it; its science and industry transform nature into a docile instrument; difficulties stimulate its courage: "This sea I will cross," it cries; "I will level this mountain; this people, reputed invincible, I will subjugate." From antiquity it had raised upon its flag this proud device, which made the grandeur of the Roman world: "Audaces fortuna juvat." Afterward, Christianity, in elevating minds, and pouring upon all hearts sentiments of tenderness and charity heretofore unknown, brought new elements to this expansive force. It showed God respecting, even in their errors, the liberty of men; it showed the sacrifice of Jesus, this Son of the Most High come upon earth to suffer all griefs, yet voluntarily powerless to save man without his concurrence and his own participation. This noble morality not only regenerated consciences, it developed individual action, made known the value of the hidden force which we call the will, and contributed largely to the social and political progress of the western nations. At the same time, it is true, the Christian dogma preached resignation in sufferings, but this pious resignation resembles as little the oriental indolence as the calm of death resembles that of strength and health.
Such are the causes of European supremacy. The Asiatics, not less gifted by nature, have stifled, under the double influence of fatalism and a sensual morality, the germs of civilization which might have given them a durable life and glory. To-day, as we learn from the intrepid traveller who has penetrated into the very heart of Turkestan and returned again safe and sound, everything among them is in decay; their cities and institutions, alike, offer nothing but ruins.
From The Lamp,
UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.
CHAPTER I.
"Mr. Thorneley presents his compliments to Mr. John Kavanagh, and would feel obliged if he would call in Wimpole street this evening at seven o'clock. Mr. Thorneley wishes to have Mr. Kavanagh's professional assistance in a matter of business.
"100 Wimpole street, Cavendish Square,
"Oct. 23, 185--"
The above note lay amidst a heap of letters awaiting my return from a pleasant mountaineering tour among alps and glaciers, perpetual snows, and ice-bound passes. Yes, it had been in every sense of the word a delightful excursion, a real holiday to me,--me, a dusty, musty, hard-working lawyer, living in chambers, poring over parchments, and deeds, and matters dull and dry to all, save them whom those things concerned,--me, a middle-aged bachelor, a solitary man, with little of kith or kin left to surround my dying bed or follow my old bones to their grave. It was a renewal of youth and early days to climb those mountains, to face those majestic peaks, to scale those rugged passes, and feel the fresh clear air fanning my brow as I raised it to God's heaven above, whilst all that was of the world worldly seemed to lie beneath my feet. My two months' holiday and repose from labor, when I packed my modest portmanteau, locked up my papers, left my rooms to the care of clerk and laundress, and took my ticket at London Bridge for Dover or Boulogne, bound for Chamouni, Unterwalden, or the Simplon,--these eight weeks of pure enjoyment were the oasis in the desert of my life. But now, for this year at least, it was over. I was back to busy life again; to work and daily duty; to my calf-bound volumes, my inky table, my yellow sheets inscribed with the promises of one said party to another said party--how soon to be broken, God only knew--or the blue folio pages stating how this said man is to bully that said fellow man, and how there is to be war between two Christian beings, not to the knife, but to the bar, the judge, jury, prison, and future ruin of one or the other fellow heir to the great inheritance of a hereafter. I had returned to it all--this turmoil of strife and struggle, out of which quagmire I got my daily bread, like hundreds of others cruising in the same barque on the sea of life; and my table was heaped with the business correspondence that once more was to induct me into my ordinary avocations. There were communications from old clients about affairs of long standing, and familiar to me as my morning shave; and letters from new clients promising fresh labor and new grist to the mill, but I scanned them all with the same feeling of weariness and disgust--casting many a regretful thought to the scenes I had left behind me,--inclined to throw business, law, and clients wholesale and pell-mell into the Red Sea. It was in this frame of mind that I opened the above note, but as I read it, my ennui and lassitude gave place to the keenest interest and curiosity. That old Thorneley should send for me professionally, when I knew for certain that all his affairs were completely in the hands, and he entirely under the thumbs, of my highly-respected brother lawyers Smith and Walker, was enough to rouse one from a mesmeric sleep. Old Thorneley; who [{405}] lived like a hermit, never meddling with anything nor anybody; whose last intentions were supposed amongst us in Lincoln's Inn to be hermetically sealed up in a certain tin box, lodging at Messrs. Smith and Walker's; whose frugal house-keeping and simple taste could involve him in no pecuniary trouble,--what could he want with the professional advice of one who was almost a stranger to him, whose standing in the law was of much later date and whose clientage much less distinguished than that of the firm above mentioned, and who had been his legal advisers during his whole lifetime?
Again I referred to the note--"Oct. 23;"--the interview was asked for that very evening I looked at my watch--it was half-past six, the hour named, seven. Tired with travel and hungry as a hunter, I was little inclined to leave my cosy fire, my tender steak, my fragrant cup of bohea, my delicious plate of buttered toast, and face the raw air and mizzling rain of an autumnal evening at the beck of a man whose hand I had never shaken, at whose table I had never sat, and whose foot had never crossed my threshold. But curiosity and interest prevailed at last, and these were induced by two motives. 1. Thorneley was a millionaire--a man whose name Rothschild had not scorned on 'Change, and whose breath had once fluttered the money-markets of Europe. 2. And a far more powerful one,--he was the uncle of Hugh Atherton. O Hugh, best of friends, thou man of true and noble heart, if these pages ever meet your eyes, and you look back through the dim vista of intervening years, bear witness how mournfully I stand by the grave of our buried affection, opened on this night, how tenderly I touch the fragments of our wrecked friendship! and from your heart, O lost comrade and brother, believe that, whatever of pain lay between us two, severing our lives, no thought disloyal to you ever crossed my soul or shook the fealty of my honor and reverence. Hastily I despatched the meal, made a few changes in my dress, threw myself into the first hansom, and knocked at 100 Wimpole street, at five minutes past seven.
I was ushered at once into Mr. Thorneley's study--a comfortably-furnished room, lined with well-stocked bookcases, and hung with neatly-framed engravings of first-rate excellence. He was sitting reading beside a cheery fire when I entered, and on a table near him stood fruit, biscuits, and wine. I had not seen him for many months; and as he rose to receive me, the light of the shaded gas lamp falling upon his head and face revealed to me how aged and broken his appearance had become in that period of time. Then I remembered him as a hale, hearty old man, strong of limb, straight and square about the shoulders, carrying himself with the air of an old soldier, gaunt, upright, stern, unbending and unbent. Now, before me stood a bowed infirm figure, with trembling hands and tottering feet, with thin pinched features and sunken eyes. Little as I knew the man, and little as I liked what I knew or had heard of him, I was touched to see what a wreck he looked of his former outward self. Involuntarily I stretched out my hand to him, and expressed my regret at seeing him look so ill. He bowed, and touched my hand with the tips of his fingers, which were clammy and cold. Then he motioned me in silence to a chair on the opposite side of the fire to where he sat, and resumed his own seat.
"You are somewhat late, sir," he said querulously, glancing at me from beneath his shaggy brows; the same keen searching glance I remembered of old--the glance of a man who has made money.
"But five minutes, Mr. Thorneley," I replied; "and that I think you will excuse when I tell you I have crossed the Channel to-day, and only arrived home about an hour ago."
"Have you dined? Allow the to order you something."
"Nothing, thanks. I took my usual meal after a journey--a meat tea; and, though despatched in haste, it sufficed for mine requirements."
"At least," he said more courteously, "you will take a glass of wine!"
"With pleasure, sir, after we have finished the business in which I understand you require my assistance."
He saw that I wished to come to the point at once; and drawing his chair near to mine, he fixed his piercing gray eyes upon my countenance. I returned his gaze steadily enough; and he then shifted uneasily, so that his countenance was turned sideways to me.
"You are aware, Mr. Kavanagh, that my family solicitors have been, and still are, Messrs. Smith and Walker, and no doubt you are surprised why I should now require other professional aid than theirs. Your curiosity and speculative faculties, if you possess such, must have been on the qui vive since you got my note. Eh, sir?"
There was a covert sarcasm in the old man's voice which vexed me. "Every movement of Mr Thorneley's must be a matter of general interest," I said, with equal satire.
"Ha, ha, ha! Very good--given me back in my own kind,--tit for tat. Like you all the better for it, Mr. Kavanagh,--a sharp lawyer is a good thing in its way. Well, you've not repudiated the curiosity, so I'll satisfy it. I sent for you to make my Will;" and again he turned on me those shrewd glittering eyes, as if enjoying the amazement I could not entirely suppress.
"But I thought--" I stammered; "surely, sir, your own lawyers are the fittest persons; it is against etiquette. Indeed, sir, I'd rather not have any thing to do with it."
"You will be paid sir," he said rudely.
"It is not a question of payment, Mr. Thorneley; simply, you place me, I foresee, in an awkward position with regard to a firm with whom I am on the most friendly terms. But of course they are acquainted with your desire of having my services?"
"Of course they are nothing of the sort. If you are squeamish in the matter, I can get another man to do my business, and they'll not be a bit more enlightened on the subject. Whomsoever I employ must be bound to inviolable secrecy during my lifetime. Let us understand each other, Mr. Kavanagh: I sent for you because I knew you to be a discreet man, on whose prudence after my death I could rely. But I do not choose that Smith and Walker should know any thing of this transaction. You can do as you please in the matter, but you must make your decision now."
I gave a rapid glance at my position with all the care time would allow; and one consideration outweighed every thing else,--I take heaven to witness it!--the thought that Hugh Atherton's interests, which I felt to be now involved, would be safer in my hands than in those of any other man; and I replied, "So be it, Mr. Thorneley; you may command my services." If I had known what was coming; if in mercy one shadowy vision of that miserable future had been vouchsafed to me; if but a ray of light had illumined my darkened sight, I had shaken the dust off my feet, and left that doomed house never again to cross its threshold.
Thorneley rose and pushed a small writing-table towards me, on which was placed the printed form of a will to be filled in.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"I am."
He bent forward, with his hand shading his rugged brow, his eyes fixed intently on the fire and spoke in low distinct tones. I listened almost breathlessly; and as I listened, I felt the cold sweat breaking out upon my forehead. And then I made the will. Yes, God help me! I made the will, for I saw it was inevitable.
"We must have witnesses," I said when it was finished.
Mr. Thorneley rang the bell. "Tell Thomas I want him here, and come back yourself." The two men returned in a few moments,--coachman and footman; and before those two, with unshaken hand, with a face of rigid firmness, Gilbert Thorneley wrote his name; the servants affixed their signatures, and the deed was done.
When we were alone I rose to depart, and bade him good-night. As I left the room I looked back at the old man. He had sunk in his chair, and his face was buried in his hands, bowed and bent beside the fire, with his thin gray locks straying over his forehead, as if some bitter blast had swept over him and left him desolate;--thus I saw him for the last time on earth.
I left that house with a heavy secret locked in my breast, with a weight on heart and brain, and heeded not the blinding, drizzling rain as I bent my footsteps rapidly homeward, longing only to reach my quiet chamber, where I might commune with myself and be still. I am not an inveterate smoker; but when I want to think out a knotty point, when I wish to obtain a clear view of any difficult question, I can quite appreciate the aid which a good cigar affords one. This night I was dazed, bewildered, and mechanically I sought my old friend in my breast-pocket. I stopped beside the window of a large chemist's shop at the comer of Vere street and Oxford street to strike a light, when some one hastily passed out of the shop and ran full against me.
"Kavanagh!" "Atherton!" The man of all men in the world to meet that night! What fatality was it that was hedging me in and fencing me round, without any agency of my own?
"Who would have thought of seeing you here?" he exclaimed as he grasped my hand. "I had no idea you had returned even."
"I came back this very evening."
"Only this evening! and whither away so soon, old fellow?"
I muttered something about business.
"Business! Come, I like that. You have changed your nature, John, if you go after business the first evening of your return from Switzerland. Why, I didn't suppose you would have stirred if my old uncle yonder had sent for you to make his will, leaving me his sole heir." And he laughed his old hearty joyous laugh, which had been music to me from the time when I fought his first battle for him at Rugby. Now it filled me with an unaccountable dread; now it fell on my ear as the knell of times which were never more to come back. So near the truth too as he had been, talking in his own thoughtless, light-hearted way. What spell was over us all that fatal evening? Perhaps--I think it must have been so--all the dark shadows which were gathering over my soul revealed themselves in my countenance, for I saw him look at me with the kind solicitous look that never became a manly face better than his.
"I'll tell you what it is, dear old John," he said, putting his arm within mine; "you are looking terribly hipped about something or another, and any thing but the man you ought to look, after such a jolly outing as you've just had. Come, I'll go home with you, and we'll have a prime Manilla, a steaming tumbler, and a cosy chat together; and if that doesn't send the blues back to the venerable old party from which they are generally supposed by all good Christians to come, why, as Mr. Peggotty hath it, 'I'm gormed!' "And again that fatal influence stepped in, making me its agent to bring upon us the inevitable To be; and putting his friendly hand from off my arm, I said, '"No, Hugh, not to-night; I have need to be alone. Indeed I am too tired to be good company even to you."
"Well, good-night then, my friend; I'll betake me to mine uncle, and see [{408}] how the old man is getting along this damp weather. Lister said he should look in, so we can tramp home together. But I won't be shirked by you to-morrow, Master Jack,--don't think it; and I shall bring somebody to fetch the Swiss toy I know you have got packed away for her somewhere in your knapsack. Good-night, good-night."
We shook hands, and he turned down Vere street. An impulse,--blind, unreasoning,--seized me a minute afterwards to call him back and ask him to come home with me; and I followed quickly upon his footsteps. The evening was very dark, and the rain beat blindingly in one's face, so that it was difficult, with my near sight, to distinguish his figure ahead amidst the numerous other foot-passengers. After a few moments I gave up the chase, half angry with myself for haying been the sport of a sudden fancy. As once more I turned round to retrace my steps, a woman passed me at a hurried pace, and as she passed she almost stopped and gazed intently at me. A thick veil prevented my seeing her face, and in no way was her figure familiar to me; but the gesture with which she stared at me was remarkable, and for a moment a matter of wonder; then I forgot the circumstance, and rapidly made my way home, thinking of the strange revelations I had just heard; thinking of Hugh Atherton and our chance meeting; thinking of the days past and the days to come,--of much and many things which belong to the story I am telling,--of the time when I was a boy again at school, senior in my form and umpire in all pitched battles and the petty warfare boys wage with one another, when that little curly-headed, blue-eyed fellow, with his cheeks all aglow and his nostrils big with indignant wrath, had come to me, a great burly clumsy lad of sixteen, and laid his plaint before me:
"Please, Kavanagh, the fellows say I'm a coward because I won't lick Tom Overbury. Will you tell them to leave me in peace?--because I won't lick him."
"Why not, spooney?"
"Because I don't wish to."
"That won't go down here, you know, Atherton; you must give your reasons."
"He's got something the matter with his right arm, and he can't hit out. He'd have no chance against me. I know all about it, but the other fellows don't, and they think he can't fight; he bade me not tell any one. That's why they are always at him to make him pick quarrels. They set him on at me; but I won't fight him, not for the whole school, masters and all."
Such was Hugh Atherton as a boy; such was he as a man,--ever generous and noble-hearted. I thought of him as then, I thought of him as now, remembering all our long friendship, our close intimacy, with the weight of that dread secret upon me, and with the indescribable sense of coming evil clinging to me. I wished I had yielded to his request, and allowed him to accompany me home; I wished I had persevered in going after him; in short, I wished anything but what then was. Were those desires troubling me a taste of the vain, futile, heart-bitter wishes which the morrow was to bring forth? So, with the cold wind whistling round me, and scattering the dead leaves across the desolate square, where stood the house wherein I dwelt, the rain beating against my face, and the sky above black and lowering, I reached my home, wet and weary.
Methodical habits to a man brought up to the law, who has any pretence of doing well in his profession, become like second nature; and when I had divested myself of my wet garments, I took out my journal and made an entry as usual of the date, object, etc., of my visit to Mr. Thorneley; and then I wrote out a brief memorandum of the same, which I addressed to Hugh Atherton in case of my death, and carefully locked it up with some [{409}] very private papers of my own, about which he already had my instructions. This done, I smoked a cigar, drank a tumbler of hot brandy-and-water, and went to bed, thoroughly tired out. But I could not sleep. For hours I tossed restlessly from side to side; now and then catching a few moments' repose, which was disturbed by the most horrible and distressing dreams. Toward morning, I suppose, I must at last have fallen into a deep slumber--so profound that I never heard the old laundress's hammering at the door, nor the arrival of my clerk, nor the postman's knock.
At last I awoke, or rather was awakened. The day had advanced some hours; all traces of last night's rain seemed to have vanished, and the sun shown full and bright in at the windows. Beside my bed stood Hardy, my old clerk.
"God bless you, sir, I thought you'd never wake!"
"I wish I never had, for I am awfully tired. How are you. Hardy? and how is all going on?"
"Quite well, sir, thank you; and I hope you're the same. We've wanted you badly enough. There's that Williams, he's been here almost every day, teasing and tormenting about having his mortgage called in; and Lady Ormskirk, she called twice, and seemed in some trouble. Then there was a queer young chap from the country with a long case about some inheritance; in short, sir, if you had been at home we might have been no end busy--what with the old ones and what with the new;" and Hardy cast a sigh after the possible tips and fees of which my absence had deprived him.
"Well, I'll see to it all as soon as I have dressed and had some breakfast. I suppose they've brought it up, and also the hot water?"
"Some time ago, sir; you slept so late that I ventured to come in."
"All right. I shall be ready directly."
Hardy still lingered, and I knew by his face there was some news coming.
"There's a fine to-do at Smith and Walker's, sir, this morning. I just met their head-clerk as I was coming here."
I sprang up in bed as if I had been shot, the old fancies and dread of the previous night returning with full force.
"Smith and Walker's!" I cried; "what is the matter there?"
"Well, sir, I couldn't quite make out the particulars, he was in such a hurry; but old Mr. Thorneley's been found dead in his room this morning, and they suspect there has been foul play. Mr. Griffiths--that's the clerk--was going off to Scotland Yard. It's a terrible thing, an't it, sir, to be hurried off so quick? and none of the best of lives too, if one may believe what folks say. It's shocked you, sir, I see; and so it did me, for I thought of Mr. Atherton and what a blow like it would be to him."
Whiter and whiter I felt my face was getting, and a feeling of dead sickness seized me. The man whom I had seen and spoken with but such few short hours since lay dead! the secret of whose life I possessed, knowing what I now knew of him, and what had been left untold hanging like a black shadow of doubt around me; he was gone from whence there was no returning,--he was standing face to face with his Creator and his Judge!
By this time Hardy had left the room, and I proceeded hastily to dress myself, feeling that more was coming than I wotted of then, and that the fearful storm which was gathering would quickly burst.
Scarcely was I dressed when I heard a loud double-knock at the office-door, and directly after Hardy's voice demanding admittance. I opened my door.
"Sir, there is a police-officer who wishes to see you immediately."
I went out into the sitting-room. A detective in plain clothes was there; I had known the man in another business formerly.
"What do you want with me, Jones?"
"You have heard of Mr. Thorneley being found dead, sir?"
"Yes--my clerk has just told me. What did he die of?"
"He was poisoned, Mr. Kavanagh."
I felt the man's eyes were fixed on me as if he could read in my soul and see the fearful dread therein. I could have hurled him from the window.
"Who is suspected?" I asked as calmly as my parched tongue would let me speak.
The man did not answer my question.
"You were with him last evening, sir, were you not?"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, completely thrown off my guard; "they surely don't suspect me!"
"Not that I'm aware of, sir; but your evidence is necessary, since you were one of the last persons who saw him alive."
"But not the last," I said, still blind to the fact pointed at. "Mr. Atherton, his nephew, was with him after I left. I met him going there at the comer of Vere street."
There was a peculiar look on the man's countenance--of compassion for me, I had almost said.
"Mr. Kavanagh, sir, I had rather have cut off my right hand than that you should have told me that, for you've both been kind gentlemen to me and mine. Mr. Atherton is arrested on suspicion of having administered the poison to his uncle. When you remember where you met him, you can guess what your evidence will be against him. Here--Mr. Hardy! Help!"
I remember nothing more, for I had fallen back insensible.
TO BE CONTINUED.
[Original.]