The eve of this great day he had enjoined him, as penance, to go to

the Vatican, throw himself at the feet of the Pope, and ask pardon on

his knees for the invective he had cast on the holy father in the

chapel. Nicholas V. received him kindly, and said: "My son, Jesus

Christ has pardoned you, and I could not do otherwise than he of whom

I am vicar; I absolve you, not only for what you have said against me,

but the crimes committed against society. I grant you full and entire

pardon from the punishment you have merited, in the hope that your new

life will atone for the past." The Greek prostrated himself with

gratitude, and kissed his feet; then showed the picture from which he

would never part. The Pope admired it, and said to the painter-monk:

"Your pencil has worked another miracle of conversion." The humble

artist replied that only to God must be given the glory, and recited

the verse of David: "Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da

gloriam." This was the device of the Templars, and we have seen it in

Venice engraved on the wall of the old palace Vendramini. "Most holy

father," said the Greek. "I know with what goodness your Holiness has

received my compatriots, Theodore Gaza, George of Trebizond,

Calchondylos, and Gemistos Plethon, who after the taking of

Constantinople took refuge on a Venetian galley, and have come to

Italy, bringing with them the precious manuscripts of the ancient

Greek authors and fathers of the Greek Church, which but for them

would have been burned by the infidels. They have been most happy to

repay your hospitality by enriching the library of the Vatican with

these literary treasures." "It is true," said Nicholas V. "Thanks to

their and other conquests, we have become able to reunite in the

Vatican nearly five thousand manuscripts; it is, we believe, the

richest collection made since the dispersion of the Alexandrian

library. But I still have one gap to fill, and I have promised a

reward of fifty thousand ducats to him who will bring me the gospel of

St. Matthew in the original language." "O holy father, how can I

express my happiness! I possess this manuscript, which I brought from

Constantinople. After having committed the crime by which I merited

death, I hid this book in a place in the Roman campagna, where I could

easily find it again. To thank your Holiness for all your goodness, I

am only too happy to offer you the gospel of St. Matthew," Nicholas V.

was delighted, he who ever thanked God for the taste given him from

his youth for literature, and the faculties necessary for its

successful cultivation. On the receipt of the manuscript the Pope paid

to the Greek the fifty thousand ducats, who, finding himself possessed

of so great a fortune, resolved to go to Venice, and engage in

commerce with one of his compatriots. He quitted Rome with regret to

leave Fra Angelico, but returned at Easter to confess to the saviour

of his soul, as he called him, and receive the communion from his

hands in the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva. The mass said by the

Beato inspired him with great devotion, and he was happy to receive

from such pure hands the body and blood of Jesus Christ. The year that

followed 1455, the Greek appeared at the same epoch, carrying ever

with him, in a casket of cedar, the precious painting which had been

the determining cause of his conversion, [Footnote 194] and which,

he never ceased to contemplate with love and, gratitude, repeating

what Vasari said of another picture of the Beato: "I can affirm I

never contemplate this work that it does not appear new to me, and I

am never satisfied gazing upon it."

[Footnote 194: This picture on wood is painted _a tempera_ and

enriched with gold. It is twenty-seven centimetres high, and

twenty-three broad. After various vicissitudes it was carried from

Rome to Venice, from Florence to Turin, and finally found an asylum

in Paris, in the celebrated Pourtales gallery. To-day it is in

possession of him who relates the story, according to a traditional

account received by him at Rome.]

{680}

Scarcely landed at Rome, Argyropoulos hastened, according to his

custom, to the convent of Santa Maria sopra Minerva and asked for Fra

Angelico. At this name grief overshadowed the countenance of the

brother porter, who replied: "Alas! signor, the blessed one has gone

from earth and left us to sorrow. His death was as angelical as his

life." The prior, who appeared, confirmed the sad news and gave the

details to the heart-broken Greek. The holy father said he was so

impatient to enjoy his beautiful chapel that he hurried continually

our blessed brother to finish his work; and he, ever willing to be

sacrificed to duty, and believing he worked for God in serving this

vicar, would not even interrupt his work during the fever season,

which is always more pernicious at the Vatican than elsewhere. His

health was lost by it entirely, he languished, and died at last of

malaria. Argyropoulos shed tears and asked to pray by the tomb of his

friend. It is still seen at the left of the church choir, a simple

tombstone encased vertically in the wall; the painter-monk is rudely

sculptured in bas-relief in his Dominican robe, with hands joined, his

head uplifted, and mouth partly opened as in prayer, as he was in

life, as he was particularly in death. I have often contemplated this

sepulchral stone, and recalled the verse of Dante, which could so well

have described the heart of Argyropoulos:

"Come, perche di lor memoria sia,

Sovr' a sepoiti le tombe terragne

Porton segnato quel ch'elli eran pria;

Onde li molte volte siripiagne.

Por la pun ura della rimenbranza

Che solo a pii da della calcagne."

"As to preserve the memory of the dead, the tombs given them on earth

bear the impress of their features as they were in life, so each time

one weeps over them the pious heart is pierced with the remembrance."

"Nicholas V.," said the prior to the Greek, "was inconsolable at the

death of his painter and friend, and survived him but a few weeks. It

is this great Pope who has erected this monument to Fra Angelico, and

who composed the epitaph you can read on this stone:

"'Hic jacet ven. Pictor.

Fr. Jo. de Flor. Ord. P.

MCCCCLV.

Non mihi sit laudi quod eram velut alter Apelles.

Sed quod lucra tuis omnia Christe dabam

Altera nam terris opera extant, altera caelo;

Urbs me Joannem flos tulit Etruriae.'"

"Here lies the venerable painter. [Footnote 195] Brother John, of

Florence, of the order of Brother Preachers; 1455. Let me not be

praised because I have painted as another Apelles, but because I have

given all I made to the poor. O Christ! I have worked for heaven at

the same time as for earth. I am called John, the town which is the

flower of Etruria was my country."

[Footnote 195: We must remark this title of venerable given the

Angelico immediately after his death, and which justifies the

popular canonization which has surnamed him in Italy, Il Beato.]

Argyropoulos remained long kneeling by the tomb, then on rising said

to the prior: "Tell me exactly the day of his death; for me it will

ever be an anniversary to be celebrated with prayers and tears." "It

was the 18th of last March," replied the prior, "that the blessed one

went to heaven, there to contemplate the true models of the dear and

holy pictures which, with so much love, he painted on earth."

------

ORIGINAL.

"I AM THE WAY."

"I am the way." I well believe thy word;

The truth of it is plain enough to see.

For never was there yet a man, O Lord,

So roughly trodden under foot like thee!

--------

{681}

ORIGINAL.

CHRISTINE. [Footnote 196]

[Footnote 196: Christine, and other Poems. By George H. Miles

New-York: Lawrence Kehoe.]

The writer of the present remarks made his first acquaintance with the

volume under consideration during the magic season of Indian summer,

and perused many of its pages beneath the shade of sycamores by the

side of a woodland streamlet, ever and anon lifting his eyes from the

book to scan the many-colored foliage of trees mellowed by the

distance and draped in luminous haze. He took it up a second time when

driven into the house by equinoctial storms, and a third when the

trees had doffed their painted leaves and stood as black and cold as

the iron woods we read of in the Scandinavian Edda. But whether

in-doors or out, by waterside or fireside, he always found Christine

and her sisters the same genial and charming companions.

Who does not prefer the sunny side of a landscape to the dark one? Are

not coins and medals more pleasing when viewed on the side bearing the

principal legend and inscription? Juicy fruit, whether plum, peach, or

apple--does not the eye dwell with more pleasure upon the side which

is tinted with the finest blush and which glows with the rosiest

bloom? The same may be said of a pigeon's neck, a maiden's cheek; and

why not of a volume of poems? Let us, therefore, fix our eyes upon the

bright points, the beauties; and as every human production _must_ have

its imperfections, let us, when we discover these last, pass them over

lightly and almost in silence. The poet, when he composed his book,

hoped that its perusal would add to our enjoyment, and expected to

accomplish this, not by means of its defects, but by reason of its

many excellences.

Many, many such excellences belong to Christine. Open the book,

reader, and as if by magic you will find yourself transported some

eight hundred years backward in the world's history, and will fly on

fancy's wings from the age of steam-cars and telegraphs to that of

chivalry and the crusades. You will find yourself now in the

south-east of France, now in Savoy, gazing in succession at the Rhone,

the Isère, the Alps, Pilate's Peak, and the Grande Chartreuse, and, in

short, wandering over that romantic land so dear to all true lovers of

poetry, and so renowned of old for

"Dance, Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth."

The story is founded on one of those old devotional legends of the

early church, many of which have afforded such fine subjects both to

the painter and poet. Were I to enumerate one-tenth part of the fine

specimens of pictorial art which have been founded on such subjects, I

should soon swell out the list to a sufficient number to constitute a

good-sized picture-gallery. I will only allude, in passing, to a few

masterpieces, most of which are familiar, even to the untravelled

reader, from engravings, copies, and written descriptions. Among the

most noted are the St. Cecilia by Raphael, the Vision of Constantine

by the same artist, the the Assumption of the Virgin by Murillo, the

Marriage of St. Catharine by the same, the Archangel Michael by Guido,

and St. Patronilla by Guercino. These two last have been copied in

mosaic to adorn the interior of St. Peter's. Of poems of this nature

might be cited as among the best, Dryden's Ode to St. Cecilia, the

Virgin Martyr by Massenger, the Golden Legend by Longfellow, and the

Eve of St. Agnes by Keats.

{682}

Christine, I think, may fairly be catalogued among the same sainted

sisterhood.

These traditions and legends of an earlier and more credulous age may

be likened to the eggs, beautifully spotted and fantastically marked,

which some delighted school-boy finds in spring-time, after hours of

climbing and nest-hunting. Such eggs, curious in themselves, and

brooded over by genius, often break forth into winged and musical

poems, which afterward soar high above the nests and the tree-tops in

which they were first cradled. Such is the case with the one now under

consideration. In a new world, in a land which was not then even

dreamed to be in existence, it arises lark-like, soaring and singing

toward "heaven's gate." Let us watch it for a few moments, reader, and

listen to its matin melody; my word for it, we shall be none the

worse, either in heart or head, for having done so.

I shall not mar the beauties of this radiant little poem by attempting

a cold and prosaic outline; this would, indeed, be to offer a dingy

silhouette in place of a picture glowing with all the colors of a

Tintoretto. Instead of this, I say, let the volume speak for itself;

procure it, read it aloud to your friend; there is music sleeping in

the book, awaken it to the sound of your own voice, and even though

you may be a Protestant of the strictest school, you will find here

nothing to offend, nothing to call forth a word of disapprobation,

with one proviso, however, and that is that you read it as the

title-page directs. Remember always that it is supposed to be "A song

by a Troubadour."

A troubadour? And what was a troubadour? And what were his mainsprings

of action? Hear an answer in the language of one of the most gifted of

their number.

"A Dien mon ame, ma vie au roi,

Mon coeur aux dames, l'honneur pour moi!"

This, interpreted into tamer and more prosaic language, means that his

ruling principles of action were religion, loyalty, gallantry, and

honor; in other words, his soul, his life, his heart belonged

respectively to God, to the king, to the ladies, and only his honor he

reserved to himself. Such was his creed, such was the disinterested

and noble spirit which animated him, and which breathed through all

his lays, his vire-lays, his morning songs, his serenades, his

sonnets, his idyls, his villanercas, his madrigals, and his canzonets.

In this spirit acted the enthusiastic Rudel, who became enamored of

the Countess of Tripoli from the reports which he heard of the

hospitable manner in which she treated the Crusaders, and who, without

having ever seen her, actually started of on a long voyage to visit

the object of his admiration. Who has not heard of Blondel, and of the

romantic incident by which he discovered the lion-hearted Richard

while imprisoned in the castle of Lovenstein?

But in addition to the above-mentioned motive principles, the

troubadour was influenced by another sentiment, which had a powerful

effect on all the feelings and actions of his life. This was an

intense and romantic veneration for the Virgin Mary. In fact, with

little variation the following words, which we find in another poem in

the same volume, entitled "Raphael Sanzio," might with equal propriety

be attributed to one of the troubadours.

--"Her whose colors I have worn since first

I dreamed of beauty in the chestnut shades

Of Umbria--Her for whom my best of life

Has been one labor--_Her, the Nazareth maid,

Who gave to heaven a queen, to man a God,

To God a mother_."

Such, then, was the troubadour. His birthplace was Provence. It was

there, in fact, that during the darkness of the Middle Ages the muse

relit her torch which had long been extinguished. Many years before

Dante's great poem rose like a sun--never again to set--the

troubadours, those morning-stars of poesy, "sang together and shouted

for joy." The troubadour preceded the Saxon bard, the Anglo-Norman

minstrel, and the German minnesinger. There were held those curious

courts of love where {683} queens and noble ladies often presided, and

there were exhibited, on green and flowery meadows, those poetical

contests, those festive jousts and tournaments, the idea of which

seems to have been caught from the neighboring Saracens of Spain. The

cross and the crescent both added something to the great result, the

one contributing the deep and earnest glow of devotion, the other the

pomp and circumstance of chivalry.

Of all these circumstances our poet has, with exquisite tact and

skill, availed himself. Christine herself, when only ten years old,

had accompanied her father to the Holy Land. This throws an oriental

richness around her whole bearing and manner of thinking:

"Sooth thou art fair,

O ladye dear,

Yet one may see

The shadow of the East in thee;

Tinting to a riper flush

The faint vermilion of thy blush;

Deepening in thy dark-brown hair

Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there."

The gray charger which plays so conspicuous a part in the action was

born under the palm-trees of Palestine, and his name, Caliph, would

seem to indicate an Arabian descent. By this subtle link the

connection between Provençal and Arabic poesy seems delicately to be

hinted at. The fact that the main poem concludes in sonnet-form, if

accidental, is curious; if brought about by design, is a happy

thought, inasmuch as the sonnet derived its birth in Provence, and

also from the fact that, from the number of its lines (twice _seven_),

and the collocation of its rhymes, it is instinct with Christian

symbolism.

The song itself, or story of Christine, is divided into five cantos or

sub-songs, which, like the five acts of some romantic melodrama,

arrest the attention from the start, and conduct the reader by five

stages of increasing interest to the jubilant conclusion.

This main picture, as it may be called, has hanging on each side of it

a smaller lateral one, one of which is a kind of _prelude_ and the

other the _finale_ to the whole performance. This reminds us of some

of those works of art by the older masters, in which a smaller

side-picture may be seen to the right and left of the main

representation. These appendages, though apparently slight and worded

with extreme conciseness, are artistically conceived and add greatly

to the general effect. They are also in fine keeping with the time and

spirit of the legend itself, reminding us of one of those

triple-arched emblazoned windows so often seen in old Gothic edifices.

But the chief advantage derived from such an arrangement is, that the

two smaller or lateral pieces serve as links to connect the more

confined interests of the story with that grandest event in history,

namely the Crusades, and thus to impart to the whole a breadth and

grandeur of design which the size of the poem scarcely led us to

expect. In the prelude we are presented with a view of the troubadour

himself, who is supposed to sing the song, and not only himself, but

his lady love, together with Richard of the Lion Heart, his queen, and

all his chivalry. These last are at the time gazing over the blue

Mediterranean, on which, in the distance, King Philip of France is

seen sailing homeward with his receding vessels. The finale exhibits

the arrival of a fleet under English banners. In both, a glimpse is

caught of the troubadour who sings the song; in the one case, before

he commences his romaunt, in the other, as he retires unnoticed and

unthanked by the English monarch.

In the midst of so many beauties and artistic excellences, it is with

reluctance that I notice two little circumstances which some might

consider as slight blemishes. Caliph, the charger above alluded to, is

spoken of as "the gallant gray." This expression sounds almost too

trite and commonplace to find a place in so original a poem. Even if

the color were preserved, I should {684} prefer some more novel and

striking form of words. But would not pure _white_ be a hue more

suitable in itself, and also form a finer contrast with the

_coal-black_ steed which is ridden by the Goblin Horseman of Pilate's

Mount? The last personage forms the evil, as Christine forms the

_good_, principle of the poem. By placing one upon a white and the

other on a black horse, the antagonism would be brought out in bolder

relief, and we should be reminded of the fine allegory in Plato's

Phaedra, where the chariot of Psyche is represented as drawn by two

steeds of opposite colors, under the guidance of Reason, who is the

charioteer.

The other--a trifle scarcely worthy of mention--is this: For the

expression "Santo sudario" I should like to see substituted

"Veronica," not so much on account of its effect upon the ear, as on

account of those subtle trains of associated ideas which either lead

us _off from_ or _on_ to poetical ground, as the case may be.

In justice to the author I must add that of these supposed blemishes I

am doubtful, whereas of the beauties above alluded to I feel perfectly

certain. It is much more easy to suggest alterations when a work is

finished than by one's own effort to finish a perfect work. As a

whole, there is a youthful fire and glow about the poem which cannot

fail to render it captivating to the young, and a devotional and

earnest tone of feeling which must be extremely acceptable to those

more advanced. Reserving the "other poems" which accompany it for a

future article, I shall conclude my remarks by a short extract taken

almost at random from the third song:

"They are coming from this castle,

A bevy of bright-eyed girls,

Some with their long locks braided,

Some with loose golden curls.

Merrily 'mid the meadows

They win their wilful way;

Winding through sun and shadow,

Rivulets at play.

Brows with white rosebuds blowing,

Necks with white pearl intertwined,

Gowns whose white folds imprison

Wafts of the wandering wind.

The boughs of the charmed woodland

Sing to the vision sweet,

The daisies that couch in the clover

Nod to their twinkling feet

They see Christine by the river,

And, deeming the bridegroom near.

They wave her a dewy rose-wreath

Fresh plucked from her dark-brown hair.

Hand in hand tripping to meet her

Bird-like they carol their joy,

Wedding soft Provençal numbers

To a dulcet old strain of Savoy."

How trippingly and buoyantly do these verses gallopade adown the

jocund page, as if one of the blithest of the old masters of the "gaya

scientia." had been thrown by Merlin into an enchanted sleep, and,

awaking from his slumber of eight centuries, was even now pouring into

verse one of the freshest of his matin visions. And that bevy of

dancing maidens! long may they continue to bound in tiptoe jollity

adown the salient page. The glad creatures are as yet ignorant of the

fact that Christine's noble lover is lying in a death-like a swoon,

and that Christine herself has just had an interview with the fearful

demon who wishes to bear her off in triumph. Each one of them seems to

be a kind of Provençal Minnehaha, and may be compared to one of those

merry waterfalls which come tumbling down the mountain-side, leaping

in joy from rock to rock, and quite heedless of the black precipices

which surround them.

But enough. As Cleopatra's barge of old went sailing down the river

Cydnus, with burnished hull and perfumed sails, and silver oars rowing

in unison with dulcet flutes, so ever and anon, at long intervals, is

launched into the world some rare poem, which moves sailing down the

river of time, to the admiration of all beholders. It behooves us,

when such an apparition heaves in sight, whether it be poem or vessel,

to be on the lookout and not to miss the pleasure of saluting it with

our heartiest cheers.

--------

{685}

ORIGINAL.

GENIUS IN A PARISIAN ATTIC [Footnote 197]

[Footnote 197: In a private letter received from a member of the

Guérin family--one whose name is held in gentle reverence by all

the readers of Eugénie's Journal--we are asked if it would be

possible to interest devout souls in America in the reconstruction

of the little church of Andillac. We would gladly answer this

question in the affirmative, for the restoration of Eugénie's

parish church would be a monument that even her humility could not

reject.

The smallest sums for this purpose will be gratefully received and

forwarded to Andillac by Miss E. P. Cary, Cambridge, Mass., or

Office of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, 145 Nassau Street, New-York.]

In a former article [Footnote 198] we traced the course of Maurice

de Guérin's career at La Chênaie; and left him in Paris, bewildered by

the rush and whirl of such a city, one day to become so familiar to

him. We will now let his journal and letters exhibit the curious

change through which he passed in turning from the fair Utopian dreams

of Lamennais to the work-day experiences of an unsuccessful author.

[Footnote 198: See article in THE CATHOLIC WORLD of June, 1866,

entitled: Two Pictures of Life in France before 1848.]

To do this fully we must retrace our steps to Le Val, the asylum

thrown open to him by Hippolyte de la Morvonnais when he left

Ploërmel. Guérin's record of that peaceful sojourn in Brittany is as

distinct from our popular ideas of French life as Eugénie's sketches

of Rayssac and Le Cayla. The brother and sister have successfully

proved that all Frenchmen are not deceitful and unbelieving, nor all

Frenchwomen vain and perfidious. Surely no young man in any country

ever met with influences more sound and elevating than Maurice found

in the society of Eugénie and Mimin; of Louise de Bayne, Madame de la

Morvonnais, and Caroline de Gervain; or with friends more enduring

than Hippolyte, Paul Quemper, Marzan, Trébutien, and D'Aurevilly.

There is in France an undercurrent of domestic life as pure and fresh

as the superficial existence in her great cities is shallow and

turbid. Indeed, the more familiar one becomes with French life and

manners, the more one appreciates the truth of the _mot_ of a certain

cardinal: "There is no purgatory for Frenchmen; they go straight to

heaven or hell." But we will no longer detain the reader, by moral

reflections, from the perusal of the selections we have made from

Guérin's writings.

LE VAL, Dec. 7th, 1833.

After a year of perfect calm, but for interior tempests for which I

must not blame the solitude that has unfolded me in such silent peace

that any soul less unquiet than mine would have slumbered deliciously

therein; after a year, I say, of absolute tranquillity, Fate, who had

let me enter the holy house to rest awhile, smote on the door to call

me forth again; for she had not gone on her way, but had sat waiting

on the threshold till I should gather strength to resume the journey.

"You have tarried long enough," she said; "Come." And she took me by

the hand and tramped on like the poor women you meet in the road,

leading a tired, lagging child. But what folly it is to complain; are

there no troubles in the world but mine to weep for? I will say

henceforth to the fountain of my tears, "Dry up," and to the Lord,

"Lord, heed not my complaints," whenever I am tempted to invoke God

and my tears in my own behalf; for suffering is good for me, who can

merit nothing in heaven by my actions, and, like all weak souls, can

earn nothing there except through the virtue of suffering. Such souls

have no wings to raise them up to heaven, and the Lord, who would fain

possess them, sends help. He lays them on a pile of thorns, and

kindles the fire of grief; the consuming {686} wood mounts up to

heaven like a white vapor, or like the doves that used to spring

upward from the dying flames of a martyr's stake. This is the soul

which has completed its sacrifice, and grown light enough in the fire

of tribulation to rise to heaven like a smoke. The wood is heavy and

immovable; set fire to it, and a part of itself will ascend to the

clouds.

8th.--Yesterday the west wind blew furiously. I watched the shaken

ocean, but to me its sublime disorder was far from equalling the

spectacle of a calm blue sea, and yet why say that one is not equal to

the other? Who can measure these two sublimities and say that the

second surpasses the first? Let us only say: "My soul delights rather

in serenity than in a storm."

Yesterday there was a great battle fought in the watery plains. On

came the bounding waves, like innumerable hordes of Tartar cavalry

galloping to and fro on the plains of Asia--on to the chain of granite

islets that bar the entrance to the bay. There we saw billows upon

billows rushing to the assault, flinging themselves wildly against the

rocky masses with hideous clamor, tearing along to leap over the black

heads of the rocks. The boldest or lightest sprang over with a great

outcry; the others dashed themselves with sluggish awkwardness against

the ledges, throwing up great showers of dazzling foam, and then drew

off growling, like dogs beaten back by a traveller's staff.

We watched the great struggle from the top of a cliff, where we could

hardly keep our feet against the whirling wind. The awful tumult of

the sea, the rushing boisterous, waves, the swift but silent passing

of the clouds, the sea-birds floating in the sky, balancing their

slender bodies on wide-arched wings; all this accumulation of wild,

resounding harmonies, converging in the souls of two beings five feet

(French) high, planted on the crest of a cliff, shaken like two leaves

by the energy of the wind, and not more apparent on this immensity

than two birds perched on a clod of earth. Oh! it was something

strange and wonderful, one of those moments of sublime agitation and

deep revery combined, when the soul and nature rear themselves in

majesty before each other.

From this height we clambered down into a gorge which opens a marine

retreat, such as the ancients could have described to peaceful waves

that rock themselves to sleep there murmuring, while their frantic

brethren lash the rocks, and wrestle among themselves. Huge blocks of

gray granite, embossed with white lichens, are thrown in disorder on

the slant of the hill which has hollowed out an inlet for this cove.

They look, so strangely are they tossed about, half tipping toward the

slope, as if a giant had amused himself with hauling them from the

height above, and they had been checked by some obstacle, some a few

feet from the point of departure, and others half way down; and yet

they seem to have paused, not stopped, in their course, or rather they

appear to be still rolling. The sound of the winds and waves pouring

into this echoing recess makes glorious harmony. We stood there a long

time, leaning on our walking-sticks, looking and listening and

wondering.

9th.--The moon was shining with a few stars when the bell called us to

mass. I especially enjoy this mass, celebrated in the early morning

between the last rays of starlight and the first beams of the rising

sun.

In the evening Hippolyte and I wandered along the coast, for we wished

to see what the ocean is like at the close of a calm, gray December

day. Mist veiled the distance, but left space enough to suggest

infinity. We stationed ourselves on a point where a tidesman's hut

stands, and leaned against the wall. To the right a wood, spreading

over the slope of the coast, stretched its thin, naked branches out

into the pale light with a faint, sighing sound. Far away to our left

the tower of Ebihens vanished into the {687} mist, and then appeared

again with a faint gleam upon its brow, as some furtive ray of

twilight succeeded in eluding the clouds. The sound of the sea was

calm and dreamy, as on the fairest days, but with a more plaintive

tone. We followed this sound as it swelled along the shore, and only

taking breath when the waves that had poured it forth gave place to

another. I believe it is from the deep, grave tone of the advancing

wave as it unfurls itself, and from the shrill, pebbly sound of the

retreating wave, gritting against the shells and sand, that the

marvellous voice of the sea is created. But why dissect such music? I

could say nothing worth hearing on the subject, for I am no adept at

analysis, so we'll go back to sentiment.

The shadows thickened around us, but we never thought of going away,

for as the earth grew still, and the night unveiled its mysteries,

grander grew the harmony of the sea. Like those statues set on

promontories by the ancients, we stood immovable, fascinated and spell

bound by the beauty of the ocean and the night, giving no sign of life

except to look up when we heard the whistling wings of the wild duck

overhead.

The thread of my wandering fortunes led me to a solitary headland in

Brittany to dream away an autumn evening, there for several hours

those interior sounds were hushed that never have been still since the

first tempest arose in my breast. There a sweet, heavenly melancholy

stole into my heart with the ocean chords, and my soul wandered in a

paradise of revery. Oh! when I shall have left Le Val and poured my

parting tears into the bosom of your friendship; when I shall be in

Paris where there is neither vale nor ocean, nor any soul like yours;

when I shall wander alone with my sadness and with an almost

despairing heart; what tears I shall shed over the memory of our

evenings; for happiness is a fine, gentle rain that sinks into the

soul, and then gushes forth in torrents of tears.

21st.--For several days the weather has done its worst. The rain falls

and the wind blows in gusts till it seems as if everything would be

torn to pieces by the storm. These three nights I have started up wide

awake as the gale swept by at midnight, besieging the house so

furiously that everything in-doors shook and trembled. I spring up in

my bed white, and listen to the hurricane, while a thousand thoughts

that swept, some on the surface, others deep down in my soul, start

into shuddering wakefulness.

All the sounds of nature; the winds, those awful breathings from an

unknown mouth, rouse up the innumerable instruments in the plains or

on the mountains, hidden in the hollow of valleys or massed among the

forests; the waters with their marvellous scale of tone, ranging from

the tinkling of a fountain through moss, to the wondrous harmonies of

the ocean; thunder, the voice of that sea that floats above us; the

rustling of dry leaves beneath a human foot or before a whirling

breeze; in short, for I must stop short in enumerating innumerable

sounds, this continual emission of tone, the floating rumor of the

elements, dilates my thoughts into strange reveries, and throws me

into unutterable amazement. The voice of nature has taken such hold

upon me that I can hardly free myself from its perpetual influence,

and in vain I try to turn a deaf ear. But to wake at midnight amid the

cries of the storm, to be assailed in the darkness by a wild,

tumultuous harmony, overthrowing night's peaceful empire, is something

incomparable among strange impressions. It is ecstasy in the midst of

terror.

CAEN, 24th January.

I have been wandering along the streets of this city by the dim light

of the street lamps. What did I see? Black phantoms of steeples and

churches, whose outline I could barely trace. The mystery of night,

which enveloped them without limiting their dimensions {688} like dear

daylight, added to their impressive influence, and filled me with an

emotion that was worth more, I believe, than forms. My thoughts soared

up to heaven with the never-ending spires, and wandered awe-struck

through naves that were mournful as sepulchres. That was all. The

streets were crowded, but what is a crowd by night, or even, by day?

At night I enjoy more the sound of the wind, and in the daytime those

grand assemblies, now silent and now rocking and roaring, called

forests. Besides, I met several of that class of men who always put me

to flight; students strutting along in gown and cap, and wearing in

every feature a nameless expression that reduces me to rout and

discomfiture. Oh! my dear journal, my gentle friend, how I felt that I

loved thee, as I worked my way out of the multitude. And here I am

with thee now, though the night is far advanced and I am half dead

with fatigue; all alone with thee, telling thee my griefs, and letting

thee peacefully into my secrets. Can I recall often enough those

memories all steeped in tears, that will ever dwell incorruptible

within my soul? Kind Hippolyte and his exquisite Marie! I bade her

farewell; she answered me in a few words of touching kindness. I

stammered out a few words more, and was running down the steps

thinking that she had not come beyond the threshold, and that all was

over; when I heard another farewell coming to me from above, and,

looking up, saw her leaning over the balustrade. I answered very

softly, for her voice had taken away the little strength I had to keep

back my tears.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO

M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, Feb. 1st, 1834

You thought you would receive news of me by the end of this week. Your

calculation has proved false, and you are feeling impatient, and

thinking that I am neglectful, and that the tumult of Paris has dulled

my ear to the sweet, lovely voice of friendship that sings unceasingly

in the depths of my soul. Imagine no such thing, my dear friend. God

knows that since I came to Paris I have listened to nothing but the

two farewells that I heard on that black Thursday evening, one from

her whom you must let me call your sweet Marie, who, as I went

down-stairs thinking that everything was at an end, leaned over the

balustrade to say good-by once more; and the other from you, on the

steps of the carriage, uttered half aloud as you clasped my hand. I

hear these two voices incessantly, and never fail to listen to them,

while all other sounds pass by as if they were not.

I did not see Quemper until two days after my arrival, Tuesday

morning, when I surprised him in bed, dreaming, between sleeping and

waking, of music, dancing, fresh garlands of young maidens, and all

the other vague and enchanting images that float through the

imagination long after the magic of a ball has passed away. Our friend

had spent the night at one of those radiant entertainments, whose

brilliancy his pen, fresh as if dipped in a dew-drop, depicts with

such sparkling charm. All of a sudden my pale and melancholy visage

appeared to put these fair dreams to flight; but though it must have

looked among them much like one of those crows that we used to see

flying among flocks of white sea-gulls, he embraced me with all the

cordiality that you remember in him. I sat down by his bedside, and

the vivacity of our first greetings having effervesced, a long and

charming conversation gradually unrolled itself, of which this is the

substance: remember that he was the speaker and that I interrupted him

very seldom, so anxious was I to gather up all his instructions.

The most difficult task to accomplish at the beginning of the career

which we have chosen _is to get published_, to bring one's name before

the public; {689} and he mentioned the names of several young men who

had been vainly knocking at the gates of journals for several years

past. We are already far advanced, since two are thrown open to us,

Catholic France and the European Review. Booksellers have no faith in

the unknown, and would refuse obstinately to have a masterpiece

printed if it were the first attempt of its author, while if they have

seen his name ever so little in reviews and journals they would prove

facile and accommodating. Therefore we must devote our whole strength

to making our names known through magazines and papers.

But in order to write acceptably for this sort of publication one must

adapt one's self to its habits, speak its language, and become all

things to all men--in matters of style merely, you understand. Let us

strive, then, to catch their ways, as the saying is, and to throw our

thoughts into the conventional mould, until we shall have attained to

such independence of pen as will leave us free to clothe our thoughts

after our own fashion. There is no use in disguising the fact that as

long as we serve under an editing committee (I dwell upon this point

because it is an important one, and Quemper insisted upon it very

strongly), we must, to a certain degree, renounce the habits of style

peculiar to ourselves, and adopt those of the journal; so that, while

preserving our individuality, we may blend and combine it with customs

foreign to our nature. It is hard for men like us, with characteristic

traits of their own, proud and independent of the fashions they have

railed at and disdained; it is hard for such men to muffle themselves

in the livery of the day, to follow instead of leading, to copy

instead of designing; but necessity with her iron nail stands before

us. Finally, the committee of the European Review refused an article

of Cazalès himself because it was in Germanic form.

As to the Review, we must share the editing of it thus: Each number

should contain a leading article purely philosophical, an article of a

high order of literary criticism, and an article, artistic or

imaginative, of a light character fitted to relax the mind after

reading the first two. You, Duquesnel, and I could share the labor and

play into each other's hands, so that each number should have as often

as possible three articles from us, conceived in the manner that I

have just indicated; only remember that you must leave the light

article for me, because I know nothing of philosophy or criticism.

. . . . .

And now let me tell what my present position is. I have hired a little

room at twenty francs a month, near my cousin. He could not take me

into his own family; my friend, Lefebvre, could not accommodate me

either; and besides, the fact is that one must be alone and quite

independent if one would work well; it is better to have a house of

one's own. I take my meals at my cousin's; in short, I am in a very

tolerable position, and one that will allow me to try my fortune for

three months to come, and I hope much longer.

Add to this a most charming perspective, from which I hope much for

the advancement of my fortunes and the maintenance of my courage. At

the end of this month Quemper is going to change his lodgings. He has

in view, still, in the rue des Petits-Augustins, an apartment

consisting of three rooms, two bed-chambers and a parlor. He proposes

that I should take one of these rooms, which would cost me twenty

francs, like the one I have at present, and that we should share the

parlor. You may imagine that I accepted the plan with both hands,

especially because it will be so delightful to live with such a

friend. We have already laid out a life of uninterrupted happiness not

to be described, a sort of Le Val for us two in the midst of Paris.

{690} Can discouragement seize upon me there? and if it comes, cannot

we put it to flight? Quemper has drawn up a rule of life for me, and

given lessons in a double economy of which I knew nothing--that of

time and money; in short, as he says, he will pilot me through life

and Paris, two paths where I lose myself completely, though I number

twenty-three years of life and eight years of Paris. I begin to

believe that in spite of myself or any evil genius, I shall accomplish

something.

If I turn to the source of all these blessings, I find you, my dear

friend, who by your exhortations and generous reproaches, sowed in my

soul the first germs of the courage that I feel stirring within me

now. You urged me to come to Paris when I was contemplating a cowardly

retreat; you bound me in that ripe sheaf of friendship with yourself,

Quemper, and Duquesnel, an endless blessing from which, perhaps, all

the success of my life will grow; to you I owe two months of beautiful

impressions and pure happiness. You let me look upon Le Val as a

second Le Cayla, love it with the affection that belongs to one's

birthplace, for it was the June of my second birth; weep for it in

momenta of sadness, and sing of its charms when I am glad.

My cousin's little girl is nine months old; she is charming, can stand

alone already, without walking of course, has an enchanting smile; in

short, would be a companion angel for Marie. When her tongue is

loosed, I will teach her all the little words that her baby sister in

Le Val can say, "_Bon jour, ma, à tantôt, le v'la lia_" and I will

swing her in a napkin; in short, I will do everything I can to make

her another Marie, her faithful and bewitching likeness.

I have not yet written to my sister. I shall do so this evening with

exhortations and entreaties. How happy it would make me to see a firm

friendship grow up between Madame de La Morvonnais and Eugénie! those

two souls so formed for mutual understanding, and to draw forth the

wealth of sweetness from each other's souls.

Offer my homage to her who will, I hope, soon call my sister friend,

and win the same title from her; as it is between you and me, my dear

friend. Countless kisses to Marie. Don't forget me, I beg, when you

write to Mordreux and St. Malo. Love to Duquesnel and François.

At the time the following idyl was written, the pernicious style of

literature which it satirizes was confined to France. To-day, when our

bookstores teem with works of the same class, we fear that the

allegory may meet with less favor among American readers than it would

have aroused thirty years ago.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO

M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, February, 1834.

I fear me much that the month of May will bring us snow-balls instead

of roses.

When I left you, dear friend, your solitude was just ready to burst

forth into flowers and verdure. The reddening fruit walls in your

garden, and the little chilly shrubs that love the sun, were trusting

their tender foliage, in all confidence, to the benign and gentle

winter, smiling upon them with the grace of spring. The wood that

stretches over your sloping shore, dipping almost into the sea, wore

that look of life and gladness that trees put on as spring-time draws

near. The sticky, oval buds of the Indian chestnut, glistened in the

sun; beech buds, sharp and slim, pricked themselves up with pert

vivacity, even the small round oak buds were beginning to gather in

bunches at the end of the branches, and yet the oak leaves out later

than other forest-trees. We saw the young shoots of undergrowth

blushing with the red tint that colors them at the awakening of

vegetation, as if blood were purling through their veins instead of

sap. The grass, pushing its way up through the bed of dead leaves and

withered vegetation, thrown over {691} it in autumn, was bordering the

paths, and spreading a velvet carpet in every glade, decked with the

enamel of a thousand Easter buds and daisies. Everything was gay in

preparation for the great feast of nature. Oh! if nightingale,

swallow, oriole, and sparrow knew all this, how they would bestir

themselves to fly _dulcesque revisere nidos_. It may be that their

European brothers have sent messengers to tell them that everything is

ready for their reception, woods, groves, hedge, and bush; that seeds

and berries will come early; that, morning and evening, the gnats are

whirling in myriads in the beams of the rising and setting sun; that

all is lovely here, and they must hurry home to enjoy the glorious

festival. I don't know that our domestic birds have paid this

attention to their travelled brethren, but at least they have given

themselves up to joy and harmony in awaiting their return. Do you

remember, Hippolyte, how the blackbirds whistle, the gay, sweet warble

of the thrush, or the twitter of some wren perched on the top of a

wall, used to beguile us from our study, tempting us forth to pleasant

rambles?

Such was your Thebaïd, as you call it, the day before I left you, full

of warmth and animation, vivid with rising sap and the labor of

vegetation. To-day I will wager that the eruption of leaves and

flowers is far advanced, that the birds are hopping about in search of

moss, twigs, stray feathers, and bits of down, and that you are

wandering in spring revery under the first shade of your chestnut

trees. But, my friend, are you slumbering serenely on these fair

promises? Does it never occur to you that this may be all a stratagem

of winter, and that the old despot may have manoeuvred, merely to draw

out verdure and blossom, and kill them with his baleful breath? Do you

never fear that thus the acme may be reached of our delusions? What if

this balmy, perfumed air turned to a north wind; if a black, sharp

cold condensed all this living sap, this fecundity now gushing through

the veins of nature; if the frost crystallized your woods and their

tender leaflets; if your little eddying brooks were to clasp in ice

the flower, stems, and stalks of herbs that grow upon their beds and

borders; if, instead of nightingales and singing-birds from southern

shores, you should see triangles of long-necked geese and swans

pouring down from the north, and files of those ducks that we used to

hear cutting the clouds with whistling wings on December evenings; if

the exterminator, winter, were to kill in one night all these

first-born of the year; in short, if your Thebaïd were to turn into a

Siberia, what would become of your dreams of plenty, fruits, and

flowers, soft siestas under the shade of a tree, songs on the

sea-shore, and of that whole existence, nourished upon sunlight,

gentle breezes, and sweet odors, that you lead in your dear

wilderness?

If you had power over nature, I should say to you: "Give your gardens

and woods and birds a lesson of wisdom. Bid those buds that I saw

gaping in the sunshine to hold back well in their envelope the leaves

entrusted to their care, scare them with the rigors that may surprise

them; the brightest sun is a deceiver. Put them on their guard against

the wiles of a fair day, teach them to be austere, and tell them the

thousand tales you know of flowers that have crumbled into dust

because they heeded the lures of a passing breeze or of a glowing

sunbeam. Tell them that, if perchance a few be saved amid the general

havoc, they will one day bear shrivelled, meagre, tasteless fruit that

no fair hand shall ever gather, and that shall wither on the branch or

fall a prey to the vile appetite of insects. Tell them that their thin

and pallid foliage shall draw disdain upon them from the panting

traveller, the young maidens, and the winged musicians that take

refuge under their shade to rest or dance or sing. Men will take them

for useless cumberers of the earth, and one day {692} perhaps the axe

will be laid at their root." As to the birds, the best advice you can

give them is, to leave their brothers in exile until the first day of

true spring shines. It is better to bear banishment a little longer

than come home to find their country the wretched slave of winter. Let

your birds beware how they recall their brethren or begin to build

their own nests. The brood would not prosper; the poor mothers would

shiver on their eggs, and the bitter cold, stealing under their wings,

would kill the chicks in the shell, despite the warmth of the maternal

bosom. Oh! if you had, power over nature, what a discourse I would

send you for your Thebaïd, to save it from the seductions of this

perfidious spring whose perils I know so well.

Do you take all this seriously, my friend? I fear not, and that you

will dismiss it with a smile, as the prattle of a child. I even fear

that you may regard my letter as very eccentric, and say to yourself:

"What nonsense is this? Talking of woods and flowers to a hermit;

wandering on into homilies addressed to birds and flowers, when he is

writing from Paris, and not one word of what is stirring in the world!

He deserves in punishment that I should send him an essay upon the

dramas and romances of last year!" My friend, restrain your wrath, and

contain yourself long enough to hear, my reasons.

Horace said: "At Rome I prate of Tiber, and at Tiber I prate of Rome."

Don't imagine that my taste is light and changeable as the wind, and

thus explain to yourself my long tirades on your solitude. When I was

in your Thebaïd, did I ever speak regretfully of the joys of Paris?

Did I not, on the contrary, say always that a city life is repugnant

to my taste, and that I care not at all for any pleasures to be

enjoyed here? Don't you remember how the little rough huts of your

tidesmen used to excite my envy, and that I used to have dreams of

hollowing out a cool, dark grotto in the heart of a rock in one of

your creeks, and letting my life glide away in the contemplation of

the vast ocean, like a sea-god? If you recall all this, you'll easily

understand why in Paris I talk of the country and forget Paris.

Indeed, you will see that it cannot be otherwise; for having said to

the fields, as you know,

"Le corps s'en va, mals le cocur vous demeure," [Footnote 199]

my discourse must turn on them, and I can only live in this mad

tornado of Paris as not belonging to it.

[Footnote 199: Froissart (manuscript note).]

If you know me well, these reasons will more than suffice to make you

understand the beginning of my letter. But will you be able to resist

the perpetual impulse that makes you look for mysteries in the

clearest things, so insatiable is your taste for divining? No; you

will look under the natural sense of my words, and think you have

surprised a sly meaning, crouching like a serpent under flowers,

beneath my sentences, which breathe only sweet images of spring. I'm

not afraid of your discovering some political allusion in them, for

you are too solitary, and hold yourself too much aloof from such

things for that idea to occur to you. But, if your eyes turn from the

arena of politics, they will settle on the noble field of literary

doctrines; and because lately the combat has grown hot, and the noise

of the mêlée is resounding far and wide, you will fancy that I am a

passionate spectator of the struggle, amusing myself with winding the

opposing party in subtle mocking allegories. Let me tell you that this

interpretation, or any similar one given to my idyl on the precocious

spring, misses its aim; that my idyl veils no satire; and that if it

seems to you the least in the world insidious or guileful, 'tis only

because you've breathed your own malice upon the innocent thing. I

repeat, it conies merely to discourse with you about nature; and what

can be more natural? Know that never has a ray of sunlight shone

directly {693} into the room where I live; I receive it only by

repercussion. Toward noon the sun strikes some garret windows opposite

that send across to me a few pale reflections, without warmth or

cheerfulness, like the rays of a lamp; and even this vague,

languishing light vanishes in a quarter of an hour. These are the

beams that gladden my eyes, accustomed to the broad overflowing

liberality of a southern sky. A narrow, sombre court-yard, where

there's not a blade of grass growing in the cracks of the pavement,

nor a flower-pot on a window-sill to smile upon me--this is the

horizon to which I am reduced; I, who so many, many times have scaled

with you your rocks and downs and sea-cliffs, whence our eyes embraced

the divine expanse of ocean, the marvellous indentures of your coast,

and the wide fields all green with wheat and flax. And now that I've

fallen from these fair heights into a hole that hardly admits the

light of day, do you suppose I shall not try to live over again these

charms in imagination, or that I shall talk to you of anything but

yourself and your solitude? And you, you cynical recluse, would

envenom these sweet, innocent recollections, and find some apologue or

another in the images of nature among which I seek recreation? But as

I have every reason to suppose that you are not attending to me, and

are still working to disentangle the metaphors, let us see if

perchance malice can make anything out of my precocious spring, and to

what allusion it can be turned.

Interested as you are in literary matters, and attentive to the

disturbances that have risen tip lately among our authors, I am sure

that it will not be long before the _facile literature_ comes to your

mind. Then you will think you have the clew, and with that thread

you'll plunge into the labyrinth of my supposed allegory, hoping to

emerge maliciously triumphant and content. I allow that, without any

extraordinary flights, imagination might pass from the buds, opening

prematurely on the faith of a brilliant winter sun, to this young

literature, which has burst into blossom before its time, and

innocently exposed itself to the returns of frost that I predict to

your woods and groves. But, my friend, will you, who rejoice so

ardently at sight of an almond-tree in flower, will you reproach

severely these trusting souls that have opened in the broad-day light

and displayed with touching faith their treasures to the graces of

heaven? Blame rather the burning sun of our day, and the atmosphere

all charged with fatal heat, which have hastened this development and

perhaps reduced the harvest of our age to a few ears.

And the trees whose blossoms are only born to die, and those that bear

bitter fruits which no one will ever pluck, or will gather only to

throw away--ah! you'll not have much trouble in seeing in them the

emblems of the many authors who have appeared once and vanished for

ever; the many authors whose books, distasteful to a few grave judges,

are welcomed by seekers after novelty and romance readers; and who,

having filled these vain souls with vain ideas, often sink into the

well of oblivion with hands relaxed by the lethargy that comes from

dull satiety.

Will you have it that the trees shunned by travellers, young maidens,

and birds figure those renowned books, worthy of their fame as works

of art, which do not contain a grain of the hidden manna, nor one of

the sweet, beneficent thoughts that nourish the soul and relax it

after fatigue?--books that maidenly hands dare not touch, and that put

to flight everything fresh and innocent--a thought to make one die of

shame and grief! Will you have it so? I yield the point with good

grace, for in truth my thoughts bear your interpretation as well as if

I had really hidden it therein, and I will follow you no further in

your suspicious investigations, feeling sure that my test will not

suffer violence from you, {694} and that you will go on to the end

without losing your way.

What conclusion do you draw from all this? First, that, resolved to

enter the lists, I am preparing in secret my lance and chariot, and

kindling my wrath. But are my peaceful inclinations unknown to you, or

the weakness of my arm and my very doubtful courage? I a combatant!

Just remember that the least tumult scares and routs me like a flying

prey, and that my strength bravely suffices to drag me out of danger;

so how could it drag me in?

In the second place, you will suppose that I am nursing an aversion

for the new school and calling out for a classical reform. M. Nisard,

of course, does not wish the new school to perish, but to amend its

ways; and it is with that belief, and, I dare to say, on that

condition, that I pray ardently for the success of the campaign he is

about to open. The Catholic faith would never allow me to sympathize

entirely with a sceptical and fatalist literature, that sets no value

upon morality. But, on the other hand, the same faith makes me feel a

certain interest in it; for is not this disorderly, frantic new school

a truant from our fold?

No, dear friend, I am not a prey to devouring anger; but I must groan

in solitude over the wanderings of this literature, which has

forgotten the home and the teaching of its father, and has so

hopelessly lost itself, until the last and most terrible romance, in

that style, would now be its own history. Amid these sighs there come

to me a few reflections upon the cause of the evil and the means to

remedy it; and that is what I meant to announce to you in this

incoherent letter, in which I beg you to see only a whimsical prelude

of my imagination, turning, as it always does, toward you.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO

M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS,

AU VAL SAINT POTAN.

AU PARC, July 9th, 1834.

I wrote to you on leaving Paris a short letter, of which I begged you

not to take any notice. To-day, dear Hippolyte, when I have all

possible leisure, and the untroubled peace of the country is around

me, I resume our talk with every intention of carrying my confidence

to the utmost limits; that is, to the point where I shall begin to

fear that my chattering bores you.

I announced to you a complete account of my affairs and my position

during these five months past. Now I am going to begin and you must

listen. You know what my hopes were when I left Le Val; I felt a

decided taste for literary life, the profession of a journalist smiled

upon me, and I was hugging some bright phantom or other of the future

that had sprung up in my imagination; and in spite of the distrust

that you know I mingled with my love, I had given myself up to this

dream with intense ardor. For, let me tell you, _en passant_, that I

throw myself impetuously into every new project that can modify my

existence; and whether a walk is proposed to me for the next day, or

whether I am told, "To-morrow your destiny is to be completely

altered," I feel equally excited, and rush to meet the two events with

equal impatience. A strange activity of thought possesses me, and I

shake myself and champ my bit because time prevents me from seizing at

a bound what I am already devouring with my eyes. You may imagine

that, with a soul subject to such ardent cravings, I reached Paris

full of enthusiasm and seized the journalist's pen with a quiver of

delight. But, as usual, my enthusiasm did not last long, and

difficulties, personal as well as external, made themselves felt. I

saw the entrance to the journals bolted and barred by that selfishness

which guards the gates of everyplace against the approach of poor

young fellows who come to Paris full of innocent hopes. Catholic

France alone admitted me within its circle; but this journal,

notwithstanding the good-will of its directors, could not satisfy my

needs. My articles were favorably received, {695} but the narrow frame

of the journal cut me off from frequent contributions, and in four

months I had only appeared four times.

In the mean time expenses were not behindhand, and, although I lived

in a very small way, my expenditure was large in comparison to my

resources. I was exhausting fruitlessly time and money, my own

patience and my father's. For several months I persisted in this

disposition, holding my ground against adverse fortune in order to

save appearances and not yield the field without making fight. But at

last everything went so badly that I had to decide promptly upon a

plan suggested by the extremity of the ease. If I had been alone, I

don't know what would have become of me in my utter failure of

strength and courage; but God, as if for my preservation, has placed

around my wavering soul friends who prop and sustain it, restoring me

to myself with touching solicitude. I went to Paul, and laid before

him the whole story of my painful position. I proposed to him the

terrible enigma of my destiny and asked him for a solution. Without an

effort he untied the Gordian knot with these words: "If you leave

Paris, the future will slip through your hands. Do not let go your

hold at any cost. Make your father feel that this concerns your whole

life, that our last effort may save everything, and a first refusal

may ruin everything." And thereupon we set to work to compute article

by article all the necessities to be satisfied, all the debts to be

paid, all the most threatening possibilities of the future; and the

whole account, amounting to the sum of twelve hundred francs, I sent

to my father, with a petition written by my cousin in order to give it

more weight.

At the end of a fortnight my father returned it with his approbation

and a gift of the sum I had asked. What happiness it was to go in

search of Paul that I might thank him, triumph with him, overwhelm him

with joy for my joy; for I knew his kindness too well to doubt that he

would share all my transports. I was not mistaken; his rejoicings over

my success were sweeter to me than my own, and I had the inestimable

pleasure of seeing it communicated to my other friends, François,

Elic, etc. How delightful it is to receive such proofs of pure,

heartfelt sympathy! In short, my dear Hippolyte, here I am launched

upon the waves, provisioned with money and courage, and walking with

assured step to meet the future; I feel as if a light were guiding me,

and as if I were advancing toward an unknown goal. For the present

this is what I mean to do: I shall spend the end of August and the

whole of September at the College Stanislas, where I shall have a

class during vacation: when the term begins, I shall establish myself

in the college if there is a place for me; if not, I can have quite an

advantageous situation at my cousin's, by helping him to keep his

little _pension d'elèves_. This is an abridged history of these last

five months; it gives only a superficial view, but you are well enough

acquainted with my inner life to understand the course of my thoughts

during the time. Here I am at rest, dreaming of the future, giving

myself up to the pleasures of friendship and conversation, and

drinking in the country-life and all the dear idleness that one can

never fully enjoy except in the fields. Our solitude is so profound

that we do not even know the result of the elections. Another

ignorance, harder to bear, is concerning all that is going on among

our friends and affairs in Paris. I know nothing more than when I left

them, and it is a very long time also since I heard from my sister.

Pray, present my respectful compliments to Madame Morvonnais, and my

remembrances at Mordreux and Saint-Malo. I am going to write to

Amédée. Ask Marie, who can answer me now, if she remembers M. Guérin,

who sends her a thousand kisses.

TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, Sept. 21st, 1834.

I have just received your manuscript, my dear friend, and the letter

{696} it enclosed; it has only this moment arrived, and I write before

reading, that my despatch may be ready for Paul, who leaves day after

to-morrow in the morning. You are to possess this inestimable treasure

of friendship, freshness of soul, and warmth of heart. He will rest

from his busy, devoted life in the fair sanctuary of peace and

friendship, of which you are the priest; he will bathe in the current

of those easy, limpid days that murmur beneath your roof. What an

interruption and vacuum in my life will be between his departure and

the day of his return with the other brothers! What will become of me

in my _ennui_. Tomorrow evening we shall have our farewell _soirée_.

Do you know what evenings we have now and then? We meet at dinner-time

and have a cosy dinner, intimate talks, long wandering walks under the

chestnut-trees of the Tuileries, through the perfume of

orange-blossoms and flower-beds in the gleams of the setting sun.

These talks come and go between Paris and Le Val, from one friend to

another, from present to future, from melancholy to the liver,

philosophy to poetry, weak sadness to firm and manly resolutions, from

one thing in life to another. To paint these conversations for you

would be like trying to render with a style the colors of twilight,

the vague nonchalance of the breezes, or, a still more difficult task,

what comes more softly shaded to our hearts. Tomorrow will be the

farewell evening, the close of these melodious evenings. How many

things come to an end under our eyes! I will not speak of my own

affairs; Paul will tell you where I stand, and how my hopes ebb and

flow, rising to the chair of rhetoric of Juilly, and falling to a

little schoolroom. He will tell you about my firm resolutions and the

manly efforts of my will to seize the empire of my soul. It would be a

long story to relate the history of my interior revolutions, changes

of government, civil wars, anarchy, despotism, gleams of liberty.

These are annals that write themselves in rude characters upon the

soul and in wrinkles on the brow. Sometimes I feel that I _can no

more_, like an old empire. O my charming hermit, my sea-swan, my

poet-philosopher, how shall I express the jumble there is in my soul

at this moment of pleasure and pain, the pell-mell of joyful and sad

tears that rush from my eyes and roll over each other down my cheeks?

I see you in my soul; I see Paul's departure and embrace him in

farewell; I see Le Val, your meeting, the charm of your life, the

isolation of mine, and my longings after my dear Brittany. My friend,

sometimes the soul wanders out of sight, and is restless and troubled

like the sea.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN

TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, Oct. 19th, 1834.

At last, my dear friend, I can be with you, I can open my heart and

confide my soul to you; a doubtful privilege, perhaps you think, but

unluckily I cannot keep it to myself. Today, then, this gray Sunday, a

calm day, a day of decline quite suited to the fall of leaves and the

emigration of souls, my busy life, heated with action, pauses to

recover its strength, and resume its confidential intercourse so long

interrupted; to give itself up to the genius of autumn and lend its

ear to the memories whose rustling we hear so distinctly on certain

days; and, all laden with impressions, reminiscences, and autumnal

melodies, to retire into some lonely corner far from chances of

interruption, and pour itself out to you. But I have left behind me

the mystery that I wish to unveil to you: _My busy life, heated with

action_. What! I a man of action! Some potent voice must have bade me

take up my bed and walk! The day after Paul left me I was to go to

Versailles, where I had reason to hope I could have a place as teacher

in an institution. I went to Versailles, and this was what I found:

four hours of teaching {697} every day, _des salles d'études_,

recreations, walks with the pupils, and a salary of 400 francs. The

position I had hoped for in the College Stanislas having failed me

also, there remained only my last plan, that of going to my cousin's.

But, as if to complete and crown the lesson that she was resolved to

give me, fortune decreed that my cousin should all of a sudden be

absolutely without scholars. Thus for a time was I trampled beneath

the feet of destiny. Then indeed I had time to write to you, I had a

superabundance of leisure. To punish me for my sins--me, so long a

rebel against the ancient condemnation to labor, God took from me the

possibility of doing anything. He turned aside and removed from my

reach all working tools at the moment when my hands were eager for

them. Leisure on every side, far stretching, never ending, condemned

to bury myself in unlimited leisure as in a doleful desert. Why did I

not write to you when my whole life lay before me at my own disposal?

My friend, I had nothing to tell but misfortunes, and my recital would

only have grieved you. I preferred waiting for the wind to blow away

these black days and clear my atmosphere. The tempest was short; the

sky of my little world is tinged anew in the east, and it is by the

light of its first gleams that I write to you. The professor of the

fifth class at Stanislas asked leave of absence for a month; I have

taken his place and shall have 100 francs for the work. I am looking

for private lessons and have found several. Classes and recitations

occupy my day from half-past seven in the morning until half-past nine

in the evening; I sleep at my cousin's, the college dinner serves me

for breakfast, and in the evening I get a dinner for twenty-four sous

like a _débutant_. Such has been my life for the last three weeks; a

sudden revolution in my existence, an abrupt transition from careless

revery to breathless action. An urgent pressure, a little reason, a

few grains of irritating self-love, supply fresh strength to my soul,

which is exhausted at the first tug. However, I must say that in the

deepest and most hidden recesses of my being, in the sanctuary of the

will, lives a resolution, that is, I believe, firm and steady, to

sacrifice half my existence to external things, in order to insure

repose to the inner man; and therefore I have decided to prepare

myself for the _agrégation_ (corresponds to the expression, master of

arts). I have explained to you the facts, accidents, and external

circumstances; let us go deeper. Latin, Greek, and all the bustle of

laborious life, absorb a certain portion of my thoughts; but it is

that floating and least, valuable portion which, without regret, I let

flutter in the wind like the fringe of a cloak. These are the waves

that break upon he beach; the sand drinks them in, men gather their

spoils, the sea tosses them to any one who wants them. Thus, as I tell

you, my mind near its shores is occupied by the cares and duties of

active life; but far out at sea nothing touches it, nothing passes

over it, nothing is lost from its waves, except by the continual

evaporation of my intelligence drawn up by some unknown star.

It will soon be a year since from the heights of Créhen I hailed Le

Val, lying all golden on the hillside beneath the beautiful autumn

sun. Dear anniversary, full of gentle melancholy like the season that

brings it. Every morning, on the way to college, I cross the Tuileries

where the ground is covered with the heaps of autumn leaves, the wind

sighs through the branches as in a desert, and, like the ring-doves

that build their nests in ancient chestnut-trees, a few of the poems

of solitude flutter about in these city groves. Sometimes the murmur

of a breeze among the boughs recalls to me the sound of the sea, and I

pause to possess myself of the delusion, and isolate myself with it

from the whole world: these are the waves, I am walking along the

shore with you, wandering over headlands in the evening twilight; I am

sitting on La {698} _Rôche-Alain_. Then when I feel the illusion is

fading away, I resume my walk, all full of emotion, all full of you,

and cry like the _Young Bard_: "Good God, give us back the sea!"

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN

TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, Dec. 5th, 1835.

Your impatience to know how I dispose of my time, and all the turnings

of the roads I am following, that you may go with me in thought,

roused in me a very delightful feeling, and one that does not easily

find expression in words. But your idea of my life is quite too

elevated; you attribute to it a dignity with which it is not invested

when you speak of my sufferings and the courage with which I bear

them. No, my dear Hippolyte, my lot is not so beautiful as you would

make it out. The difficulties of my life consist in a few material

fatigues, to which the body easily becomes hardened, even deriving a

certain strength from contending with them; and in the distaste for a

profession which is conquering my antipathy through the slow but

irresistible action of habit, which tames the wildest spirits, and

reduces them to complete submission almost without their knowledge,

everything becomes deadened, everything dissolves insensibly. The

firmest revolutions yield each day something to the progress of the

hours. All rebellions are absorbed again by degrees into the common

soul. All things lie upon a declivity which opposes itself to

continued ascent. I have chosen my course in life; I come and go in

the leading-strings of habit, keeping my mind in the middle of the

road, restraining it carefully from those thoughts that would draw it

aside, and mar the blessed monotony which lends something to the

pettiest existence. Being reduced to this state, I have no need of

courage. I required, of course, some resolution to arrive at it, but

it was not worth much and was borrowed from circumstances.

These are the principal features of my day: I set forth on foot at

seven o'clock to give a lesson in the neighborhood; then I go to the

College Stanislas; at the other end of Paris, and remain there until

six in the evening. That leaves me an hour and a half to dine and

retrace my steps again to the further extremity of Paris, where my

last lesson awaits me, which ends at half past eight. My liberty

claims possession of the night. Custom having worn away the asperities

of this life, only one defect remains, but a capital one; and that is

the difficulty of using the fragments of time that are left to me

after using the larger portions for studies that are to raise me above

my present condition. How to make the cares of self-subsistence agree

with these exacting labors seems to me an insoluble problem in Paris.

But time is so fertile in good advice, and sometimes unties knots so

easily that would have defied a sword, that I await its solution in

patience. You wish me to compose, to unveil the gifts which you think

I possess. My friend, why interrupt the course of a wise resolution

and mar a work that is so slow of formation and so costly? Let the

waters flow in their natural hidden course, following their tranquil

destinies in a narrow, nameless bed. My mind is a domestic animal, and

shuns adventure; that of the literary life is especially repugnant to

its humor, and excites its contempt, speaking without the least

self-sufficiency. I see delusion in the career, both in its essence

and in the prize we seek, charged often with the venom of a secret

ridicule. Looking at life with the naked eye, in the severe,

monotonous expanse she presents to some of us, seems to me more

conformable to the interest of the mind, and more in accordance with

the laws of wisdom, than unceasingly applying one's eyes to the prism

of art and poetry. Before I embrace art and poetry, I wish to have

them demonstrated with an eternal solemnity and certainty, like {699}

God. They are two doubtful phantoms, and wear a perfidious gravity

that conceals a mocking laugh. That laugh I will not bear.

MAURICE

TO MLLE. EUGÉNIE DE GUÉRIN.

PARIS, Feb. 9th, 1836.

I saw Madame ------ (name illegible) day before yesterday. She is to

leave Paris in a fortnight, and offered very obligingly to take charge

of my commissions to Gaillae. I shall profit by her kindness to send

you what you ask, the velvet neck-ribbons, the net for your hair (but,

pray, why have you adopted this very ugly coiffure?) and the albe that

Mimi asked me to send her. I hope the little articles I send will suit

you both and fulfil your expectations exactly. But why be afraid of

being indiscreet in drawing upon my purse a little? Think, dear

friends, that I am your treasurer here, and that I wish you to

consider me as such. If you had reminded me sooner of the cloaks, you

would have had them now. I would gladly have deferred getting one for

myself until next year, and should not now be regretting the fact that

my shoulders are well covered, while I know that cold and damp air are

penetrating to yours as you go to Andillac. I am quite provoked with

myself for not having thought of it. Am I not very ungracious, never

beforehand with any idea, but waiting to be urged out of what looks

like indifference? Are you annoyed with me for this, and could you

ever judge me by mere external signs? Never, I am sure. You have too

much penetration to deceive yourselves for a moment about my

affection, when it is most hidden or most ungainly.

I am glad to know that the union which has been so long uncertain is

at last secured. I have no doubt that all the conditions of happiness

will be found in it, if only health can be added to them.

The lime of papa's journey is drawing near. From a distance it is

difficult to judge his course correctly; the moment itself must have

arrived before one can appreciate it truly.

I am trying to find out at this moment what I may count upon in the

future for the accomplishment of my dearest hopes.

The last sentences in this letter refer to Guérin's marriage with

Mlle. de Gervain, which is so fully described in Eugénie's letters

from Paris that it needs no comment here. Then followed a few months

of tranquil success, a lingering illness at Le Cayla, a happy

death-bed; and our story ends, as all true stories must end, in a

graveyard. By the gateway of that old cemetery of Andillac, where

Eugénie sunned herself one day sitting on a tombstone, while waiting

for her turn to go to confession, is a white marble obelisk surmounted

by a cross. Caroline placed it there as her last gift to her husband,

and it bears these words:

Here rests my friend

Who was my husband

Only eight months. Farewell.

Pierre George Maurice

De Guérin du Cayla.

Born August 4th, 1810,

Died at Le Cayla

July 19th, 1839.

Close by stands the little church whose chief ornament is a delicately

wrought statue of the Blessed Virgin, presented by Queen Marie Amélie

at Eugénie's petition. The belfry is crumbling to decay, and the

tottering porch under which the dove of Le Cayla passed so often

appeals pitifully to those who have a zeal for the preservation of

God's house.

--------

A record has been made of Eugénie's daily life by one who had hourly

opportunities of watching her actions, and we cannot refrain from

laying it before our readers. Nothing concerning the sister of Maurice

can be inappropriate in an article devoted to him, and it will be well

to see how holy and regular a life may be led in the world without

singularity or narrowness.

{700}

"She rose at six in the morning when she was not ill. After dressing

she made a vocal or mental prayer, and never failed when she was in a

town to hear mass at the nearest altar. At Le Cayla, after saying her

morning prayer, she went into her father's room, either to wait upon

him, or to carry his breakfast in and read to him while he took it. At

nine o'clock she went back to her room and followed mass spiritually.

If her father was well and did not need her assistance, she occupied

herself with reading and writing or with sewing, of which she was very

fond (fairy in hands as she was in soul); or in superintending the

household, which she directed with exquisite taste and intelligence.

At noon she went to her room and said the Angelus; then came dinner.

When it was over, if the weather was good, she took a walk with her

father, or sometimes made a visit in a village if there was any

invalid to see or any afflicted person to console. If she resumed

reading on her return, she took up her knitting also and knitted while

she read, not admitting even the shadow of idle hours. At three she

went to her room, where she generally read the Visit to the Blessed

Sacrament by St. Alphonsus Liguori, or the life of that day's saint.

This ended, she wrote until five o'clock if her father did not call

her to be with him. At five she said her rosary and meditated until

supper time. At seven she talked with the rest of the family, but

never left off working. After supper she went into the kitchen for

evening prayers with the servants or to teach the catechism to some

little ignorant child, as often happened during the vineyard times.

The rest of the evening passed in working, and at ten o'clock she went

to bed, after reading the subject of meditation for the next day, in

order to sleep upon some good thought. And, finally, it should be

added that every month she prepared herself for death and chose some

saint whom she loved best that she might imitate his virtues. Every

week she went to communion, and even oftener during the last years of

her life, when her failing health would allow her to go to the church,

which was at some distance from Le Cayla."

The hour of release came at last for her too, after a lingering

illness of which we possess few details. After receiving the last

sacraments, she gave a key to her sister, saying: "In that drawer you

will find some papers which you will burn; they are all vanity." She

died in 1848 on the last day of the beautiful month of Mary, which she

and Mimin had always observed with such tender devotion in the

_chambrette_.

"All was ended now, the hope and the fear and the sorrow,

All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing,

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience."

The dear old father survived "his angel, his second self and much

more," only six months. Grembert died in 1850. Three graves now

surround Maurice's, and on one of them, which is already regarded with

veneration by the country people, is a wooden cross, bearing a

circular medallion that encloses a virginal crown with these few

words:

"Eugénie de Guérin, died May 31st, 1843."

"Soft as the opals of the east at dawn, and sad as the gleams that die

away so quickly in the twilight, she will be, for those who read her,

the Aurora of her brother's day; but an Aurora who has tears too! May

these tears fertilize the grave over which she wept, and make the

flower of glory spring up rarer than ever now for poets! The

materialism of our times has thickened the earth, so hard to break at

all times. We know there is a flower that pierces the snow, but one

that can penetrate the mind of an age devoted to matter is harder to

find." (Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly's unpublished notice of Mademoiselle

de Guérin.)

--------

{701}

From The Month.

SYRACUSE AND AETNA.

Tourists bent on the ascent of AEtna leave Catania at the end of the

long straight street which terminates in the Piazza Giorni. The ascent

begins at once. On both sides of the road luxuriant groves of orange,

citron, almond, and carouba trees alternate with vineyards and

cornfields rich in the promise of future crops. Yet all are growing on

the lava, and lava meets you at every turn: the walls, festooned with

the "Bourgainviller," the passion-flower, and beautiful yellow roses,

are still of lava; so are the pretty villas and the _riant_

farm-houses and the lodges in the vineyards--all are built of it. The

streets through the villages are paved with it. There is a sort of

allegorical beauty and poetical justice in the way in which the great

common enemy has been, as it were, conquered and subdued--at least for

a time--and forced to repair the terrible mischief it has wrought. As

the road ascends higher and higher, the vegetation diminishes, and you

come at last to a wild waste of rock sprinkled with broom and dwarf

oak. A twelve-miles' drive brought our travellers to Nicolosi, where

their first visit was paid to the kind old professor and geologist,

Dr. Gemmellaro, from whom every kind of assistance is obtained for the

ascent of the mountain, which is, as it were, both his child and his

home. He is a most good-natured and agreeable old man, whose whole

life has been devoted to this one great interest, and whose greatest

pleasure seems to be to make others share in the knowledge which he

himself possesses. His house a museum of curiosities, and contains a

carefully arranged collection of all the geological phenomena of the

mountain. Among other things, he showed the party a ptarmigan which

had been "caught sitting" by the lava stream, and had been instantly

petrified, like Lot's wife! the bird preserving its shape perfectly.

The village of Nicolosi is composed of low houses built up and down a

long straggling street, with a fine church in the centre. Horse-races

were going on the day of our travellers' arrival, and causing immense

excitement among the people, who were all in the street in holiday

attire. The horses ran, as at the carnival in the Corso, without

riders, and were excited to a pitch of madness by the shouts of their

starters and the _bandeleros_ stuck in their sides. After watching the

races for some little time, our travellers returned to the kind

professor's, who had seen the guides required for their ascent of

AEtna, but who advised them to delay their expedition for two or three

days to allow of a greater melting, of the snow, the season being

backward, and to procure the requisite number of mules for so large a

party. It was also necessary to send some one beforehand to clear out

the snow from the Casa Inglese, the small house of refuge which the

professor had built on the summit of the mountain, at the base of

the principal cone, and where travellers rest while waiting for the

sunrise, or before commencing the last portion of the ascent to the

crater. He is very anxious to have this house better built and

provided with more comforts, and tried to enlist the interest of our

travellers with the English Government in its behalf. Having arranged

everything with him, our party retraced their steps to Catania, having

decided to visit Syracuse first, and take AEtna on their return.

{702}

The following morning, consequently, at half-past three, they started

for Syracuse, so as to arrive there before the great heat of the day,

and also in time for mass. A long marshy plain occupied the whole of

the first stage; after which the road wound through limestone rocks

and rich cultivation, till they reached the picturesque village of

Lentini. The lake of Lentini is the largest in Sicily, famous for its

wild fowl, but also for its malaria. There is a beautiful view of the

little town, with its wooded cliffs and deep ravines, from the

Capuchin convent above. The scenery increases in beauty as you

approach Syracuse, the road descending into deep glens full of ilex,

myrtle, oleander, and a variety of aromatic shrubs, and rising again

over rocky hills scented with thyme and every kind of wild flower.

From hence comes the delicious Hybla honey, which rivals that of Mount

Hymettus. Over the wide downs which stretch seaward, the picturesque

town of Augusta was seen, perched on the edge of the broad sandy bay.

Our travellers had excellent horses; so that it was not more than

half-pas ten when they reached the gates of Syracuse and found

themselves in the comfortable little hotel near the port. One of the

party started off at once to find a mass; but the good people of

Syracuse are very early in their habits, and the lady wandered half

over the city before she found what she sought in the beautiful little

church of St. Philip, where there happened to be on that day the

exposition of the blessed sacrament, and in consequence masses all the

morning. On her return she found that the vicar-general had been

kindly sent by the archbishop to show her the curiosities of the

place. He first took them to the temple of Diana, now converted into a

private residence, and of which nothing remains to be seen but some

very ancient Doric columns. From thence they proceeded to the

world-famed fountain of Arethusa. The spring rises from an arch in the

rock, and is protected by a bastion, which defends it from the sea.

The papyrus grows here in great luxuriance, and the party gathered

some as a specimen, having first duly drank the anciently sacred

water. Resuming their carriages, their kind guide now conducted them

outside the town to the interesting church and crypt of San Marzian,

the first church of Sicily, built on the spot where St. Paul preached

during his three days' stay in Syracuse. It is a simple, massive

building, of the shape of a Greek cross, and contains the episcopal

chair of St. Marzian. Here also is the tomb of the saint, who was the

proto-martyr of Sicily. Near the tomb is the rude stone altar where

St. Paul said mass. A column of gray granite is shown as that to which

St. Marzian was attached for the scourging previous to his execution:

it is tinged with his blood. The crypt, however, is the most sacred

spot. Here came the apostles St. Peter and St. Paul, with the

evangelists St. Mark and St. Luke, on their successive visits to the

holy bishop, St. Marzian; where also the local tradition affirms that

St. Mark was martyred. The curious font now in the cathedral was found

in this crypt, and was probably used for the baptism of many of the

early Pagan converts. Adjoining is the place of St. Marzian's

martyrdom. The church itself is built over the site of an ancient

temple of Bacchus. Leading out of a side door is the entrance to the

catacombs, which are more extensive than even those of Naples or Rome,

and abound in Christian emblems: crosses, palm-branches, the dove, and

other Catholic symbols, are rudely carved on all the vaults and

niches, with here and there an early fresco of the Blessed Virgin and

Child, or a Greek inscription.

From the catacombs our travellers crossed the plain, thickly studded

with ancient columns, sarcophagi, and remains of Greek and Roman

buildings, till they came to the little church of St. Nicolo.

Underneath is a reservoir with an aqueduct, leading to the great

amphitheatre; the principal monument left of Roman work in Syracuse,

and {703} still in perfect preservation. Recent excavations have

cleared the space, so that the seats and arena are clearly visible.

From the amphitheatre, a five-minutes' walk leads to the Latomia del

Paradiso--a quarry containing in its further recesses the famous Ear

of Dionysius. This cavern was excavated by the tyrant for a prison,

and so constructed that the faintest whisper could be heard in the

chamber above, where he sat listening to the conversation of his

victims. It is to be supposed that the listener, according to the

proverb, rarely heard any good of himself. It is a wonderfully

picturesque spot; the sides of the quarry being lined with fruit-trees

and ferns and flowering shrubs, mingled with masses of fallen rock and

fragments of ancient masonry. Pistols were fired off by the guides to

let the party hear the full force of the echo, which is tremendous.

Round a deep spring at the further end of the cavern grew the most

beautiful maiden-hair fern. Close by is the Greek theatre, the largest

in Sicily, hollowed out of the rock, and capable of containing more

than 20,000 spectators.

Returning home to luncheon, the ladies visited on their way the

Sisters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul, who are lodged in one of

the fine old mediaeval palaces of Syracuse, with beautifully carved

windows and doorways. But it is very much out of repair, and very

inconvenient for their large orphanage. There are only six or seven

sisters here. Their superior is a charming person, and only another

proof, if one were needed in that wonderful religious order, of the

way in which energy, zeal, and, above all, a burning charity can

triumph over the sufferings entailed by a delicate frame and sickly

constitution.

After luncheon our travellers started again to meet Monsignor B------

at the cathedral. It is built on the site of an ancient temple of

Minerva, but has been ruined by modern church-wardenship and

whitewash. There are two fine side chapels, however; one dedicated to

the Blessed Sacrament, the other to St. Lucia, in which, is exposed a

large silver figure of the saint of great antiquity. The font, of

which notice has been taken above, is of marble, supported by seven

fine bronze lions. There is a beautiful renaissance doorway leading to

the sacristy. A beautiful benediction service with litany was being

sung; after which the relics and treasures were examined, which

include a beautiful chalice of amber, cut out of one piece, and a

pastoral ring of great size and value. In the Place, or court of the

cathedral, are fourteen fine columns of Cipollino marble, supposed to

have formed part of the ancient temple of Ceres. Opposite the north

door of the cathedral is the museum, containing all the antiquities

lately discovered in Syracuse and its neighborhood. The finest is a

beautiful torso, a Venus of the best date of Greek art. There are also

some very fine cameos and medals. The day was closed by a sweetly sung

benediction at the orphanage of the Sisters of Charity.

The next morning, after a daybreak mass at the cathedral, one of the

party breakfasted with the archbishop, who afterward showed her his

palace and gardens, which are very fine. In the latter grew the

largest citrons she had ever seen, very nearly equalling the gigantic

oranges at Jaffa. Adjoining his garden-wall is a convent of

Benedictine nuns, which was likewise visited. The good-natured prefect

then insisted on taking the whole party in his carriages to the

Franciscan convent of St. Lucia outside the town. There is an

interesting Norman church attached to it, raised over the site of the

saint's martyrdom; and a granite column is shown as that to which she

was fastened on the occasion. Her tomb is cut in the rock at the back

of the altar, underneath which is a fine statue of the saint by

Bernini.

From this spot a narrow lane, traversing vineyards fenced by stone

walls, leads to the convent of Sta. Maria di Gesù, in front of which

is a fine stone {704} cross. Passing by an aqueduct in very tolerable

preservation, and by a succession of old tombs cut in the cliff, our

party arrived at the Capuchin convent--a fortified building, with

fosse and drawbridge and machicolated battlements. A little gate at

the side led them into the Latomie, or quarries, from whence the stone

was taken to build the city. Here is one of the most beautiful spots

in the neighborhood of Syracuse. It is a vast pit, about a hundred

feet in depth; and of many acres in extent, planted with oranges,

citrons, pomegranates, figs, and cypresses, with an undergrowth of

roses, arums, acanthus, ferns, and creepers of every kind, and overrun

with ivy and wild vine. The whole is walled in by lofty gray cliffs

hung with creepers; and from the midst of this wilderness of beautiful

and almost rank vegetation rise two tall insulated masses of rock,

with an ancient flight of steps cut in the side of one of them, but

now inaccessible. The cliffs are hollowed into vast halls or caverns,

in one of which the prefect told our travellers that he had given a

_fête_ to Prince Alfred on his first visit to Syracuse. The kind old

monk who had been their escort brought them fruit, bread, and wine in

this deliciously cool retreat, and sat a long time talking of the Holy

Land, where he had been, and which he was delighted to find was

equally well known and appreciated by his guests. Here and there,

embedded in the rocks, are traces of ancient sepultures; and one or

two Protestant epitaphs on the cliffs prove that the quarries have,

even in late days, been used for purposes of burial. Leaving this

beautiful spot with great regret, and acceding to the request of the

good old monk that they would first pray with him for a few minutes in

the church for a blessing on the Holy Land Mission, our travellers

visited one or two more of the antiquities in the neighborhood,

including the recently excavated baths of Diana, full of beautiful

marbles and mosaics; the sepulchral road, the perpendicular sides of

which are lined, with niches for cinerary urns; the tombs of

Archimedes and Timoleon, and other interesting remains of Greek and

Roman times; after which they returned once more to the city and to

the museum, where the collection of natural history had yet to be

seen, which contains everything most interesting of the kind in

Sicily, and also the library. The latter contains priceless treasures,

of which the most remarkable are--a rare copy of the gospel of St.

John, of the twelfth century; a Koran on paper, of 1199, brought from

Egypt by Lord Nelson, and given by him to the Cavalier Landolina, who

was the real founder of the library; a very fine block-book, a replica

of one of those in the Wilton library; and many beautifully

illuminated martyrologies and missals.

Nothing can be kinder or more hospitable than the residents of

Syracuse. The visit of our travellers was necessarily too limited in

point of time to enable them to profit by it; but every one offered

their carriage and horses, and put their palaces, not figuratively,

but actually _à leur disposition_. There are still some beautiful

medieval palaces in the town, especially the Palazzo Montalto, with

its pointed windows and dog-tooth mouldings. It bears also some

curious Gothic inscriptions, like the houses at Avila, and with the

date 1397.

A charming boating excursion was made by one or two of the party from

Syracuse to the fountain of Cyane, up the river Anapus, the only spot

in Europe where the papyrus still grows wild. Nothing remains of the

temple of Jupiter Olympus, which one visits by the way, but two broken

columns. But there is a lovely sketch a little further on of a ruined

bridge, with a date-palm overhanging the stream, and a foreground of

magnificent tangled vegetation of reeds, sugar-cane, acanthus, iris,

and every kind of aquatic plants, and which the slow progress of one's

boat through the weeds enables one fully to enjoy. The Anapus {705}

leads into the Cyane, which is a far clearer stream, but very narrow.

Here the papyrus grows luxuriantly among flags and castor-oil plants.

It was sent from Egypt by Ptolemy to King Hieron II., and has

flourished ever since. Struggling up the narrow stream and through the

choking mass of vegetation, which threatened to close the passage

altogether, our travellers' boat at last arrived at a beautiful

circular basin, fringed with papyrus and purple iris; the water, very

deep, was clear as crystal, and swarming with fish. This was known in

old times as the famous "dark-blue spring," converted by heathen

mythology into a nymph; and an annual festival was held here in

honor of Ceres. Now it is utterly deserted, save by an occasional

traveller or sportsman seeking food for his gun from the

multitude of snipes and wild fowl which resort to its banks and

make their nests in its undisturbed arid reedy shores. That same

evening our travellers returned to Catania, charmed with their

expedition, and full of gratitude for all the kindness which had been

showered upon them.

The following morning found one of the party very early at the

convent of her old friends the Benedictines, where the superior

received her with his usual fatherly kindness, and presented her, as a

surprise, with the deed of affiliation to their order, which

he had obtained for her from Monte Casino; together with a picture

of the saint and the miraculous medal or cross of St. Benedict, with

its mysterious letters, _C.S.S.M.L._ (Crux sacra sit mihi lux), a

medal always given by St. Vincent de Paul to his Sisters of Charity,

as a defence in the many perils of their daily lives. Once more the

traveller heard that glorious music, which, beautiful at all times, is

so especially thrilling at the benediction service. The organ

begins with a low, sweet, wailing sound, which those beautiful and

cultivated voices respond: and then bursts into thunder, expressing,

as far as mortal instrument can, the glorious majesty of God. It was

the feast of St. Monica--that saint so dear to every widowed mother's

heart; and the fact, in connection with the English stranger, had not

been forgotten by the kind abbate, who came up and whispered to her as

she knelt before mass: "My child, the prayers and communions of the

community this day will be offered up for _you_, that you may follow

in the steps of St. Monica, and finally reap her reward."

Returning at seven to the hotel, the whole party started once more

for Nicolosi, on their way to undertake the more formidable ascent

of AEtna. Arriving, after a four hours' drive, at the house of their

old friend Professor Gemmellaro, they found he had kindly made every

arrangement for their start; and after about an hour's delay in

settling the pack-saddles, packing up provisions for the night, and

arranging everything with the guides, they mounted their mules and

began the ascent. For some miles they passed through a tract of lava,

sprinkled here and there with broom and heather, till they reached a

cattle-shed, called Casa di Rinazzi, where they came to a picturesque

wood of dwarf oak looking like the outskirts of an English park. From

thence to Casa del Bosco the road is both easy and pleasant, and our

travellers began to think that the difficulties of the ascent (to

people who had crossed, as they had done, the Lebanon in deep snow)

would be comparatively trifling. They soon, however, discovered their

mistake. At the Casa del Bosco they stopped to rest their mules and

make some tea, while the guides advised them to put on as much

additional clothing as they could for the coming cold. The peasants

were at work round them collecting the snow in reservoirs close to the

cavern called the Grotta delle Capre--that snow so invaluable to the

dwellers in the plain, and the sole substitute for ice to the

inhabitants of Catania.

{706}

But here the real toil of the ascent begins. It is only nine miles

from hence to the summit; but those nine miles are terribly severe,

not only from their steepness, but from the nature of the ground,

composed of a black loose ash, interspersed with sharply pointed lava

rocks, on which you tread and stumble, and seem to recede two steps

for every one you take. As you ascend higher the snow conceals the

inequalities of the ground, but does not make them the less fatiguing.

The cold, too, increases every instant, and our travellers regretted

that they had not followed their guides' advice and brought both

overstockings and gloves. After toiling up in this manner for two

hours, they came to a pile of lava which marks the distance halfway

between the Casa del Bosco and the Casa Inglese. The snow here

increased in depth--the rarefaction of the air became painfully

intense; while the clouds of sulphur from the eruption, which still

continued on the opposite side of the mountain, driven in their faces

by the wind, made some of the party so sick that they could scarcely

proceed. The cold, too, became well-nigh intolerable. The mule of one

of the ladies sank in a snowdrift, rolled and fell some way down the

precipice, compelling her to continue the journey on foot; but her

feet and hands were so numbed and so nearly on the verge of being

frostbitten, that it was with the utmost difficulty she could go on.

At last the Casa Inglese was reached. It is a low stone house, built

on what is called the Piano del Lago, a small ledge of frozen water,

10,000 feet above the sea. In spite of the orders of the professor, it

was still half full of snow when they arrived; and this had to be

cleared out, and made into what the children call "snow men," before

the frozen travellers could enter and endeavor to make a fire with the

wood they had brought with them. The guides cautioned those who were

still on their mules to descend very gently, as, in the semi-frozen

state they were in, the least, jerk or slip might occasion a broken

limb. One of the party was lifted off her horse at last and laid on

some rugs by the fire, which for a long time resisted all efforts to

light; and then her limbs had to be rubbed with snow to restore some

kind of animation. When this object was attained, the overpowering

smoke--for there was no chimney or fireplace--made the remedy almost

worse than the disease. All this time they had been well-nigh deafened

by the detonations from the mountain, which, at regular intervals,

sounded like artillery practice on a large scale. Everything they had

brought with them was frozen, including the milk they had got at

Nicolosi, and of which they were obliged to break the bottle before

they could melt any for their tea. After a time, the younger portion

of the travellers lay down to rest on some straw arranged in wooden

shelves or layers round the inner room, one at the top of the other,

after the manner of pears and apples in a kitchen-garden house in

England. A French geologist and two other professors had joined their

party, and of course had no other place to go to; but the appearance

of the company, roosting in this way on the shelves, was comical in

the extreme.

At three o'clock, however, every one rose, and commenced the ascent of

the cone, so as to reach the top by sunrise. The distance is short,

but intensely steep; it is like going up the side of a house; and the

difficulty is heightened by the loose ashes in which you sink at every

step, and the hot fumes of sulphurous vapor which pour out of the

sides of the cone. Only a portion of our travellers persevered to the

top; the others being reluctantly compelled by faintness and violent

sickness to retrace their steps. On reaching the crater, they at first

saw nothing but a deep yawning chasm, full of smoke, which kept

pouring out in their faces. The eruption, which one of the party had

{707} seen in perfection two months before, was some miles off, and

had burst out of a new crater on the Taormina side of the mountain.

But with the dawning light the whole magnificent scene was revealed to

them. It has been so admirably and accurately described by Mr.

Gladstone, that any attempt at a fresh description could be but a poor

repetition of his words. Sufficient, then, is it to say that the view

at sunrise repaid all the sufferings of the ascent. AEtna, unlike

other mountains, stands alone, rising straight from the plain, with no

rivals to dispute her height, or intercept any portion of the glorious

view below. The whole of Sicily is stretched out at your feet, the

hills below looking like the raised parts of a map for the blind. Not

only is the panorama unequalled in magnificence, but there are

atmospherical phenomena in it which belong to AEtna alone. As the sun

rises over the Calabrian coast, a perfect and distinct image of the

cone is reflected--as on the sheet of a magic-lantern--on the horizon

below, gradually sinking lower and lower as the sun becomes brighter,

and finally disappearing altogether. As it was early in the season,

the snow extended over the whole of the so-called desert region, while

the wood below seemed to encircle the mountain as with a green belt,

which added to the beautiful effect of the whole. Tired and exhausted,

and yet delighted, our travellers descended the cone, and rejoined

their companions at the Casa Inglese, who had been compelled to

content themselves with seeing the sun rise from a green hillock just

below the house. They determined on their way home to diverge a little

from the straight route, in order to visit the Val del Bove, that

weird and ghost-like chasm which had struck them so much when looking

down upon it from the height of the cone. Floundering in the snow,

which was a good deal deeper on that side of the mountain, their mules

continually sinking and struggling up again, breaking their

saddle-girths in the effort, and consequently landing their riders

continually on the soft snow, the party arrived at last on the edge of

this magnificent amphitheatre. It is of vast size, enclosed by

precipices 3,000 feet in height, and filled with gigantic rocks, of

wonderfully strange and fantastic shapes, standing out separately,

like beasts--hence its name. The perfect silence of the spot reminds

one of some Egyptian city of the dead. Smoke, explosion, dripping ice,

or rushing torrents characterize the other extinct craters in this

wonderful mountain; but in this one all is still and silent as the

grave. It is stern as the curse of Kehama, and as if the lava had been

cast up in these wonderful shapes in some extraordinary convulsion of

nature, and then had been petrified as it rose. Our travellers

lingered long, looking over the edge of the precipice, vainly wishing

to be able to descend into the enchanted valley, and at last

reluctantly turned their muels' heads in the direction of Nicolosi.

The descent was intensely fatiguing, from the continual jerking and

slipping of their beasts; and they arrived more dead than alive at the

kind professor's house, after being more than eight hours in the

saddle. A few hours later found them once more in the burning sunshine

of Catania, where the thermometer in the shade, was 86°, while it had

been 27° on the mountain, a difference in one day of 59° degrees of

temperature. But no difficulties should discourage the traveller from

attempting the ascent of AEtna, which is worth coming the whole way

from England for itself alone. A few days later saw our party on the

deck of the Vatican steamer, _en route_ for Naples, carrying away with

them recollections of enjoyment and kindness such as will ever

associate piety in their minds with pleasant thoughts and grateful

memories.

------------

{708}

From The Dublin University Magazine.

THE FIRST SIEGE OF LIMERICK.

JAMES'S FAREWELL.

The fight at the Boyne was over; the English, Dutch, Danish, and

French allies resting, or preparing to rest, as well as the ground

near the Pass of Duleek would allow, and their defeated but not

dispirited foemen marching wearily in the summer night toward Dublin.

James accompanied by Sarsfield's horse was already far in the van, and

in due time he reached the castle. We can scarcely fancy a more false

or uncomfortable position than that in which James now stood, when,

calling together his council, the lord mayor, and other notables, he

addressed them for the last time. An ill-disposed historian might have

invented this speech for him if no memory of the one really delivered

had survived. "My dear and loyal Irish subjects, I believe I ought not

to have risked the disastrous battle of yesterday against the advice

of my judicious officers. After the fighting was determined on, I

unhappily did much to discourage the undisciplined fellows who so well

exhibited their loyalty and bravery at the Boyne. We are beaten, I am

sorry to say, and I am getting away as fast as I can to place hundreds

of miles between myself and the cannons and muskets of my callous

relative. Make as good terms, my poor people, with William as he will

grant you. I. can do no more for you than leave you my blessing, to

which you are heartily welcome. Adieu!"

There is an ill-natured tradition still afloat that in his greeting to

Lady Tyrconnell he alluded to the agility of the Irish in running away

from the field, and was in return complimented by that lady for having

outstripped such very fleet runners. The anecdote bears every mark of

a lie about it. The orderly retreat at the Boyne was nothing like a

dastardly flight, and James's disposition would have been worse than

his ill-wishers have ever represented it, had he cracked that bitter

jest on his loyal supporters. We prefer the following sketch of the

final interview from the pen of a writer whose Williamite leanings,

though strong, are regulated by calm judgment and generous feelings:

"In the cold grey of the winter's morning it were hard to imagine a

drearier or less inviting spectacle than this group of loyalists

presented. While they were waiting thus, James, a man of punctuality

to the last, was employed in paying and discharging his menial

servants, previously to his taking final leave of his Irish capital.

At last however the door opened, and James followed by two or three

gentlemen and officers, including Colonel Luttrell who kept garrison

as governor of the city, entered the apartment. . . . There was that

in the fallen condition of the king, in the very magnitude of his

misfortunes, which lent a mournful dignity to his presence, and

which in spite of the petulance which occasionally broke from him,

impressed the few disappointed, and well-nigh ruined followers of

his cause who stood before him with feelings of melancholy respect.

"'Gentlemen,' said the king after a brief pause, 'it hath pleased the

Almighty Disposer of events to give the victory to our enemies. . . .

The enemy will be in possession of this city at least before many

days are passed. . . . Matters being so, we must needs shift for

ourselves as best we may. Above all we do command you, we do implore

of you, gentlemen, in your several stations, and principally you,

Colonel Luttrell, as governor of this our city, to prevent all undue

severities, all angry reprisals, all violences .... upon the

suspected within its walls. We do earnestly intreat of you all to

remember that this is our city, and they our subjects; protect it and

them as long as it shall seem wise to occupy this town for us. This

is our last command, our parting request.'"

{709}

The poor king was overcome during his speech by the part his own

daughters were acting in the bitter drama then in progress. However,

that does not excuse the reference to the want of capacity or courage

which he was pleased to discover among his Irish supporters. For from

the beginning they appeared more interested in his success than he did

himself.

WILLIAM IN DUBLIN.

But the speech came to an end, and the king departed, and conflicting

and varying hopes and fears agitated the citizens, as the Irish troops

marched in with drums beating and colors flying, and again quitted the

city, and proceeded to Limerick, and so on till the arrival of the

Duke of Ormond and the Dutch guards on Thursday.

The king rode in from the camp at Finglass on the next Sunday,

attended divine service in St. Patrick's cathedral, and returned to

the camp in time for dinner. On the 7th of the month he issued a

proclamation from which a few extracts are here presented:

"WILLIAM, R.

"As it hath pleased Almighty God to bless our arms in this kingdom

with a late victory, . . . . we hold it reasonable to think of

mercy, and to have compassion on those whom we judge to have been

seduced. Wherefore we do hereby declare, we shall take into our

royal protection all poor labourers, common souldiers, country

farmers, plough-men, and cottiers whatsoever: as also all citizens,

trades-men, towns-men, and artificers, who either remained at home,

or having fled from their dwellings, shall return by the first of

August. . . We do also promise to secure them in their goods, their

stocks of' cattel, and all their chattels personal whatever, willing

and requiring them to come in, . . and to preserve the harvest of

grass and corn for the supply of the winter."

Those who held from Protestant landlords were to pay their rent as

usual, but tenants of Roman Catholics should hand their money to

commissioners appointed to receive it. The term REBELS is applied in

the proclamation to all in arms for King James, a proof that privy

councillors dating from the royal camp at Finglass, 7th July, 1690,

were determined to hold the adherents of James sternly to their

constitutional position.

Devoted partisan as was our chaplain, [Footnote 200] he was sometimes

blessed with kindly feelings toward his master's foes. He thus

continues after copying the proclamation:

"This declaration was published in the camp two days after, and had

it been punctually observed according to the intent of it, we had

had fewer enemies at this day by at least 20,000. For though the

king was punctual in his observance of it, some officers and

soldiers were apt to neglect the king's honour, and the honour of

our country and religion, when it stood in competition with their

own profit and advantage."

[Footnote 200: Rev. George Story, chaplain in King William's army.]

DOUGLAS'S SLOW JOURNEY TO ATHLONE.

On the 9th of July, William divided his forces, sending one portion

under General L. G. Douglas to force the pass at Athlone, himself

conducting the rest toward Limerick. Douglas did not tire his soldiers

with rapid marches. The first night they bivouacked at Chapel

_Issard_, which place a citizen of Dublin will reach easily on foot in

an hour. The second night they encamped at _Manouth_ (May-nooth?), but

here we must quote our historian.

"Friday we encamped at _Glencurry_ (Clon-curry?) about five miles

further, and we had not got this length till we begun to plunder,

though the general gave strict orders to the contrary. Saturday the

12th, we marched to _Glenard_ (Clonard) bridge, and here we staid

all Sunday. The soldiers went abroad and took several things from

the Irish, who had staid upon the king's declaration, and frequent

complaints came already to the general'; but plundering went on

still, especially among the northern men who are very dexterous at

that sport. . . At _Mullingar_ several of the Irish came in for

protections, though when they had them they were of little force to

secure their goods or themselves.".

{710}

General Douglas and his soldiers arrived before Athlone, which our

authority locates fifty miles north of Dublin, though it happens to be

nearly due west, on the 17th, having marched out of Chapelizod on the

9th (six and a quarter miles per day). Not a whit fatigued or daunted,

they summoned stout old Colonel Grace to surrender. Story says he

fired a pistol at the herald, to show the value he set on his request.

We must pronounce the old warrior a recreant, unless the charge was

mere powder, or the muzzle pointed upward, which we opine was the

case. Colonel Grace expressed at the same time his determination to

eat his old boots rather than capitulate; hence the application of

_Boot-eater_ to stout defenders of fortresses. So besiegers and

besieged fired guns long and short, wide and small bores, at each

other till the 25th, when General Douglas, hearing that Sarsfield was

coming to the relief of the place, raised the siege, and marched

southward to meet the main army near Limerick. Mr. Story says that

about three or four hundred men were lost between Dublin and Limerick,

of which number thirty only were slain before Athlone, say three men

and three quarters of a man each day. Very indifferent gunners were

those behind the walls of Athlone if this statement be true, Our

observant author makes curious mistakes in topographical matters at

times. In this portion of' his narrative he mentions the Shannon as

falling into the sea beyond Knoc Patrick. Every child exercised on the

map of Ireland, is able to lay finger on Cnoc-Patrick in Mayo, seventy

miles or so north of the Shannon's mouth.

After laying the deaths of the three or four hundred men missing to

sickness, hard marching, six and a quarter miles per diem, surprises

by Rapparees, and sundry other disadvantages, he cracks a gentle joke

by way of cheering up his reader's spirits. "W e killed," says he,

"and took prisoners a great many thousands, but more of' these had had

four feet than two." Having brought this division of the army safe

through the "Golden Vale," let us see what the other portion under the

immediate attention of the king were about.

HOW WILLIAM ENFORCED DISCIPLINE:

On the 9th of the month, William encamped at Crumlin, and the next

night between the Ness [Footnote 201] and Rathcoole. It was well for

the inhabitants of the line of march that the king commanded in

person.

[Footnote 201: Naas was anciently the seat of the kings of North

Leinster. The word means a fair or a commemoration. Rathcoole

implies a lonely fortress.]

"Little hapned remarkable except the king's great care to keep the

souldiers from plundering, and every night it was given out in

orders that on pain of death no man should go beyond the line in the

camp, or take violently to the least value from Protestant or

Papist. The 11th the army marched to _Kill-Kullen_, Bridge, the king

this morning passing by the _Ness_ saw a souldier robbing a poor

woman, which enraged his majesty so much, that he beat him with his

cane, and gave orders that he and several others guilty of the like

disobedience should be executed on the Monday following. People were

so wicked as (to) put a bad construction on this action of the

king's, but it had so good an effect upon that part of the army,

that the country was secured from any violence done by the souldiers

during that whole march. Two of the sufferers were _Iniskillin_

dragoons."

Had General Douglas acted thus the worthy chaplain would not have had

to record so much cruelty and injustice inflicted upon the harmless

country people.

Story takes occasion, on Colonel Eppingar's proceeding with a party of

1,000 horse and dragoons [Footnote 202] to Wexford, to inform his

English readers about the people in the south of the county.