In Italy we have seen that poets were among the most eager aspirants for

recognition; but among the Greeks prose held public attention almost

exclusively, for a reason which we hope to make clear. The crowd rushed to

hear sophists and rhetors. Of historians there is no call to speak. The

name was claimed by some, but on weak pretensions. They babbled of military

art without understanding its first rules, and of geography while

transplanting towns and rivers from one country to another. They took

dragons stamped upon the Parthian standards for veritable dragons, of

monstrous dimensions, fastened to pikes and destined to be launched upon

the enemy, and to strangle and devour him. To give more credibility to

these accounts, they assure us that, perched upon a tree, they themselves

had seen the monsters and witnessed the frightful carnage. Elsewhere we

learn that a general slew twenty-seven Armenians by uttering one cry, or (a

statement no less remarkable) that, in a grand battle fought in Media, the

Romans had only two dead and nine wounded, while the enemy lost (observe

the exactness of the calculation) 70,236 men. [Footnote 78] And many more

such tales indulged in by Greek historians,

"Quidquid Graecia mendax

Audet in historia," (_Juvenal_,)

and detailed to credulous hearers. It is true that these authors of rare

imagination laid great stress upon fine language, if not upon veracity,

striving to gain distinction as polished writers. Lucian, however, who had

heard them, believed as little in their eloquence as in their truthfulness,

and laughed unmercifully at rhetors disguised as historians.

[Footnote 78: Lucian, "Of the Way to write History."]

On another point the Greeks differed from the Romans. With the exception of

these written recitations, they did not read their orations. While in Rome

we find public lectures, in Greece we have conferences or oral exercises.

The theme was no doubt contemplated in private, and ideas were brought

forward which habit had made familiar to the orator, but he spoke without

manuscript gaining in vivacity of delivery and gesture by this liberty of

action. Pliny complains of the inconvenience of reading an address: "Since

neither hand nor eye is free, on which a declaimer should especially rely,

what wonder that the attention wanders?" The Greek threw off all fetters,

and spoke at once to eye and ear; unlike the lecturer who read his address,

seated, in a voice whose inflections were monotonous in comparison to the

modulations we are now about to describe. Our actor, for the platform was

in fact a stage to him, was wont to call violent gesticulation to the aid

of speech. He paced up and down in agitation, smiting his thighs,

perspiring and panting. Again, if the subject demanded calmness and

tranquillity, his actions grew melodious as a song to charm the audience,

throwing into the sweet, harmonious language of Greece new suavity and

unknown grace.

{299}

When Adrian of Tyre spoke, it was like the warbling of a nightingale, and

even those who were ignorant of Greek came to listen. Herodias Atticus had

more variety of tone than flutes and lyres; and, supreme above all, Varus

possessed a voice so flexible that one could have danced to it, as to the

sound of musical instruments. [Footnote 79]

[Footnote 79: Lucian, Master of Rhetoric, 19, 20; Plutarch, How to

Listen, 7; Philostratus, Life of the Soph. II. v. 8; x, 8, xxviii.]

One can fancy with what facility the fervid Greek imagination lent itself

to this enthusiasm. The state of religious belief contributed to bring

spirits under the dominion of eloquence. The ancient faith was singularly

weakened among pagan nations; and the priests who offered sacrifice to the

deities of Olympus never dreamed of giving instruction to the people whom

they gathered together in the temples. Men feel the need of moral teaching,

however faulty may be their practice. They thirst for it, and seek it,

though perhaps not at its true source. If pure waters are denied them, they

draw from troubled streams. Preaching, which had been neglected by the

ministers of paganism, was taken up by sophists. One had but to show

himself abroad, manifesting a desire to speak, and straightway a circle

gathered about him. To a renowned orator who wished to be silent, the

privilege of silence was denied; speech was not his to refuse. As, for

example, when Dion Chrysostom came as a spectator to the Olympic games,

hardly was he recognized before they forced him to address them; when,

taking for his theme the god they celebrated, he discoursed upon the

attributes of Jupiter.

Another peculiarity of the time was that an emperor even did not disdain to

inculcate virtue in public, guided, we may boldly assert, by no impulse of

vanity, but by a more generous motive than that of exhibiting his

eloquence. Marcus Aurelius, for it is of him we are speaking, was going to

war with the Marcomanni. It was feared, and with too good cause, that he

might die on this expedition, and he was implored earnestly, and without

flattery, to address the people, and leave to them, by way of farewell, the

moral precept that had guided his own career. He consented, and for three

days in succession his people learned, from the imperial philosopher, duty

as he himself understood and practised it. A curious and touching spectacle

it must have been to see a sovereign regarding the instruction of his

subjects as one of the functions of royalty. In unveiling his great soul,

Marcus Aurelius revealed to his people the secret of an administration

judged previously only by its beneficial effects; and left to his

successors a model that was to find, alas! few imitators.[Footnote 80]

[Footnote 80: Vulcatius Gallicanus, Life of Aridius Cassius, 3.]

V.

In all ages, even the most degraded, a few souls have found a source of

happy inspiration in moral truth. Whether among such self-appointed guides

in spiritual matters there were many really worthy of their mission, we may

be permitted to doubt. The instance, Lucian (I do not speak of Christians,

whose veracity might be doubted), shows the conduct of these teachers of

virtue to have been little in accordance with their language. Morality was

in danger of being stricken with sterility under such tillage, but the

field remained fertile though ill cultivated.

What can eloquence accomplish if the matter itself of eloquence be wanting?

All cannot be orators for the choosing, nor even all who are endowed by

heaven with those precious gifts that make an orator. There must be great

interests to defend and great questions to debate. Place Demosthenes or

Mirabeau in a chair of rhetoric, and what would they do with their genius?

{300}

A time came when there was no call but for school harangues; when

professors trained their pupils in reading and speaking upon hackneyed

themes familiar to every classroom. That such exercises may be useful for

children of fifteen years of age, I will not deny; but here we have masters

of eloquence descanting upon these venerable subjects, and impersonating

Alexander or Themistocles, Miltiades, Menelaus, or Priam. They were

scholars whose schooling was never ended. Gray heads betokened no

emancipation from childish leading-strings, and death found them far

removed from the maturity of manly oratory.

Would you know the subjects that attracted a delighted audience? A

Lacedaemonian urging the Greeks to destroy trophies raised during the

Peloponnesian war; or a Scythian conjuring his countrymen to abandon the

life of cities for a wandering existence. One while we have Athenians

wounded in Sicily praying for death at the hands of their companions;

again, Demosthenes justifying himself against Demades for receiving Persian

gold; with a hundred such trite themes, preserved to us by the complaisant

biographers of the rhetors. It is unlucky that they have not transmitted

for our edification any of these marvellous harangues entire, but we know

enough of them to be sure that the style then in vogue was that sonorous

Asiatic eloquence, pompous and commonplace in tone, compared by Dionysius

of Halicarnassus to a courtesan entering an honest household to drive

thence the mother of the family. Demosthenes is not to be recognized in the

flowery declamation put into his mouth in common with other great

personages. There were usages of style and rhetorical receipts, adapted to

all circumstances, serviceable for none.

The glory of ancient Greece was another text on which rhetors loved to

exercise their skill. They consoled themselves for achieving no exploits by

celebrating those of their ancestors; boasting of victories only when the

day of victory was long gone by. One orator was pleasantly nicknamed

Marathon from his inability to pronounce any discourse without referring to

the warriors killed at Marathon. Platea, Salamis, and Mycale had become

rhetorical commonplaces. "Why," asks Plutarch sadly, "why recall triumphs

that serve only to inspire us with useless pride? We should propose only

imitable examples. Are we not like children walking about in their fathers'

shoes?"

The eulogium of a city, a god, or some grand personage afforded matter for

ample development. Socrates tells us that speech makes trifles important

and great things trifling. This false definition of eloquence was received

as a precept, as an axiom. Panegyrists no longer confined their

commendation to heroes and great men, but pleaded the cause of the tyrant

Phalaris or the cowardly Thersites. One vaunted the merits of long hair,

another of bald heads. The praises were sung of parasites, parrots, gnats,

and fleas. "_In tenui labor_," said Virgil, when about to sing of

bees; but he could add, "_at tenuis, non gloria;_" for who can help

admiring the labors of these intelligent republicans? The rhetor promised

himself no less glory in celebrating the almost invisible wonders of the

flea. This kind of discourse received a name which may be translated

"paradoxical or unsustainable causes." Yet, strange to say, clever men did

not disapprove of such topics. Aulus Gellius considers them suited to

awaken talent, to sharpen wit, and inure it to difficulties. [Footnote 81]

[Footnote 81: Lucian, Phalaris, The Gnat; Dion Chrysostom,

_passim_; Plutarch, Art of Listening, 13; Synesius, Praise of

Baldness; Aulus Geilius, xvii. 12.]

To bring something out of nothing is a success of which one may justly be

proud. But rhetors, like conquerors, possessed an insatiable ambition. They

wished to astonish the world with new feats of prowess, and possibility has

no limits for adventurous and valiant spirits.

{301}

To speak without preparation, sagely, long-windedly, without error or

hesitation, being the noblest triumph attainable by man, improvisation

became the exercise _par excellence_. [Footnote 82] There stood the

orator, erect and tranquil, sure of himself and of his powers, waiting

until the audience should throw him the text selected for his dissertation.

The word given, he plunged into the discourse; words flowed in a

self-supplying stream, pure and abundant; and periods unrolled themselves

with admirable facility. No obstacle was insuperable; the stream flowed on

and on, straying perchance into side channels here and there; but the

listener followed its wanderings contentedly, for the paths were flowery

and came quickly to a termination. Phrases ready for all times, and served

up on all occasions, with a facility that knew neither pause nor

obstruction--such was the supreme merit or the age. But if we may believe

certain cavillers, it often sufficed to bring to the work audacity, to push

on boldly, careless of ideas, prompt in the creation of new and odd

expressions, regardless of solecisms, and anxious to avoid but one

thing--silence. [Footnote 83] To acquire this noble art, one needed little

study. Ignorance was no longer an obstacle, for it gave greater intrepidity

and audacity. "Would you have your son a good orator," says an epigram of

the Anthology, "do not let him learn his letters." [Footnote 84]

[Footnote 82: Pliny peaks admiringly of one Isaeus, and improvisatore.

But it was an exception in Rome. Lett. ii. 8.]

[Footnote 83: Lucian, Master of Rhetoric, 18.]

[Footnote 84: Anthology, vi. 152.]

We feel far removed from the time when Demosthenes thought it no blot on

his glory that his orations smelt of the oil! Greece has ever loved words.

Take away her eloquence, and she remains gossiping and loquacious. If I may

be allowed the comparison, she is like the princess in the fairy story,

dropping pearls from her lips. The true pearls being exhausted, only waxen

pearls remained.

And now, having proved an absence of apparent labor to be a condition of

success in these exhibitions, we can understand why poets did not resort

thither for the recitation of their works. Improvisations in verse had not

then been invented, but the enthusiasm they would have excited one may

easily fancy.

Spoiled by public favor, these fluent geniuses could not fail to hold their

own merits in high estimation. We will not take literally Lucian's

assertion that they set themselves above Demosthenes: "Who was your orator

of Paeania compared to me? Must I conquer all the ancients one by one?"

[Footnote 85] But they frequently speak in magnificent terms of their own

talents, elated at the tricks of the tongue so thoroughly mastered. Praise

them as one would, their self-praise was louder still. The sophists hid

their vanity more skillfully perhaps, affecting sober vestments and an air

of austerity, but it was merely a stage trick suited to the character to be

sustained. Sometimes, in order to produce a better effect on their hearers,

they appeared clad in the skins of wild beasts, with hair and beard

dishevelled, or wearing simply an old tunic and carrying a wallet and

staff. [Footnote 86] The rhetor was more dainty in his toilette; his

garments were of a white stuff woven with flowers, brought from the looms

of Tarentum, and so fine in texture as to show the outlines of the form

through its gauzy tissue. He wore Attic sandals like those of women,

covered here and there, or a Sicyonian buskin decorated with white fringe.

He did not disdain those external signs of luxury that betoken rank; and

went from town to town followed by numerous servants leading horses and

packs of hounds. One in particular drove a chariot with silvered reins,

and, passing lingeringly along the ranks of spectators on his way to the

chair, allowed them to contemplate his gorgeous robe covered with diamonds.

[Footnote 87]

[Footnote 85: Lucian, Master of Rhetoric, 21.]

[Footnote 86: Lucian, Peregrinus, Eunapius, Prohaeresius.]

[Footnote 87: Philostratus, Life of the Sophists, I. xxv. 4; II. x. 4.]

{302}

Philostratus, the biographer and fervent admirer of the sophists, remarks

concerning one among them (the only one to whom he accords the praise) that

he was always modest, and never spoke boastingly of himself. The vanity of

many of them was simply ludicrous. Philagrius, newly arrived in Athens, was

indignant because a young man had ventured to ask his name, and shuddered

at the idea of meeting an individual unacquainted with Philagrius. In an

assembly he let fall an expression that shocked the ear of a purist. "Who

authorizes the use of that word?" asked the critic. "Philagrius," was the

haughty answer. Words sufficed that day to express his sentiments, but it

was not always so. One day an auditor presumed to fall asleep, an act of

irreverence soon detected by the orator. He paused, stupefied to perceive

that the audience were not all ears to hear him. Then, eager to avenge the

wound inflicted on literature in his person, he descended from the stage,

approached the unhappy sleeper, and roused him with a vigorous cuff. This

severe but merited reproof was not without a certain eloquence; and we

imagine that never again was anyone caught napping during the discourses of

the irascible Philagrius. [Footnote 88]

[Footnote 88: Philostratus, Life of Soph. II. viii. 1; xxvii. 3.]

A Phoenician rhetorician arrived in Attica. "With me," he explained to his

audience, "literature comes to you a second time from Phoenicia." Polemon,

the Carian, speaking for the first time in Athens, opened his address thus:

"Athenians, you are said to be good judges. I shall ascertain the truth of

the report by your manner of receiving my discourse." Forewarned is

forearmed. The audience were to applaud Polemon under pain of appearing

dull in Polemon's eyes. His genius, according to his own estimate, placed

him above the rank of kingdoms, on a level with kings and even with gods.

And as a great man must die after a fashion of his own, he had himself

buried alive, in his old age, lest years should impair his success. Hie

weeping friends delayed to seal the stone over the cavern. "Close the

tomb," he called out from below--"Close the tomb. Let it not be said that

the sun beheld Polemon silent." [Footnote 89]

[Footnote 89: Philostratus, Life of the Sophists,

I. xxv, 9, 27; II. x. 4.]

VI.

Did worshippers so convinced of their own merit recognize and honor the

gifts of others? We shall see that they could mutually esteem and praise

each other. Herodius Atticus had been declaiming at the Olympic games: "You

are a second Demosthenes," he was told. "I would rather be a second

Polemon," was the reply. An odd desire, and one that showed the bad taste

of that day; but it expressed homage to a rival. Herodius in his turn saw

his superiority recognized in the exclamation of another rhetor: "We are

small change (_menue monnaie_) beside you." [Footnote 90] But these

instances of modesty are rare. They were usually indisposed to yield the

palm of eloquence so generously. Jealous one of another, they regarded all

praise not personal to themselves as so much stolen from them. Their

self-esteem was equalled only by their disdain of all rivals. Lucian gives

a recipe of a method often employed to injure a rival. "Ridicule every

other orator. Has he talent? Affect to believe that the sentiments are not

his own; that he decks himself in borrowed spoils. Is he commonplace? Think

him odious. Come late to his exhibitions. It will make you conspicuous.

Choose a moment of silence to utter a eulogium in singular language,

calculated to distract and startle the audience. Your exaggerated praises

will disgust them with the object of your praise and make them stop their

ears. Almost invariably smile scornfully, and never appear pleased with

what is said." [Footnote 91]

[Footnote 90: Ibid. I. xxv. 17; II. v.8.]

[Footnote 91: Lucian, Master of Rhetoric, 22.]

Meantime the orator, seeing his success threatened, was wont to meet the

skilful attack with a defence no less skilful. He managed his resources

prudently, gathering about him devoted friends to assist in the manoeuvres.

{303}

Under all circumstances he must count upon these faithful satellites.

Marcus Aurelius was to attend the exercises of Aristides. "Will you let me

bring my disciples?" asked the prudent rhetor. "Certainly," said the

emperor, "if it is customary." "And will you allow them to shout and

applaud with all their might?" added Aristides ingenuously. "Oh!

certainly," replied Marcus Aurelius, laughing, "that depends entirely upon

yourself." When the master spoke, the scholars must stamp enthusiastically.

If he were about to fail, they must reach out a helping hand, and give him

by applause the time to recover his self-possession.

Happy he who could count among his admirers some high and puissant

celebrity; for who can fail to discern the grandeur of an oration stamped

with the approbation of an imposing authority? When Heliodorus declaimed,

the emperor, holding him in great affection (who was that emperor, by the

way? The historian does not tell us, but no matter!), regarded with an air

of irritation anyone disinclined to applaud the speaker. And the laggards

took the hint, we may be sure, and adapted their impressions thenceforth to

the emotions of royalty. [Footnote 92]

[Footnote 92: Philostratus, Life of Soph. II. xxxii. 3]

But when an orator had reached the highest rank in the city, it is not to

be supposed that his reign was free from rivalry. Combatants came from a

distance to compete with him. Many lecturers, and by no means the least

brilliant, have a taste for travelling, and would extend their reputation

in any direction where there are ears to listen to them. Knights errant of

the rhetorical art wandered from province to province, seeking adversaries

and flinging challenges as they went. If victories heralded their approach,

the crowd ran to greet them, and the most illustrious citizens met them at

the city gates.

Conceive the uneasiness and agitation of the unlucky sophist or rhetor thus

disturbed in the possession of his glory. He had labored long to attain the

position of eminence, now threatened by the approaching aspirant. O

nothingness of glory! A single day might suffice to destroy the edifice of

many years. What was to be done? To refuse the challenge was to declare

himself vanquished. Rather death than such humiliation!

Death might follow a similar struggle. Niger, the famous declaimer, had

swallowed a fishbone which stuck in his throat. There came a stranger to

pronounce a public harangue, and Niger, fearing that his silence might be

construed into a desire to fly from the lists, declaimed in his turn, with

the fishbone still in his throat. The effort caused an inflammation so

violent as to result in his death.[Footnote 93]

[Footnote 93: Plutarch, Precepts of Health, 16.]

The time having arrived for the new speaker to be heard, he opened his

address with a eulogium of the audience, as the exordium best calculated to

ensure success. "In this place one should bend the knee," [Footnote 94]

cried one of these orators, as if struck with a religious awe of the city

where he was to speak. We have two declamations of Lucian's that give a

good idea of the precautions peculiar to the trade. "The chosen of every

city are before me, the flower of Macedonia. This assemblage consists not

of an ignorant rabble, but of orators, historians, and sophists of the

highest distinction." This satirical Lucian was not sparing of compliments

to his Macedonian public; what was left for the Athenians? "I have long

desired an audience such as this. What approbation could I look for after

passing through your city without obtaining a hearing?" Then follows the

panegyric of the city, endowed not only with especial magnificence, but

with more men of power and talent than fell to the lot of any other city.

He exalts their benevolence and affability, and likens himself to the

Scythian Anacharsis, so fascinated with the charms of Athens as to be

unable to tear himself away.[Footnote 95]

[Footnote 94: Philostratus, Life of Soph. II. v. 3.]

[Footnote 95: Herodotus, 8, The Scyth, 10, 11,]

{304}

I spoke just now of knights errant. Do you remember in accounts of the

tournament the disguised cavalier who enters the lists and is recognized by

the weight of his blows? The champions of rhetoric were sometimes the

heroes of similar adventures.

Hippodromus of Larissa landed at Smyrna, and, following the crowd, entered

a hall where one Megistias had drawn together an audience. Hippodromus was

in travelling gear. Approaching Megistias, he said: "Change clothes with

me. Lend me your mantle for a moment." The other looked at him to see if he

might be a maniac; but the exchange was made. "And now give me a subject of

declamation," continued Hippodromus. They gave him one, which he treated so

skilfully that Megistias exclaimed with surprise: "But who are you?" "I am

Hippodromus the Thessalian." In a few moments the report of the illustrious

rhetor's arrival had spread through the town, and the whole population

rushed to see and hear him. [Footnote 96]

[Footnote 96: Philostratus, Life of the Sophists, I. xxiv.4.]

Again the challenger would be some great celebrity. Anatolius, prefect of

the praetorium, and gifted with remarkable eloquence, announced his speedy

arrival at Athens, challenging all speech-makers to an encounter, and

proposing one of the most difficult questions capable of discussion by

trained intelligences. Great agitation ensued. Anatolius was a formidable

judge, both by his science and by his exalted position in the state.

Eunapus tells us that Greece trembled more on that occasion than at the

approach of the Persians. He was Prohaeresius, the great Prohaeresius,

victor in every battle, to whom Rome was to erect a statue bearing the

inscription: _Rome, queen of the world, to Prohaeresius, king of

eloquence._ The Greeks decreed even a grander title to him. He was no

mere mortal; he was Mercury disguised in human form. One day when he had

finished speaking, the people gathered round him and kissed his hands and

feet, nay, licked his breast, as if he had been in very deed a god. And

would you know by what manifestation of power he had deserved this

idolatry? After improvising a long discourse, he had forthwith repeated it

word for word, without missing a single syllable. The prodigy could not be

denied, for reporters had been provided for the occasion, who had noted

down every expression. [Footnote 97]

[Footnote 97: Eunapus, Prohaeresius.]

These transports on the part of the public, these passionate

demonstrations, bordering sometimes on delirium, are so foreign to our

habits that we should be inclined to suspect exaggeration in the recital of

Eunapus, if many other authorities did not testify also to the ecstasies

excited in the populace by eloquence. Habits of mind are, perhaps, harder

to eradicate than those of the soul, and Christianity succeeded in

introducing austere ideas in the spiritual life without immediately curing

this excessive love of eloquence. Applause was heard sometimes in churches,

and St. John Chrysostom had to impose silence more than once upon his

hearers, who clapped him, forgetful of the sanctity of the place in their

enthusiasm for the orator.

We have seen the bright side of the subject, but every medal has two sides.

Without speaking of the jealousies and enmities inherent to the profession,

can one be sure of being equal to one's self every day and all day? You

appear before an imposing assembly; all eyes are fixed upon you. Let

emotion seize you, a little lapse of memory, a slight absence of mind, and

you are lost. The thought is enough to intimidate the most intrepid rhetor.

And it was a misfortune not without example. Herodius Atticus, on one

occasion, stopped short in the presence of the emperor, and thought for an

instant of drowning himself in the Ister.

{305}

A similar accident happened to Heraclides, who took the accident more

philosophically, and sought consolation for his disgrace in abusing

improvisation, and composing a work in praise of labor. [Footnote 98]

[Footnote 98: Philostratus, Life of Soph. II. i. 36; xxvi. 3, 5. Here

belongs an anecdote showing the pleasure taken by rhetors in insulting

each other. Heraclides sent his Panegyric of Labor (Greek text) to one

Ptolemaeus, and adept in improvisation. Ptolemaeus returned it to him,

after erasing the first letter, so that the title stood, "Panegyric of

an Ass." The biographer does not mention that Heraclides found the

epigram to his taste.]

And who can count on the good nature of his audience? Listeners have a

certain malice of their own at times, as Philagrius once discovered to his

cost. He had composed a discourse in Asia, and learned it by heart. On

arriving in Athens, he presented himself before the amateurs and burst

forth into improvisation. By a wonderful coincidence, they had given him

precisely the subject which he had so carefully treated. Philagrius, sure

of his ground, began boldly, and wandered on like one led by the moment's

inspiration. He grew diffusive and pathetic; but, strange to relate, as the

discourse proceeded, the audience gave evidence of merriment, first by

subdued tittering, finally by uproarious bursts of laughter. Philagrius

paused in wrath and amazement. To calm this excitement, his hearers

produced a copy of the address which he had repeated without altering a

single word. Philagrius had been caught in a trap.[Footnote 99]

[Footnote 99: Philostratus, Life of Soph. II. viii. 3.]

The abuse of this false eloquence could not fail in the end to produce

disgust. Serious men began to ask themselves if these brilliant exercises

were true oratorical art or merely a vain tissue of words. A few even of

those who had yielded to the fascination began to look pityingly on

declaimers. Lucian lavished satire upon them, but the trade was still

prosperous in his day. Synesius, coming later, spared them as little. From

him we learn their misery as well as their presumption. We see that the

palmy days of the profession had passed away.

"I will not wander from door to door, attracting the townspeople with the

promise of a charming speech. O sad profession! Speaking for the crowd;

attempting the impossible in trying to please so many different minds! The

stage orator, no longer belonging to himself, is in truth a slave to the

public, subject to the caprice of every individual. If an auditor begins to

laugh, the sophist is lost. He dreads a morose visage; too close attention

seems to him to imply criticism, a restless turning of the head to signify

weariness. And yet he surely merits indulgent masters who sacrifices sleep

at night, spends his days in toil, consuming himself, as it were, with

hunger and fatigue, in order to compose a fine address. He comes before the

disdainful crowd to charm their ears, concealing his indisposition with an

affectation of health. Having bathed the day before, he presents himself to

the public at the appointed time, blooming, dimpling, displaying every

grace. He turns to the audience, wreathed in smiles, joyous in appearance,

but torn with secret pangs. He chews gum to make his voice clear and

strong, for even the most serious sophist lays great stress upon a fine

voice, and lavishes upon it much ill-concealed care. In the middle of the

oration, he pauses to ask for a beverage, previously prepared. A servant

offers it, and he drinks, moistening his throat, the better to pronounce

his melodious sentences. But the poor wretch cannot with all this gain the

good will of his hearers. The audience await the final clause impatiently,

that they may laugh in liberty. They would gladly see him with

out-stretched arm and parted lips, preserving the attitude and silence of a

statue: then, when worn out with weariness, they could escape." [Footnote

100]

[Footnote 100: Synesius, Dion]

But of all the perils that menaced their very existence, sophists and

rhetoricians had most cause to dread the growing strength of Christianity.

The new religion proposed to its disciples, as the aim of life, an object

far more elevated than the pleasures of eloquence. It was no longer a

question of noble words, but of noble actions.

{306}

What were intellectual satisfactions in comparison to the joys of

conscience? The Christian sought the eloquence that should teach him his

duties, and the sophist with uncertain and contradictory answers was no

longer an authority. He must appeal to the priest for precepts of

unfailing, unchanging wisdom. Let some solitary, in repute for sanctity and

for familiarity with the things of God, leave his desert for a moment to

mingle among men, and the crowd rushed to greet him. St. John Chrysostom

proudly contrasts the entrance of a monk with that of a sophist. A few days

more, and the revolution was consummated. Sophists saw no one following

them, while the troop of the faithful, that is to say, the entire nation,

pressed upon the steps of the humble monk. A preacher of the gospel, even

if recommended only by soundness of doctrine and morality, was sure of

seeing listeners seated at the foot of the pulpit. But preachers who think

only of the triumph of the faith attain the true glory of oratory, that of

arousing emotion. Not only may a great thought come from the heart, but the

expression with which it is given forth. Why listen to elegant but empty

amplifications in schools, when in a neighboring basilica one could enjoy a

magnificent oration, whose brilliancy should remain untarnished through

fifteen centuries? No rhetor, but a young priest from Antioch, received

from contemporary admirers as well as from posterity the glorious name of

Chrysostom--Golden Mouth. The church is fertile in orators as in martyrs.

Christianity did not smother eloquence. She assigned to it new destinies;

regenerating, or rather (for it existed no longer) resuscitating it.

VII.

And now we ask ourselves, what good and what evil these exercises have

done? The mischief is not far to seek. It is exhibited in every page of the

present article. Invented by vanity, these literary and philosophical

exhibitions had seldom any better object than the satisfaction of vanity;

hence their vitality and duration, but also their sterility.

But does this imply that they answered no useful end? By no means. I do not

believe with Ovid, a great amateur of public lectures, as it appears

(perhaps he used them himself), that they excite poetic genius. [Footnote

101] His contemporaries Horace and Virgil had no need of the stimulant of

public praise in the composition of their masterpieces. Pliny saw another

advantage in lectures, as giving a writer the opportunity to consult the

public, and to invite criticism with the view of correcting defects.

[Footnote 102] But an audience thus convoked is no severe and judicious

Aristarchus, overlooking no defect, [Footnote 103] but forever crying

"Correct." It is there to approve, and any lack of commendation is

generally criticised by the author as a want of good manners. Pliny's

friends applauded him, and Pliny, with singular simplicity, confessed

himself charmed with their good taste. [Footnote 104] What is he thinking

of when he speaks of the free judgment of auditors, and yet complains of

those who deny him applause? In fact, he says, whether you are the

inferior, equal, or superior of the lecturer, you have an interest in

praising him whom you surpass or who equals or surpasses you. Your

superior, because you merit no praise if he deserves none; your equal or

inferior, because the glory lavished upon him tends to raise your

reputation. With this convenient theory criticism loses its rights. We need

not wonder that Lucan, [Footnote 105] whose brilliant defects are easily

pardoned, allowed himself to be elated by the boisterous applause accorded

to his Pharsalia; or that, comparing his age and _débuts_ with those

of Virgil, be exclaimed! "My friends, am I so far behind the great?"

[Footnote 106] Seneca wisely decided that nothing had injured literature so

much as popular acclamations. [Footnote 107]

[Footnote 101: Pont. iv. 2.]

[Footnote 102: Letters, v, 3; vii. 17.]

[Footnote 103: Horace, Poetic Art, 445.]

[Footnote 104: Letters, iii. 18.]

[Footnote 105: Letters, vi. 17.]

[Footnote 106: Saetonius, Lucan.]

[Footnote 107: Letters, 102.]

{307}

Far from thinking, as Pliny does, the system of lectures a finishing

school, I believe the author to be confirmed in his defects by applause and

adulation. But I agree with Pliny as to the efficiency of these assemblies

in preserving and propagating a taste for intellectual things. Mental

labor, even when bestowed on trivial matters, is of use in fostering

intelligence. Rhetors and sophists were generally inferior orators and

philosophers, but they deserve our thanks for their fidelity to study and

to the preservation of literary traditions. But for them the maturity of

Christian eloquence might have been long delayed. We must remember that

Basil, Gregory, Chrysostom, Augustine, and Ambrose had passed through their

schools before entering the church. The disciples effaced their masters,

while profiting by lessons received from them.

And, turning to a different view of the subject, it is no matter of

indifference to continue beyond the usual period assigned to serious labors

one's devotion to literature, so softening and humanizing in its influence

on the heart. This especially applies to a nation, unprovided by religion

or morality with any remedy against evil instincts. To write little verses

and polish periods is no great affair, I confess; but it is better than

wallowing in low and sometimes cruel sensuality, like the rabble. In point

of religious and moral convictions, the Greeks had fallen to a level with

the Romans. But one thing elevated them: an untiring love of poetry,

eloquence, and philosophy. In default of the reality, they pursued its

shadow. Ixion, so say their mythologists, embraced only the phantom of

Juno. True; but, while striving to win this phantom, he had not stooped to

base and ignoble loves. The astute and polished Greek avoided that

barbarism which engulfed the coarse, unlettered Roman.

We must not forget that Christian preaching has been served to a limited

extent, but yet effectively, by habits introduced by sophists. The first

comers freely explained their doctrines in public places without exciting

surprise. Every system received a hearing. Stoics, epicureans, and cynics

all sought to win converts to their various theories. Beneath the mantle of

philosophy, the Christian could mingle with the crowd, and, while teaching

a morality hitherto unknown, prepare the way for novel doctrines. When St.

Paul arrived in Athens, that city where all men, strangers or citizens,

were occupied only with hearing or uttering something new, [Footnote 108]

the multitude at first mistook the apostle for some wandering sophist, and

lent him an attentive ear so long as he did not openly shock their

preconceived ideas. Peregrinus, whose life and death Lucian gives us,

became a cynic after having been a Christian, and continued to address the

people. Lucian does not clearly mark the change nor the distinction between

the two systems of instruction, which seem to him equally strange. A

similar confusion must have often arisen, not in the minds of Christians

turned philosophers (there were fewer apostasies than conversions), but of

philosophers who became Christians.

[Footnote 108: Acts of the Apostles, xvii. 21.]

Our study is ended. I had merely thought of writing a chapter on literary

history, without seeking in the past an attack or a defence of the present.

It is difficult to compare two periods justly. Our lectures and conferences

differ in many respects from those in vogue among the ancients, but who can

deny the various points of resemblance? If we wish, as everyone indeed must

wish, to secure a durable and legitimate success to the system, we must

remember it is not established merely for the recreation and diversion of

the public, like the theatre or the concert-room, but also and above all

for their instruction. It is a question of education.

{308}

I would have the lecture, whether literary or scientific, given in an

attractive style, not after the severe, didactic fashion or a _cours de

faculté;_ but it should be distinctly a lecture, so that the hearer may

carry away with him some profitable ideas with the memory of an agreeable

hour. In my humble opinion, it is only on these conditions that the system

of public conferences will obtain not merely a passing popularity, but

freedom of the city. If this be true, are we to encourage authors to read

their unpublished works, poems, dramas, odes, romances, or what not? In

these days there are other roads to publicity, and it is not by a single

hearing that intellectual works are to be judged. Still less must it be

allowed (for even improbabilities should be anticipated) that an author,

speculating in fame, should announce his arrival on such a day and hour:

"To speak about what? I have not the least idea, but no matter! I shall

speak, and you will have seen and heard me." A mere matter of curiosity,

making one think of the tight rope.

Another danger is, that conferences may become a sort of intellectual

gymnasium, only good for the development of suppleness and agility of mind.

Hitherto, in running over the lists of subjects under discussion, we have

met none of the frivolous and insignificant themes that rhetors revelled in

handling. The titles at least announce a serious purpose. We should be glad

to attribute the merit of this to the wisdom of the choosers, but the

thought suggests itself that the administrative control may deserve part of

the praise. It is well known that no one can deliver lectures without

especial permission, and a especial approval of the subject of his address.

It is also well known that certain orators find it impossible to obtain

this permission. Whether this exercise of authority has inconveniences as

well as advantages is a question we will not here investigate. But there is

one among the conditions imposed on public lectures that must suit every

sensible person, the restrictions with regard to age. It is not difficult

to find young persons who, mistaking temerity for talent, are eager for an

opportunity to display their presumptuous ignorance. Can we even be quite

certain that among those who have passed their twenty-fifth year there may

not be some who would do well to preserve a discreet silence? "Weigh

carefully the burdens your shoulders are to bear," said Horace to the

Romans of his day. The precept is old, but sound even now. Remember, all

you who present yourselves for public speaking, that it is not merely an

honor, but a responsibility also. Consult your strength. Neither diploma

nor certificate of capacity is demanded of you. Do not, however, imagine

that no quality is needed to fit you for this professorship (for the post

is nothing less than a professorship) except unbounded self-confidence. The

least we can ask is that those who would teach us should be well informed

themselves. Good sense, ever successful in the end, would do justice sooner

or later to all such vain pretensions; but meantime the oft-deluded public

might have learned to avoid the recreation prepared for them. We earnestly

desire the long life and prosperity of the system, and therefore trust that

no lecturers likely to injure it should be tolerated. Is our wish to be

fulfilled? The future must answer.

--------

{309}

Original.

Verheyden's Right Hand.

If there were no music, I think there would have been no Verheyden. He was

an obligato.

The child of a violin-player and a singer, both professional, he had been

born into an atmosphere of sweet sounds. His baby eyelids had drooped in

slumber to a flute-voice lullaby, or some ethereal strain from his father's

precious little Cremona. Every breeze that swept over the rippling Neckar

or down the wooded mountain-sides, playing mournfully through the wind-harp

in the window, caught the child at his play, hushing him. As soon as he

could reach them, his fingers sought the keys of the piano; and from that

thrilling moment when first a musical sound woke at his touch, Verheyden

had found his occupation. It became his life. Every feeling found

expression at the tips of his fingers, and his fiercest passions culminated

in a discord.

It is said that a violin long played upon will show in the wood flutings

worn by the "continual dropping" of musical sounds from the strings. So

Verheyden seemed wrought upon by his art. He looked like a man who might

have stepped from some wild German tale; of Walpurgis, or other. He was

called tall, being slight, and appeared to be made of nerves and as little

as possible besides. His dark hair rose like the hair in Sir Godfrey

Kneller's portraits, and streamed back from his forehead as if blown. His

thin face was alive with restless gray eyes--the eyes of a listener, not a

seer--with fiery nostrils to the slightly aquiline nose, and with an

unsteady mouth. He had frequent flitting motions, apparently inconsequent,

really timed to some tune in his mind. He was moody, absent, abrupt; he was

too much in earnest about everything. He had little perception of wit or

humor, and he never laughed except with delight. He could be bold, yet he

was simple and ingenuous as a child. An enthusiast, with room in his

narrow, intense brain for but one idea at a time; a man who would take life

by the blade rather than the handle; a man in _alto relievo_.

On the breath of some unaccountable impulse, he would have said--fulfilling

his destiny, say we--Verheyden came to the New World, wandered about a

little, dazed and homesick, at length engaged to take the place of Laurie,

the organist, who was about going to Europe for further instruction.

He went into the church one afternoon with Laurie to try the organ. A

sultry afternoon it was, the eve of the Assumption; but inside the church

all was coolness and silence and shadow, most home-like to the stranger of

any place he had seen this side the ocean. While the organist played, be

leaned from the choir and looked down into the nave. Laurie played with

great sweetness and delicacy, and chose first one of those yearning things

that touch, but do not rouse; and Verheyden leaned and listened, dreaming

himself at home.

Ah! the green, cool Neckar flowing downward to the Rhine; all the rafts and

all the barges, all the wet and mossy rock; the overlooking mountains dense

with forests to their summits; the gray outstanding castle crumbling lothly

from its post; the red roofs of the houses, the churches fair and many; all

the quiet and the color of that home in fatherland.

{310}

When the organist ceased playing, the dreamer felt as though he had been in

motion and were suddenly stopped. He perceived that he was waving his hand,

and became aware of a little maiden dressed in white who had been going

about placing flowers, and who, at the first sound of music, had sunk upon

the altar-steps, and sat there listening, her eyes upturned and fixed on

the crucifix.

"Who, then, is she?" asked Verheyden, as Laurie trifled with the keys,

holding the clew while he searched what next to play.

Laurie glanced into the mirror before him. "Oh! she belongs in a frame on

the wall, but sometimes steps out and wanders about the church. She sings

at service. Call her up here if you can."

Verheyden hastily took a seat at the organ, and, as the girl rose and

prepared to leave the church, a smooth strain sprang like a lasso from

under his fingers, and caught her. She went upstairs, and, standing by the

organist, sang Lambillot's _Quam Dilecta_. Her voice was not powerful,

but a pure soprano, clear and sweet, making up in earnestness what it

lacked in volume. She sang with exquisite finish, having taken the kernel

of science and thrown away the husk. Musical ornamentation was not with

Alice Rothsay vocal gymnastics, but seemed to grow upon the melody as

spontaneously as tendrils upon the vine. Verheyden laughed with delight

when, at the climax of the song, she touched the silver C in alt.

What had been a little maiden in the distance was a small young woman when

near by. She was blonde; her oval face had the lustrous paleness of a

pearl; she looked as she sang, pure, sweet, and earnest. One knowing the

signs in faces would say that sharp tools must have wrought there to make

the eyelids and the mouth so steady. Strangers called her cold; but those

who had once seen her pale gray eyes grow luminous thought her fervid.

Then began again Verheyden's life, growing richer everyday. Musical

_cognoscenti_ grew enthusiastic about him: he was a genius, they said,

no one before had so well interpreted the old masterpieces of song. Laurie

was charming; but Verheyden was inspiring. The Scottish laddie was sweet

and bright as one of his own dancing burns; but the German brought

reminiscences of torrents and avalanches, and lightnings tangled among the

mountain-tops. Laurie saw music as in a glass darkly, and strove to tell

them how she looked; but Verheyden grasped the goddess with compelling

fingers, and led her out before their eyes to dazzle them. His slight form

below the towering organ-pipes they compared to Samson between the pillars

of the temple of Gaza.

Verheyden was extremely happy in his art: pleased, too, to feel the wreath

of fame settling on his brow with tingling touches; and when that August

day had slipped back three years, he was thirty years old.

John Maynard, the machinist, drew into his mind various abortive notions

conceived by men who had lived, or who were still in the sun--drew them in

mistrustfully, and found them stray sparks of genius whose kindred dwelt

with him. Uniting, they played pranks on the man; they made his brain swell

and snap as they pushed open the portals of unsuspected chambers; they

sailed through his dreams in the trains of vast shadows, whose shapes he

panted to catch as they eluded him in the labyrinths of sleep; they grouped

and they scattered, forming here and there a salient or receding angle,

leaving voids to be filled; they got into his eyes till he forgot his

friends and to brush his hat; they salted his coffee and sugared his beef;

they took him on long rambles, where he would wake to find himself standing

stock-still, staring at nothing; they burned up questions and answers

before they could reach his lips, and they dislocated his sentences. They

wooed, and eluded, and tormented, and enraptured him, till, darting on them

unawares, he caught a shadow and copied it out on paper. Finally, fused

into one shape, it sprang from his brain, like Minerva from Jove's, armed

_cap-à-pie_. The machinist's invention was clad in iron, and stood

shining and winking in the unaccustomed sunshine for everybody to admire.

{311}

Which finishes the story of John Maynard's only love.

Among the many visitors who flocked to see this wonderful invention came

one day Verheyden, Alice Rothsay, and her cousin Rose.

They stood and watched smoothly slipping cylinders that coquetted with a

hand of gold from every gazing window, large wheels that turned

deliberately on their dizzy centres, and little families of cogged wheels

that made them feel cross-eyed--all the deceitful gentleness and guileful

glitter of the creature.

Alice Rothsay stretched a venturesome pink finger-tip toward a lazily

rocking bar, then with a shiver, drew it back. "But I like to look at

machinery," she said; "it is so self-possessed. Besides, it is full of

curves, which are amiable as well as graceful. Parallels are unsocial, and

angles are disagreeable."

"Parallels are faithful if not fond," remarked the machinist, "and straight

lines have an aim and arrive at places. They are the honest lines, the

working lines, the strong lines. The reasoner's thought goes like an arrow,

the dreamer's like smoke on a heavy day. I would rather see a cat pounce

upon a mouse than run round after her own tail."

"But the spiral," she ventured.

"Oh! that's the supernatural," said the machinist.

"For my part," said Rose, "I don't see why the cat, after having caught her

mouse, should not amuse herself by running round after her own tail. It

keeps her out of the cream."

Miss Rothsay turned to look at Verheyden, who was examining another part of

the machine. As she looked, he stretched his right hand to point a

question, and stretched it too far. The cruel teeth caught it, there was a

sharp breath that was not quite a cry. John Maynard sprang to stop the

machine, and in a moment Verheyden drew back, wild-eyed, but silent,

holding up a crushed and bleeding hand.

"There is no pain," he said as Maynard knotted the handkerchief about his

arm. But he staggered while speaking, and the next moment fell.

Miss Rothsay had news of him that evening. His hand had been amputated, and

he was wild. He wanted to tear the ligatures from his arm and bleed to

death, had to be restrained and drugged into quiet. Her messenger had left

him in a morphia-sleep, pale as the dead, and with only the faintest

breathing.

Weeks passed, and the reports were scarcely more cheering. The patient had

to be watched lest be should do himself harm; and as he resented such

watching with savage impatience, his attendant's place was no sinecure.

Indeed, Verheyden writhed in his circumstances as upon burning fagots.

Wrapped in his art as in an atmosphere, the wrench that tore his hand away

left him breathless. Music, the glory and the sweetness of his life,

floated back only just out of reach, tantalizing him with remembered and

almost possible bliss. Melodies brushed his lips and left a sting; chords

stretched broad, golden, electric, and, reaching to grasp them, he fell

into darkness. His passionate heart rose and swelled, and found no outlet,

but beat and broke against an impossibility, like the sea on its rocks.

Verheyden's occupation was gone.

True, he could study phenomena. He was haunted by the ghost of a hand that

he could clench but could not see, that sometimes itched at the

finger-tips. It would seem that the nerves, confounded at being cut short

from their usual station, had not yet learned to send new messages, even

sent the old ones blunderingly, overdoing in their anxiety to do the best

they could. He had sometimes to recollect that this troublesome hand was

preserved in spirits in a glass jar set in Dr. Herne's laboratory, on a

shelf just behind his pet skeleton.

{312}

Verheyden read treatises on nerves till his own were no longer telegraphic

lines under control, but the wires of a rack to which he was bound. He

studied spiritualism till in dim night-watches the veil before the unseen

seemed to glide back. He dived into mesmerism till all the powers of his

mind centred in a will that glittered hard and bright in his eyes, causing

the timid to shrink and the pugilistic to make fists.

But through all these noxious parasites of the tree of knowledge which he

recklessly gathered about him moaned ceaselessly his unforgotten

bereavement. Or, if he forgot for a moment, it was like drawing the knife

from a wound to drive it back again.

Having exhausted every other distraction, he started one day for a long

walk in the country. He could not walk the city streets without meeting at

every step some piercing reminder of his loss. It was Scylla and Charybdis.

His fancy had caught a spark from everything beautiful in nature, and there

was not an outline nor motion, not a sound nor a tint, but found in him

some echo. Stately, swaying trees in his path waved the grave movement of

an Andante; the shrill little bird that slid down on a sunbeam through the

branches mimicked a twittering strain of Rossini's; a sigh of air that

rose, and swelled, and sank again, echoed a phrase of Beethoven; and an

unseen rivulet played one of Chopin's murmuring soliloquies.

Verheyden trod savagely on yielding moss, and crackling twigs, and dry

leaves of last year, and on the bluest of blue violets that bloomed bathed

in the noon sunshine. He plunged into a by-path, and came to a brook that

fled as though pursued. It stumbled dizzily over shining pebbles, glided

with suspended breath around grassy curves; it was all a-tremble with

inextricably tangled sunshine and shadow; it gushed here and there into

sweet complaining; it leaped with white feet down the rocks. Verheyden

threw himself upon the bank beside it. He had played such dances, measures

that made the dancers giddy, and sent the ladies dazed and laughing to

their seats.

"Does he think we are dervishes? Do take me into the air."

Verheyden laughed; and the fingers in Dr. Herne's glass jar behind the

skeleton played a caprice as saucy as Puck plunging with headlong

somersaults and alighting on tiptoe. Then, with a groan, he recollected.

As he crouched there, half wishing the water were deep enough to drown him,

be heard a low-voiced singing near by, and, taking a step presently, he saw

a picture among the pine shadows. Alice Rothsay, with a red rose in her

bosom, sat in the moss, and the green, thready grasses, looking fair as

Titania, her small figure showing smaller by the boles and branches of the

trees. She was hushing herself silent and smiling, her lucent eyes intent

on a humming-bird that wandered in the flickering shade and shine of the

woods. It foraged for a moment among the shrinking blossoms, the bold

little robber! it snapped at a round bright drop dashed up by the fretted

waters, and got a sip, half spray, half sunshine, that turned it clean

tipsy; then it made a dart at the red rose in Alice Rothsay's bosom, and

hung there, a little blue buzz with a long bill. The rose trembled over the

girl's suppressed laughter, and the winged mite flung itself petulantly

breast deep in the fragrant petals. Then it reeled away, scared at the

bound her heart gave; for, looking up, she saw Verheyden. It was the first

time they had met since his accident.

"I dare not pity you," she said; "the hand of God shows too plainly." But

the moistened eyes, and the unsteadiness of her soft, loitering voice,

contradicted the words she spoke.

He looked at her in a dazed, lost way, wondering who then might be

deserving of pity.

"We miss you at church," she went on. "We have a different organist every

Sunday, and I am not used to their accompaniments. I broke down last

Sunday.

{313}

Mrs. Wilder played, and at the _sucipe_ that you always played

_legato_, she threw in half a dozen bars of explosives. The

'deprecationem' was fired off, every syllable of it, as from a mortar. I

jumped as if I'd been blown up. So few know how to accompany. It will be

better when Laurie comes. But we want to see you at church, Verheyden."

His face lost its momentary gentleness. "I don't go to church now," he

said; "that is, to what we call church. I've been invoking 'black spirits

and white, blue spirits and gray'--all but the white. I've been calling

back the soul of Mesmer. I could tell stories that would frighten you."

"Oh! no, you couldn't," she said. "'If armies in camp should stand together

against me, my heart shall not fear.' I might fear for you, though. I have

reason to fear for you when you give thought to such delusions."

Verheyden began defending himself with the impatience of one who knows his

position to be weak, going over that hackneyed talk about progress and

freedom of thought. "Ah!" she sighed, "there are heights and heights; and

Babel is not Pisgah."

The fragment of woods in which they had been walking belonged to the estate

of Monsieur Leon, at whose house Alice was visiting; and, as she saw the

two approaching, madame herself came out to meet them. An amiable, worldly

woman, a patroness of the arts, graceful, cordial, and full of charming

little enthusiasms. Not least among her aesthetic devotions was that to the

toilette, by the help of which she managed to appear forty instead or

sixty.

She stepped to meet Verheyden with both her hands extended, tears swimming

in her fine dusky eyes. "My dear friend!" she said. "At last you remember

us. You are welcome. Where have you been all summer?"

"Summer?" repeated Verheyden. "I haven't seen any summer."

And truly the three months had for him been beautiful in vain. He had not

seen their glad, pelting showers, their dim, soft rains, nor the glory of

their sunshine, and their moonlights had been to him as spilt wine.

He could not help being soothed by these friends. There was no obtrusive

sympathy, no condolence hard to answer to, no affected reserve concerning

his affliction. He was free to speak of it or not, as he should choose.

They went on with some trifling employment while they talked to him; or, if

silent, he felt their kindly, homelike presence. Then the large, cool house

was refreshing after the dust and heat of the city.

Silence was sweetest in that sultry noon; and, presently perceiving it,

they did not speak. But the oaks outside rustled like oaks of Dodona, and

what had seemed silence grew to be fullest sound. There was a stir of

plants uneasy with growing, multitudinous tiny voices of insects in the

grasses, bee and bird and the murmur of waters, the wings of doves that

half flew, half dropped, in purple flocks from the eaves, the fall of an

over-ripe peach, the shrill cicala, the fond sighing of the brooding air in

whose bosom all these sounds nestled.

Alice rose to lower the crimson curtain over an intrusive sunbeam, (madame

kept her crimson draperies up all summer, knowing that her complexion

needed deep, warm lights,) and out of revenge the brightness poured through

the tissue, its gold changed to a rosy fire. Pausing in that light to

listen, she stood aglow, her pale-brown hair, her clear eyes, her white

dress.

"It is a Guido!" whispered Verheyden, with a flash of light across his

face.

"No," said madame; "it is the Charity for which Ruskin longed, floating all

pink and beautiful down to earth, the clouds blushing as she passes."

The sun went lingeringly down the west, a breeze fluttered up from the

south, and they roused themselves to open the windows.

{314}

A piano drew Verheyden by all his aching heart-strings. He seated himself

before it and played the base of Rossini's Cujus Animam. As he played, a

fair hand stole to the keys at his right and played the Aria.

"It kills me! Alice, it kills me!" he moaned out, turning his haggard face

toward her.

"Verheyden," she said, "do something heroic: submit!"

"To writhe on the rack is not to resist," he said bitterly.

"But how sublime," she urged, "if, instead of writhing, one could, in the

midst of pain, wear a serene face, and rejoice in a serene heart."

"It is easy for you to talk of serenity," he said impatiently. "You have

all you want. You live in music as I lived in it. And what an enchanted

life we lived together! Do you remember the first time I saw you? Three

years ago, it was, on the eve of the Assumption. You sat on the steps of

the altar and listened while Laurie played. I told him you looked like a

soprano, and he said you were one, that you had a voice like a violin. Do

you remember how I called you up?"

"Yes," she said, smiling at the remembrance. "No one ever accompanied like

you. The voice went floating on your music like a shallop on the water.

Your interludes were nothing more than spray or little wavelets, or like a

half-hushed bubbling laughter underneath the bows."

"And you," he said, "you never learned: you sing of nature, and 'tis art

that tries to reach you. Laurie always said your _roulades_ were as if

you couldn't help them; that he had to look at the score to be sure you

didn't make them up as you went along. Come, now, let us try."

In the act of turning eagerly to the piano, he recollected and stopped.

She touched his arm with an earnest hand. "Delight is dear," she said; "but

never so dear as when we find it in dark places. Let me speak to you of

myself, Verheyden, as I have never spoken to anyone else. You think my life

has been a tranquil one, but you mistake. None, or but few, knowing, I have

gone through tragedies that would delight a romance writer. What I read is

dull to what I have experienced. If I am calm, it is because I have nothing

left to suffer. At twenty-five--you didn't think me so old because I am

small and blonde--at twenty five I have exhausted the pains of life. And,

Verheyden, believe me, contradictory as it may sound, the highest rapture

that earth can give is distilled from its sharpest pains. It is true, even

here, that those who weep are blessed. When the strong man, Jesus, rends

this ravenous nature of ours, after some days we find sweetness. O

Verheyden! go to the Lord with your burden, and he will give you rest. Do

not fill your soul with discord because your hand can no more awaken

harmony. That loftier harmony nothing can disturb without your consent. Is

it not beautiful to think of--the security of the soul? Remember,

Verheyden, the lightnings may strike us, but our souls shall not be

smitten; and they shall not be drowned though the waters cover us; the

earth may burn, but our souls shall not be consumed; and they shall not be

crushed though the heavens fall on us. When I think of these things, I

laugh at fear of anything save sin; I am lifted; my body seems dissolving

like frost in fire. I cannot comprehend the sadness of your face. I am

glad! I am glad!"

He looked at her as she stood there pale and shining, then stretched his

hand, and, at a venture, touched the scarf she wore. It didn't scorch him.

Monsieur Léon came home at sunset, and with him Auguste, the son of the

house. Monsieur was one of his wife's enthusiasms. "He is a misanthrope,"

she would say delightedly. "What a listless air! he cares for nothing. How

mournful and hopeless his eyes! And though his hair is white, he is but

little over fifty. He is full of poetry and sublimity and learning; but it

is frozen in. His early days were unfortunate--a poor gentleman, you

know--and all his life till he was forty was a struggle for bread.

{315}

At forty be inherited his property. Then he thought to live, my poor

Auguste! We went to Paris, which we had left as children. Ah! well. But he

had aspirations, and pressed on toward Italy. There was the Medean

chaldron, he said. He was ill when we reached there, and saw nothing till

one evening he was convalescent, and I took him by the hand and led him out

on to our balcony. It was a May-moonlight in Venice. The earth can do

nothing more. He stood and looked till I thought he had lost his breath,

then clasped his hands over his heart as though he had a great pang, and

cried out, 'O my lost youth!' He would look no more. He went in and sat

with his face hidden in his hands. It was too late. The next day we started

and came back. He looked at nothing as we passed, but sat in the gondola or

carriage with his face hidden. He said it was like setting a feast before

the corpse of a man who had died of starvation. So romantic!" sighs madame,

smoothing the lace ruffles from her little hands.

Presently, when evening deepened, Auguste put his head in at the window and

called them out to see an eclipse of Venus.

They stood in the dewy dusk and fragrance of the garden, and watched the

star hover, moth-like, near and nearer to the moon, seeming to grow larger

and more brilliant as it approached extinction, shining in audacious

beauty. Then it touched, trembled, and disappeared.

"Served her right!" cried Auguste, fresh from the classics.

"But, Alice, where is Verheyden?" asked madame.

"He recollected Laurie's concert, and would go. I tried to detain him, but

could not."

Verheyden hurried into town to the concert-hall, though by no means certain

he might not be tempted to fling himself over the balcony. Avoiding

acquaintances, he took a seat high up and apart, and looked down upon the

audience. Such crowds had flocked to hear him in that lost life of his. Was

it indeed lost, or did he dream?

Presently there was music. There came his fugues rolling in like

overlapping billows. How he had played them when his mood had been to

plunge in such a surge, he solitary, everything else washed away like

sea-weed! He would never breast that tide again! Symphonies sailed over his

head; but he could no more reach to touch their pinions. There was one he

had named St. Michael's, from a sharp brightness that swung through it,

sword-like. How he had wrestled with those angels!

Then Laurie, being loudly called, stood out, blushing before their praises.

Bless the boy! Only that day, bursting into tears, he had clasped Verheyden

around the neck, saying: "Dear friend, my success hurts me like failure

when I think of you."

To an encore he played "Comin' through the Rye," improvising variations in

which the lovely melody hovered like Undine in the fountain, half veiled in

that spray of music: an arch, enchanting thing.

As Laurie stood up again, his friend leaned over the balcony and looked

down on the young, lifted brow. For one instant their eyes met; then

Verheyden started up and fled out into the night.

Father Vinton sat alone in his room meditating on a text which was

gradually expanding, budding, and blossoming into a sermon. He tried not to

be vexed when some one knocked at his door at that late hour, and was just

controlling his voice to give a charitable summons when the door opened,

and Verheyden, or his ghost, came in, and, without a word of greeting, fell

on his knees beside the priest, dropping his face to the arm of the chair.

"My poor friend," said the father, "have you not yet forgiven God for

loving you better than you can understand?"

{316}

Verheyden shivered, but said nothing.

"Remember whose hands were pierced, not one, but both, and his feet, and

his side. He never shrank."

Verheyden's shaking hand held out a little vial "I shall take this unless

you prevent me," he said. "Help me if there is any help. I dare not be

alone."

Father Vinton unstopped the vial, and, taking deliberate aim, flung it

through the open window into the street. Then he laid his hand tenderly

upon the bowed head. "You shall not be alone," he said. "Stay here

to-night."

Blessed are all peace-makers; but thrice blessed are those who make peace

between the soul and God. Blessed are they in whose care we breathe the

tales else unspoken, whose hands lead us back from the brink of many a

precipice where no one dreamed we stood, whose voices soothe the pains

hidden to all besides, and inspire with hope hearts that were filled with

despair. May such peace-makers be for ever blessed!

Verheyden's religion had been a recollection rather than a remembrance. He

had made a point of going to confession and communion once a year; and had

one looked into his mind while he was preparing for these sacraments,

something like the following might have been seen: "Well, what have I been

doing this year? I haven't committed any sins. I've done nothing but play

tunes. To be sure, I broke Smith's fiddle over his head for playing false

and spoiling a chorus. Don't suppose that was just right; though I must say

I think the chorus of more consequence than Smith's head. But I must have

done something. I'm not a saint yet. Guess I'll say a prayer.

"Oh! I remember!--; that was mean. I wouldn't believe I could do such a

thing if I didn't know I had. I'll be hanged if I do it again. Then

there's--, and--, and--. Well, confession does put a fellow out of conceit

with himself. And there's--; a dishonest deed, I must own. I don't wonder

the Lord gets angry with us; and how he does wait for us to come round! I'm

glad I didn't drop dead to-day. I'm thankful I didn't drop dead to-day! The

Lord is good. What am I lounging on a seat for? Why don't I go on my knees?

Then there's ----. I'm sorry for that. I wish somebody would give me a

thrashing for it. I've been sorry for the same sin dozens of times, and

accused myself of it, and promised not to commit it again. My resolutions

are not worth much. Suppose I can't keep myself out of sin without the

Lord's help. I'll ask for it."

At the end, Verheyden, sobered and humbled, would present himself to the

priest and make a clear and sincere confession.

But now religion was to be no more an incident, but the business of his

life. He was fortunate in his director, for Father Vinton was not only

prudent, but sympathetic. If, when he read lives of the saints, Verheyden

longed for ecstasies which should thrill him as sensibly as music could,

the father did not reprove his presumption, but said: "My son, such favors

do not come when they are looked and asked for, they are unexpected. Strive

to render yourself worthy of God's friendship, and forget the reward till

he shall please to bestow it." If, kneeling before the altar, his eyes full

of tears, the intensity of his gaze defeating itself, Verheyden fancied

that the cross before him quivered with its burden, and that the aureoled

head grew to be the head of a living, suffering man whose eyes turned

pitifully on him--the father did not call his penitent crazy.

"Perhaps he grieves to find you so unreconciled," he said. "When with a

loving violence he tore the idol from your grasp in order to give you a

work wherein the end would not be forgotten in the means, he expected your

submission. Perhaps he grieves to see that you reject all work."

{317}

Verheyden blushed painfully as he extended his mutilated arm. "What can

_I_ do?"

"Take charge of your singing-class again."

For one instant he faced the priest with a sudden fierceness, the last

spark of rebellion in him. Then his face faded and drooped.

"I will, sir."

"Miss Rothsay will play for you when you need her."

"Yes, father."

And Verheyden went back to the drudgery of his profession, missing its

delights, and did his duty faithfully if not cheerfully. There could have

been no severer test.

There was no more talk of visions and trances. But every morning a shadow

of a man stole into the chapel, knelt near the door, and went out as

quietly after the mass was over. Once a fortnight the same shadow came to

Father Vinton's side and made a sincere but disheartening confession. The

spring of the musician's spirit was broken.

"You are ill," the priest said to him one day.

"No," answered Verheyden dreamily. "My heart troubles me a little. It beats

too fast. There's nothing else the matter with me."

He was told that he ought to consult a doctor.

"I thought I would," was the answer; "but I forgot it. What is in the

church?"

"Laurie with the choir practising a new mass. To-morrow is the Assumption,

you know."

"Oh! yes, I'll go in and listen awhile; shall I?"

"My poor boy!" said the priest. "Will it not give you more pain than

pleasure?"

"No, father, it doesn't hurt me now."

Going into the choir, Verheyden took a seat apart and unseen. He leaned

wearily, closed his eyes and listened, hearing the voices more than the

instrument, hearing one voice through all. When Alice Rothsay uplifted her

pure voice and sang the _Dona nobis pacem_, tears dropped slowly down

his face; but they were not tears of bitterness.

Presently all but Alice left the church. As on that day, four years before,

when he had first seen her, she had flowers for the altars.

It was a delight for her to get into the church alone, as she now believed

herself to be. If she were good, she knew not. No matter: God is good. She

felt as though she were among dear friends with nobody by to criticise, Her

delight bubbled up almost over the verge of reverence. But perfect love

casteth away fear; and she loved.

"Rosa Mystica, here are roses. Pray for me. And lilies for St. Joseph, whom

I often forget. He is so near you he is lost, like the morning-star in the

morning. St. Paul, I bring you fine plumes, and cardinal flowers like

living coals. But you look as though you would scorch them up with a push

from the point of your pen, writing epistles toward the four winds. O

Unseen One! what shall I offer you? The earth is yours, and the fulness

thereof. I cannot offer myself, for I am not mine to give. But if you love

me, take me. O Sweetness!"

Sunset flashed through the windows, and every saint caught an aureola. Then

the day went out, bright and loth. When the sanctuary lamp began to show

its flame in the gathering twilight, Alice Rothsay rose with a happy heart,

and went home.

Verheyden was happy, too; he scarce knew why, perhaps because the happiness

of another made his own seem possible. He groped his way down to the

chapel, and found Father Vinton hearing confessions.

"God is with him," thought the priest when Verheyden had left him. "He is

like a child."

The same child-like sweetness shone in the face raised the next morning for

communion.

{318}

Going out of the chapel after his thanksgiving, Father Vinton saw his

penitent still kneeling there. "I wished I had asked him to pray for me,"

he said. "I must see him when he comes out."

He waited half an hour, watching, but no one appeared. The father would not

for anything disturb so sacred a devotion; but he felt like looking again.

Going back: to the chapel, he saw the lonely worshipper still in place, but

in a slightly changed attitude. He was leaning a little wearily on the desk

before him, and his shoulder and head rested against a pillar beside. His

pale face was lifted, as though some one above had spoken, and he had

looked up to answer.

Father Vinton hesitated, then went nearer. A morning sunbeam came in

through an eastern window, stole in tender, tremulous gold over the

musician's hair and brow, and looked into his eyes. So Magdalene might have

looked into the sepulchre. The father bent and looked also.

Ah, Verheyden! Some One above _had_ spoken, and he had answered.

------

Original.

May: A Fancy.

I cannot sing to thee a song, O May!

New-born of beauties never sung before.

On all the tourneyed fields of poesy

Bright souls have broken lance to do thee honor.

And yet (so hard it is for youth and life

To deem to-day not brighter than the past)

I cannot think they loved thee more than I,

Those silent poets in their silent graves.

I cannot think their sunshine was as golden,

Their meads as green, their wilding flowers as rife

With the low music of the laden bee,

Their clouds as soft upon the summering sky,

Their gales as wooing in the wakened forests--

Their May as much of May as thou to us.

Moreover, this I know: the tiny bark

Of the frail nautilus may crest the wave

That swelled to clasp the bosomed argosy,

Or chafed the warrior-ship's embattled side.

And so, beneath thy deep serenity

Of sunlit blue, as, thrilled and filled with May,

I lie on earth and gaze up into heaven,

Sprite Fancy doth embody me a dream;

And I dare utter it, for I am bold

On kindly Nature's mother-breast to lay

My head, and prattle of the love I bear her.

As little, earnest children deck them dolls,

And name them for the fair ones whom they love,

I prank an image out, and call it--May.

{319}

Thou shin'st, O May! upon my visioned hours,

A maiden in the prime of maidenhood,

Poised on the summer boundary of blooms,

Disparting child and woman; blent of each;

The child-smile pure upon the perfect lip,

And girlhood in the wavy wealth of curls

So lavish on the toying, amorous air,

And deep'ning in the blue uplifted eyes,

Like stainless heaven reflect from silent lakes,

The mystic, dawning holiness of woman.

She, o'er the cycled earth imperious,

Throned on the morning candor of the clouds,

Sits haloed with the worship of the sun.

Chosen is she of all her sister months

To be the bride of the imperial sun.

Disdainful suitor, he did pass unwooed

The paly elder beauties of the year,

Nor in the hoyden March, nor sportive April,

Nor majesty of June, his pleasure found:

He toyed familiar, yet scarce lovingly,

With the swart, sparkling nymphs of summer tide,

He schooled the autumn oreads in their tasks,

And, smiling, passed, and left them all, to shower

The splendid unrestraint of all his love,

And choice, and tenderness on May, his own.

This is the bridal season, and the earth,

Fondest of mothers, and the ardent bridegroom

Have ta'en all gems of earth, all rays of heaven,

Have beggared all the universe for charms

To deck the bride withal. She sits in beauty,

Crowned with the rarest radiance of morn,

Robed in the tissued blooms of all the world,

Yet loveliest for her own proud modesty;

Her glorious eyes the fairest of her jewels,

Her bridal blush her brightest ornament.

Thus maidenly, thus queenly in the skies

She waits against the coming of the bridegroom.

He, o'er the orient wave now eminent,

Through the concoursing rosy clouds of morn

Strides like a monarch 'mid a courtier throng,

Pushing soft adulation out of way;

Presses in grandeur up the noon-day height,

Half haste, all stateliness and majesty.

And over all the vastness of the world

Goes forth the tale of bliss. The roseate clouds

Blush down the tidings to the raptured sea,

Till all his crested waves are musical

With murmured joyfulness. The courier birds

Thrill myriad melodies through all the woods,

With this their joyous burden: "May is bride!"

The hoary oaks, and all the ancient trees,

On the high, rippling winds commune together,

Saying one to another: "May is bride!"

{320}

And from her throne float forth cloud-messengers,

The white-winged spirits of the unborn rain:

They stoop and whisper to the dreaming flowers

Bidding their choicest petals venture out;

Then die to sight amid the morning shine,

As sudden angels, their high missions done,

Rapt from our days, resume their viewless shapes.

But the fair blossoms wake and look about them,

And find all May, and all things lapped in sunshine,

And softly call their kindred to arise,

Till every turf in all the happy fields

Is garish with their bloom, and atmospheres

Of perfume waft their homage to the seat

Of their dear sovereign. And the loving earth,

The great, dumb mother of the happy May,

With all her waving continents of trees,

Makes murmurous gestures full of ecstasy;

And up from land, and sea, and air, and sky,

Rise choral hallelujahs: "May is bride!"

------

Impressions of Spain.

by Lady Herbert.

Cordova and Malaga.

A comfortable little old-fashioned inn, with a "patio" full of

orange-trees, leading to a public "sala," rather like a room at Damascus,

with alcoves and fountains, gladdened the hearts of our wearied travellers.

After a good night's rest (and one advantage in Spain is, that except

mosquitoes, your beds are generally free from other inhabitants), they

started down the narrow, badly paved streets to visit the cathedral. The

exterior is disappointing, as all you see is a buttressed wall, with square

towers sixty feet high, opposite which is the gateway and wall of the

archepiscopal palace. But on passing through a beautiful oriental court, in

the centre of which is a picturesque Moorish fountain, the rest of the

space being filled with orange-trees and palms, and on the north side an

exquisite giralda, or tower, from whence there is a beautiful view over the

whole town and neighborhood. All the entrances to the mosque (now the

cathedral) from this court are closed, except the centre one. Entering by

that, a whole forest of pillars bursts upon you, with horseshoe arches

interlacing one another and forming altogether the most wonderful building

in the world. The Moors collected these pillars, of which there are upwards

of a thousand, from the temples of Carthage, of Nismes, and of Rome, and

adapted them to their mosque. Some are of jasper, some of verde-antique,

some of porphyry--no two are alike. The pillars have no plinths, and divide

the mosque into nineteen longitudinal and twenty-nine transverse aisles;

hence the immense variety and beauty of the intersection of the arches.

This mosque was built in the eighth century, and ranked in sanctity with

the "Alaksa" of Jerusalem and the "Caaba" of Mecca.

{321}

A pilgrimage to it was, indeed, considered equivalent to that of Mecca, and

hence the Spanish proverb to express distant wanderings, "Andar de zeca en

Meca." The roof is of arbor-vitae, and is in perfect preservation. Two of

the moresque chapels are exquisite in carving and richness of detail, one

being that of the Caliphs, and the other the "Holy of Holies," where the

Koran was kept. The beauty and delicacy of the moresque work, with its gold

enamel and lovely trefoiled patterns, its quaint lions and bright-colored

"azulejos" (tiles), exceeds anything of the sort in Europe. The roof is in

the form of a shell, and exquisitely wrought out of one single piece of

marble. The mosaic border was sent to Cordova by Romanus II., from

Constantinople. When the brother of the king of Morocco came there a year

or two ago, he went round this "Holy of Holies" seven times on his knees,

crying bitterly all the time. The inscriptions in this mosque are in Cufic,

and not in Arabic. The whole carries one back to Damascus and the East in a

way which makes it difficult to realize that one is still in Europe. The

choir is a horrible modern "churriqueresque" innovation, stuck in the

centre of the beautiful forest of Saracenic columns, many of which were

destroyed to make room for it. Even Charles V. protested against the bad

taste of the chapter when he saw it completed in 1526, and exclaimed: "You

have built a thing which one can see anywhere; and to do so, you have

destroyed what was unique in the world." The carving of the choir is

certainly fine, but the incongruity of the whole jars on one's taste too

keenly for any kind of admiration. The only beautiful and solemn modernized

portion of the building is the chapel of the cardinal, with fine tombs and

a deep recess for the Blessed Sacrament, with a magnificent silver

tabernacle. From the cathedral, some of the party went to visit the bishop,

who received them very kindly, and sent his secretary to show them the

treasures of the cathedral. The "custodia," of the fifteenth century, is in

silver-gilt, with beautiful emeralds, and exquisitely carved; it is the

work of Arphe, the Benvenuto Cellini of Spain. There are also some

beautiful processional crosses, reliquaries, chalices, and pax, secreted at

the time of Dupont's French invasion, and so saved from the universal

plunder.

Having spent the morning in the cathedral, our travellers wandered down to

the fine Roman bridge, of sixteen arches, over the Guadalquiver, looking

upon some picturesque Moorish mills and orange gardens. To the left is a

statue of St. Raphael, the guardian angel of Cordova; and close by is the

Alcazar, now a ruin, formerly the palace of Roderick, the last of the

Goths, whose father was duke of Cordova. Nothing can be more melancholy

than the neglected gardens, the broken fountains and statues, the empty

fish-ponds, and grass-grown walks, despite the palms and orange-trees and

luxuriant creeping roses, which seemed to be striving to conceal the

desolation around. The first palm ever planted in Cordova was by the

Moorish king Abdulrrahman, who brought it from his much-loved and

always-regretted Damascus.

After luncheon, having obtained special permission from the archbishop, our

party started off in two carriages for the hermitages in the Sierra Morena,

stopping first at a picturesque ruined villa, called the "Arrizafa," once

the favorite residence of the Moorish king. The gardens are beautiful;

passion-flowers and jessamine hung in festoons over all the broken walls,

and the ground was carpeted with violets, narcissus, and other spring

flowers. The view from the terrace is lovely, the town, when seen from a

distance, being very like Verona. Here the road became so steep that the

party had to leave their carriages and walk the remainder of the way.

{322}

The mountain-path reminded them of Mount Carmel, with the same underwood of

cistus, lilac and white, and heaps of flowering and aromatic shrubs.

Beautiful wild iris grew among the rocks, and half-way up a rushing stream

tumbled over the boulder-stones into a picturesque basin, covered with

maiden-hair fern, which served as a resting-place for the tired travellers.

After a fatiguing climb of two hours, they reached the postern gate of the

hermitage, into which, after some demur as to their sex, the ladies, by

special permission of the archbishop, were admitted. There are at present

seventeen hermits, all gentlemen, and many of high birth and large fortune,

living each in a little separate cabin, with a patch of garden round it,

and entirely alone. They never see one another but at mass and in choir, or

speak but once a month. In their chapel they have a beautiful oil painting

of St. Paul the first hermit, whose rule they follow in all its primitive

severity. One of the cabins was vacant, and the party entered. It was

composed of two tiny rooms: in the inner one was a bed formed of three

boards, with a sheepskin and a pillow of straw; the rest of the furniture

consisted of a crucifix, a jug of water, a terrible discipline with iron

points, and Rodriguez' essay on "Christian Perfection," published in 1606,

at Valladolid, and evidently much read. This cell was that of Count ----, a

man of great wealth and high rank, and of a still wider reputation for

ability and talent. He had lost his wife some years ago, to whom he was

passionately attached; and remaining in the world only till he had settled

his children, then took leave of it for ever, and resolved to spend the

rest of his days in penitence and prayer. Their habit is composed of a

course grey stuff, with a leathern girdle, drawers, and a shirt of serge.

No linen is allowed, or stockings, and they wear sandals on their feet.

They are not permitted to possess anything, or to keep anything in their

cells but a glazed earthenware pot, a wooden plate, a pitcher, a lamp, and

instruments of penance and devotion. They keep a perpetual fast on beans

and lentils, only on high days and holidays being allowed fish. They are

not allowed to write or receive letters, or to go into one another's cells,

or to go out of the enclosure, except once a month, when they may walk in

the mountains round, which they generally do together, reciting litanies.

Seven hours of each day must be given to prayer, and they take the

discipline twice a week. [Footnote 109] How strange a life for one

accustomed to live in the world and in society! Yet there is no lack of

candidates for each vacancy; and the prior told our travellers that the

number of vocations of late years had increased. There is a fine old marble

seat and cross in the garden, erected by the late bishop, from whence there

is a magnificent view over the whole country. The cold in winter is

intense, and they are not allowed any fires, except what is absolutely

necessary for the cooking of their miserable meal. Taking leave of the

prior in his little "parloir," and receiving a rosary from him made of the

wood of the "carouba" by the hermits themselves, the visitors retraced

their steps down the hill, feeling as if they had been spending the last

couple of hours in another world; and, rejoining their carriages at the

villa, made the circuit of the city walls, which are partly Moorish, built

of tapia, and described by Julius Caesar.

[Transcriber's note: The image of the following footnote is blurred.

"Pardon my French."]

[Footnote 109: The Rev. Père Félix, the famous Paris preacher, in one

of his Notre Dame conferences, speaking of asceticism of this sort,

says: "Les paiens avaient épuisé la volupté: les chrétiens ont épuisé

les souffrances. De ce creuset de la douleur l'homme nouveau a sorti,

et c'est un homme plus grand que l'homme ancien. Ah! je le sais, la

pénitence corporelle, le jeûne, l'abstinence, la discipline, la

flagelation, prètent à rire à des penseurs de ce temps, qui se croieat

trop sages pour pratiquer de telles folies. Ils out plus d'égurd pour

la chair, plus de respect surtoui pour le corps, et ils disent en

souriant à l'austérité chrétienne: 'Ascétisme! Moyen àge! Fanatisme!

Démence!' La vérité est, que chátier volontairement son corps pour

venger la dignité de l'homme outragés par les révoltes, est une sainte

et sublime chose. La vérité est que pour accorder à son corps le

plaiair, il suffit d'ètre lâche, et que pour infliger à son corps la

douleur volontaire dans un but de restauration morale, il faut ètre

courageux, il faut ètre veaiment grand. La vérité est enfin que cette

race de mortifiés, mieux que tout autre, maintient à sa vraie hauteur

le niveau de l'humanité, et tient dans sa main intrépide, avec le fouet

dont elle se frappe ell-même, le drapeau du progrès. Le chemin du

progrès, comme ceiul du Calvaire, est un chemin douloureax. Le drapeau

de l'austérité chrétienne triomphera une fois de plus dans le monde du

seusualisme paien de nos joura."]

{323}

Then one of the party went to see the Carmelite convent of St. Theresa; not

one of the saint's own foundation, but one built soon after her death. It

contains twenty-four nuns, the cheeriest and merriest of women, proving how

little external circumstances contribute to personal cheerfulness.

The German gentleman who had so kindly served as escort to our travellers

during their stay at Cordova dined with them in the evening, and gave them

several very interesting details of the place and people. The next morning

mass had been promised them at five, but it was six before the priest made

his appearance in the fine old Jesuit church, now bereft of its pastors and

frequent services; and it was only thanks to the unpunctuality of the

Spanish railways that the train which was to convey our party to Malaga was

reached in time.

Passing through a very fine gorge of the Sierra Nevada, with magnificent

Alpine scenery, the train suddenly stopped: the guard came to the

carriages, and civilly suggested to the passengers that the government

could not answer for the safety of the tunnels, and, therefore, had

provided carriages and mules to take them round; or else, if they preferred

it, that they might _walk_, as there would be plenty of time. This

sounded ludicrous enough to English ears, but, after all, they thought it

more prudent to comply than to run any risk, and accordingly bundled out

with their bags and manifold packages. On the recurrence of a similar

warning, however, a little later, they voted that they would remain and

take their chance; and nothing disastrous occurred. At the station they

were met by the kind and obliging English consul, who had ordered rooms for

them at the hotel called the "Alameda," pleasantly situated on the

promenade, and who had done everything in his power to insure their

comfort. The first days of their arrival were spent in settling themselves

in their new quarters, which required a good deal of preliminary cleaning,

and in seeing the so-called "lions" of the place. These are soon visited.

In truth, except for climate, Malaga is as dull and uninteresting a place

as can be well imagined. There is a cathedral, originally a mosque, but now

converted into an ugly Corinthian pile with two towers. Only one fine old

Gothic door remains, with curious "azulejos." The rest, both inside and

out, is modern, heavy, and in bad taste. The high altar, however, is by

Alonso Caño; and there is some fine wood-carving of the sixteenth century

in the choir and on the screen, commemorating different scenes in the life

of St. Turibius, archbishop of Lima, whose apostolic labors among the

Indians were crowned with such wonderful success. There are one or two good

pictures and monuments, especially the recumbent figure of a bishop, in

bronze, of the fifteenth century. In the sacristy is a valuable relic of

St. Sebastian, and some fine silver vases for the holy oils; but everything

else was plundered by the French. Afterward our travellers went, with an

order from the governor, to see the castle and Moorish fortress overlooking

the town, built in 1279. Passing under a fine Moorish horse-shoe arched

gateway, they scrambled up to the keep, from whence there is a magnificent

view over sea and land. It is now used as a military prison, and about

twenty-six men were confined there. The officers were extremely civil, and

showed them everything. The men's barracks seemed clean and comfortable,

and their rations good; their arms and knapsacks were, however, of the most

old-fashioned kind. That day a detachment of troops were starting for

Morocco, whose embarkation in the steamers below was eagerly watched by the

garrison.

But if Malaga be dull in the way of sights, it is very pleasant from the

kind and sociable character of its inhabitants. Nowhere will the stranger

find more genuine kindness, hospitality, or courtesy.

{324}

Their houses, their villas, their horses, their flowers, their time, all

are placed, not figuratively, but really, "á vuestra disposicion." Some of

the villas in the neighborhood are lovely, especially those of Madame de

H----, the Marquise L----, etc. Here one finds all kinds of tropical

vegetation: the date palm, the banana, the plantain and India-rubber trees,

sugar, cotton, and other oriental products, all grow luxuriantly; while the

beds are filled with masses of violets, tulips, roses, arums, scarlet

hybiscus, and geraniums; and beautiful jessamine, _scarlet_

passion-flowers, and other creepers, trail over every wall.

But the chief interest to the winter resident at Malaga will be derived

from its charitable institutions. The French sisters of charity of St.

Vincent de Paul have the care of three large establishments here. One--an

industrial school for the children and orphans connected with a neighboring

factory--is a marvel of beauty, order, and good management. The girls are

taught every kind of industrial work; a Belgian has been imported to give

them instruction in making Valenciennes lace, and their needlework is the

most beautiful to be seen out of Paris. Any profit arising from their work

is sold, and kept for their "dot" when they marry or leave the

establishment. Attached to this school is also a little home for widows,

incurables, and sick, equally tended by the sisters. This admirable

institution is the offspring of individual charity and of a life

wrecked--according to human parlance--but which has taken heart again for

the sake of the widow and the orphan, the sorrowful and the suffering. Her

name is a household word in Malaga to the sad and the miserable; and in

order to carry out her magnificent charities (for she has also an

industrial school for boys in the country), she has given up her luxurious

home, and lives in a small lodging up three pair of stairs. She reminded

one of St. Jerome's description of St. Melania, who, having lost her

husband and two children in one day, casting herself at the foot of the

cross, exclaimed: "I see, my God! that thou requirest of me my whole heart

and love, which was too much fixed on my husband and children. With joy I

resign all to thee." The sight of her wonderful cheerfulness and courage,

after sorrows so unparalleled, must strengthen every one to follow in her

steps, and strive to learn, in self-abnegation, her secret of true

happiness. The French sisters have likewise the charge of the great

hospital of St. Juan de Dios, containing between 400 and 500 patients, now

about to be removed to a new and more commodious building; and also of a

large day and infant school near the river, with a "salle d'asile,"

containing upward of 500 children, who are daily fed with soup and bread.

They also visit the poor and sick in their homes, and everywhere their

steps are hailed with thankfulness and joy.

The "Little Sisters of the Poor" have likewise established themselves in

Malaga, and have a large house, containing seventy old and incurable

people, which is very well supplied by the richer inhabitants. The nuns of

the "Assumption" have lately started a "pension" for the daughters of the

upper classes, which was immensely wanted (education being at a very low

ebb in Spain), and which has been most joyfully hailed by the Malaga ladies

for their children. The superior, a charming person, is an English woman;

and the frequent benediction services in their beautiful little chapel were

a great boon to some of our party. They paid a visit also to the

archbishop, a kind and venerable old man, with the most benevolent smile

and aspect, and who is really looked upon as the father of his people. At a

grand Te Deum service, given in the church of S. Pietro dei Martiri, one of

the most interesting churches in Malaga, as a thanksgiving for the

preservation of the city from cholera, he officiated pontifically, which

his great age generally prevents, and gave the benediction with mitre and

crosier to the devout and kneeling multitude.

{325}

There is a very touching "Via Crucis" service performed every Friday in

Malaga, up to a chapel on the top of a high mountain overlooking the whole

town and bay. The peasants chaunt the most plaintive and beautiful hymns,

the words of which they "improviser" on the way, both up and down. It

begins at a very beautiful church and convent called Notre Dame des

Victoires, now converted into a military hospital, nursed by the Spanish

sisters of charity. The family of the Alcazars is buried in the crypt of

this church, and beautiful palms grow in the convent garden. In the old

refectory are some fine azulejos tiles and some good specimens of Raphael

ware.

As to diversions, Malaga offers but few resources. Those who like boating

may go out daily along the beautiful coast; but the rides are few, the

ground hard and dusty, and the "rivière à sec," like that at Nice, must be

traversed before any mountain expeditions could be reached. There is a

bull-ring, as in every Spanish town, and occasionally the additional

excitement of elephants being used in the fights: but the bulls will rarely

face them.

After about a month, therefore, spent in this quiet little place, it was

decided to start for Granada, which promised to afford greater interest and

variety.

Granada.

Taking leave rather sorrowfully of their many kind friends, and of the

sisters of charity who had been their constant companions during their stay

in Malaga, our travellers started one stormy evening, and found themselves

once more cooped up in one of those terrible diligences, and slowly

ascending the mountains at the back of the town. Their intention had been

to go on horseback, riding by Velez-Malaga and the baths of Alhama; but the

late heavy rains had converted the mountain streams into torrents, and some

of the party who attempted it were compelled to return. After ascending for

about three hours, leaving on their left the picturesque cemetery, with its

fine cypresses, they came to a plateau 3000 feet above the sea, from whence

they had a magnificent view, the whole of Malaga and its bay being

stretched out at their feet, the lights glistening in the town, and the

moon, breaking through the clouds, shedding a soft light over the sea-line,

which was covered with tiny fishing-vessels. Beautiful aloes and cacti

starting out of the bold rocks on either side formed the foreground, while

a rapid river rushed and tumbled in the gorge below. But with this fine

panoramic view the enjoyment of our travellers came to an end. When night

came on, and they had reached the highest and loneliest part of the bleak

sierra, it began to pour with rain and blow a regular gale; the heavy mud

was dashed into their faces; the icy cold wind whistled through the broken

panes and under the floor of the carriage, and froze them to the bone.

There was some difficulty about a relay of mules at the next stage, and so

our party were left on an exposed part of the road without drivers or

beasts for more than an hour. Altogether, it was impossible to conceive a

more disagreeable journey; and it was therefore with intense joy that they

found themselves, after sixteen hours of imprisonment, at last released,

and once more able to stretch their legs in the _Alameda_ of Granada.

Tired, hungry, dirty, and cold, a fresh disappointment here awaited them.

All the hotels were full (their letters ordering rooms had miscarried), and

only one tiny bedroom could be found in which they could take refuge, and

scrape the mud off their clothes and hair. One of the party found her way

to the cathedral; the rest held a council of war, and finally determined to

try their fate at the new "Alhambra" hotel outside the town, where an

apartment was to be had, the cold and wet of the season having deterred the

usual visitors to this purely summer residence.

{326}

They had every reason to congratulate themselves on this decision; for

though the cold was certainly great, the snow hanging still on all the

hills around, and the house being unprovided with any kind of fire-places

or stoves, still the cleanliness and comfort of the whole amply compensated

for these drawbacks, to say nothing of the immense advantage of being close

to the Alhambra, that great object of attraction to every traveller who

visits Granada. The way up to it is very picturesque, but very steep. After

leaving the wretched, narrow, ill-paved streets, which dislocate almost

every bone in your body when attempted on wheels, and passing by the Sala

de la Audiencia and other fine public buildings, you arrive at an arched

gateway, which at once brings you into a kind of public garden, planted

with fine English elms, and abounding in walks and fountains and seats, and

in which the paths and drives, in spite of their precipitous character, are

carefully and beautifully kept by convict labor, under the superintendence

of a body of park-keepers dressed in full Andalusian costume. The hotel is

placed on the very crest of the hill, overlooking the magnificent range of

snowy mountains to the right. To the left the first thing which strikes the

eye is the Torre de Justicia. Over the outer horse-shoe arch is carved an

open hand, upon the meaning of which the learned are divided; some saying

it is an emblem of the power of God, others a talisman against the Evil

Eye. Over the inner arch is sculptured a key, which typified the power of

the Prophet over the gates of heaven and hell. A double gate protects this

entrance, which no donkey may pass: in the recess is a very beautiful

little picture, framed and glazed, of the Virgin and Child. Passing through

this arch, you come to an open "plaza," out of which rise two towers; one

has been bought by an Englishman, who has converted the lower part of it

into his private residence. (Where shall we not find our ubiquitous

country-men?) [Footnote 110]

[Footnote 110: This unexpected rencontre reminded one of our party of a

similar surprise, some years ago, in the mountains of the Tyrol. She

was riding with her husband, when they came on a very picturesque old

"Schloss," in an out-of-the-way gorge of a mountain pass. Stopping to

look at it, and pushing open a half-open door in what appeared to be

only habitable part of the ruling, they came on a group of chubby-faced

English children, sitting around a table in their white pinafores,

eating an undeniably English tea; and were told by the nurse, in answer

to their inquiries, that the present owner of this Austrian Schloss was

a London tradesman, who brought his children over every year to spend

the summer--a most sensible arrangement, as the healthy bright looks of

his little ones testified.]

The other is called the Torre de la Vela, because on this watch-tower hangs

the bell which gives warning to the irrigators in the vega below. The view

from hence is the most enchanting thing possible, commanding the whole

country. Below lies Granada with its towers and sparkling rivers, the Darro

and the Xenil. Beyond stretches the beautiful rich "vega" (or plain),

studded with villas and villages, and encircled by snowy mountains, with

the Sierra of Albama on one side, and the Gorge of Loja on the other.

Descending the tower, and standing again in the "plaza" below, you see

opposite to you a large ruined Doric palace, a monument of the bad taste of

Charles V., who pulled down a large portion of the Moorish building to

erect this hideous edifice, which, like most other things in Spain, remains

unfinished. Passing through a low door to the right, our travellers were

perfectly dazzled at the beauty which suddenly burst upon them. It is

impossible to conceive anything more exquisite than the Alhambra, of which

no drawings, no Crystal Palace models, not even Washington Irving's

poetical descriptions, give one the faintest idea. "J'essaie en vain de

penser: je ne peux que sentir!" exclaimed the authoress of "Les Lettres

d'Espagne" on entering; but the predominant feeling is one of regret for

the Moors, whose dynasty produced such marvels of beauty and of art.

{327}

Entering by the fish-pond "patio," and visiting first the Whispering

Gallery, you pass through the Hall of the Ambassadors, and the Court of

Lions, out of which lead the Hall of the Abencerrages, and that of Justice,

with its two curious monuments and wonderful fretted roof, and then come to

the gem of the whole, the private apartments of the Moorish kings, with the

recessed bedroom of the king and queen, the boudoir and lovely latticed

windows overlooking the beautiful little garden of Lindaraja (the violets

and orange-blossoms of which scented the whole air), and the exquisite

baths below. [Footnote 111] It is a thing to dream of, and exceeds every

previous expectation. Again and again did our travellers return, and always

discovered some fresh beauties. The governor resides in a modernized corner

of the building, not far from the mosque, which has suffered from the bad

taste of the Christian spoilers. He is not a good specimen of Spanish

courtesy, as, in spite of letters of introduction from the highest

quarters, it was with very great difficulty that our party were admitted to

see anything beyond the portions of the building open to the general

public. At last, however, he condescended to find the keys of the Tower of

the Infantas, once the residence of the Moorish princesses whose tragical

fate is so touchingly recorded by Washington Irving. It is a beautiful

little cage, overlooking the ravine, with its fine aqueduct below, and rich

in the delicate moresque carving of both ceilings and walls. Afterward,

crossing a garden, they came to the gate by which Boabdil left his palace

for the last time, and which was afterward, by his special request, walled

up. The tower at this corner was mined and destroyed by the French. Our

party then descended to a little mosque lately purchased by Colonel ----,

and beautifully restored. This completed the circuit of the Alhambra, which

is girdled with walls and towers of that rich red-brown hue which stands

out so beautifully against the deep blue sky, but the greater portion of

which was ruthlessly destroyed by Sebastiani, at the time of his occupation

of Granada.

[Footnote 111: Few have described this enchanting palace as well as the

French lady already quoted. She says, speaking of the feelings it calls

forth: "J'aimerais autant étre broyée dans la gueule de ces jolis

monstres qui ont des nez en noeud de oravate, appelés _Lions_ par

la grâce de Mahomet, que de te parier de l'Alhambra, tant cette

description est difficile. Les murailles ne sont que guipures délicates

et compilquées: les plus hardies stalactites ne peuvent donner une idée

des coupoles. Le tout est une merveille, un travail d'abeilles ou de

fées. Les sculptures sont d'une délicatesse ravissante, d'un goût

parfait, d'une richesse qui vous fait songer à tout ce que les contes

de fées vous décrivalent jadis à l'heureux àge où l'imagination a des

ailes d'or. Hélas! la mienne n'a pius d'alle, elle est de plomb. Les

Arabes n'employaient que quatre couleurs: le bleu, le rouge, le noir et

l'or. Cette richesse, ces teintes vives, sont visibles encore partout.

Enfin, mon ami, ce n'est point un palais ceci: c'est la ville d'un

enchanteur!"]

The restoration of this matchless palace has been undertaken by the present

queen, who has put it in the hands of a first-rate artist named Contreras;

and this confidence has been well bestowed, for it is impossible to see

work executed in a more perfect manner, so that it is very difficult to

tell the old portions from the new. If he be spared to complete it, future

generations will see the Alhambra restored very nearly to its pristine

beauty. This gentleman makes exquisite models of different parts of the

building, done to a scale, which are the most perfect miniature fac-similes

possible of the different portions of this beautiful palace, and a most

agreeable memento of a visit to it. Our travellers purchased several, and

only regretted they had not chosen some of the same size, as they would

make charming panels for a cabinet or screen.

In the afternoon, the party started to see the cathedral, escorted by the

kind and good-natured dean, who engaged the venerable mother of the "Little

Sisters of the Poor" to act as his interpreter, his Andalusian Spanish

being utterly unintelligible to most of the party. The first feeling on

entering is of unmixed disappointment. It is a pagan Greco-Roman building,

very much what our London churches are which were erected in the time of

the Georges. But it has one redeeming point--the Capilla de los Reyes,

containing the wonderful monuments of Ferdinand and Isabella, and of Philip

and Joan.

{328}

The alabaster sepulchres of the former, wrought at Genoa by Peralta, are

magnificent, both in design and execution. Isabella's statue is especially

beautiful:

In questa forma

Passa la bella donna, e par che dorma.

The faces are both portraits, and have a simple dignity which arrests the

attention of the most unobservant. A low door and a few steep steps below

the monuments lead to their last resting-place. The royal coffins are of

lead, lapped over, rude and plain (only the letter F distinguishes that of

the king), but they are genuine, and untouched since the day when their

bodies, so justly revered by the Spaniards, were deposited in this humble

vault. Among the treasures of this chapel are likewise shown the identical

royal standards used at the conquest of Granada; the kings sword; the

queen's own missal; their crosier and crown of silver-gilt; the picture of

the Virgin and Child by St. Luke, given to Isabella by Pope Innocent VIII.,

and before which mass is said every 2d of January, the anniversary of the

taking of the city; and the portrait of the knight who, during the siege,

rode into Granada, and affixed a taper and an "Ave Maria" on the very door

of the principal mosque. In the sacristy is a "Conception," exquisitely

carved, by Alonso Caño; an "Adoration of the Kings," by Hemling, of Bruges;

a curious ring of Sixtus II.; a chasuble embroidered by Queen Isabella;

some very valuable relics and reliquaries, and a letter of St. Charles

Borromeo, which the good-natured dean allowed one of the party to copy.

Besides these treasures, and the Capilla de los Reyes, there is really

nothing to look at in the cathedral, but one or two good painted glass

windows, some clustered columns, and a curious arch in the dome, which was

made to bend downward.

The following morning, after an early service at the Capuchin convent of

St. Antonio, one of the party started on an expedition with the sisters of

the town, and winding up a beautiful and steep ravine, in the holes and

caverns of which gypsies live and congregate, they came to a picturesque

wood planted on the side of the mountain. Here they left their carriages,

and scrambled up a zigzag path cut in the hill, with low steps or

"gradini," till they reached a plateau, on which stands both convent and

church. The view from the terrace in front is the most magnificent which

can be conceived. On one side are the snowy mountains of the Sierra Nevada,

with a rapid river tumbling into the gorge below, the valleys being lined

on both sides with stone-pine woods, amid which little convents and

villages are clustered. On the other is the town of Granada, with its domes

and towers; and sharply standing out on the rocks above the ruins, against

the bright blue sky, are the coffee-colored towers of the beautiful

Alhambra. There is a Via Crucis up to this spot, the very crosses seeming

to start up out of the rocks, which are clothed with aloes and prickly

pear; while in the centre of the terrace is a beautiful fountain and cross,

shaded by magnificent cypresses. The church is built over some catacombs,

where the bodies of St. Cecilia and eleven other martyrs were found, who

suffered in the persecution under Nero. The superior of this convent, now

converted into a college, is Don José Martin, a very holy man, though quite

young, and revered by the whole country as a saint. He is a wonderful

preacher, and by his austere and penitential life works miracles in

bringing souls to God. His manner is singularly gentle, simple, and humble.

He kindly came to escort the party through the catacombs, and to show them

the relics. The sites of the different martyrdoms have been converted into

small chapels or oratories: in one, where the victim perished by fire, his

ashes still remain. Little leaden tablets mark the different spots.

{329}

Here also is the great wooden cross of St. John of the Cross, from the foot

of which he preached a sermon on the "Love of God" during his visit to

Granada, which is said to have converted upward of three thousand people.

"I always come here to pray for a few minutes before preaching," said

simply Don José Martin, "so that a portion of his spirit may rest upon me."

After spending some time in this sanctuary, the party reluctantly retraced

their steps, and returned to the town, where they had promised to visit the

great hospital of San Juan de Dios. It is a magnificent establishment,

entirely under the care of the Spanish sisters of charity of St. Vincent de

Paul, with a "patio" or quadrangle in the centre, and double cloisters

round, into which the wards open: all round the cloisters are frescoes

describing different scenes in the life of the saint. The church is

gorgeous in its decorations, and in a chapel above rests the body of San

Juan, in a magnificent silver shrine, with his clothes, his hat, the basket

in which he used daily to go and collect food for his sick and dying poor,

and other like personalities.

This saint is immensely revered in Granada. He was the first founder of the

order of Brothers of Charity, now spread all over Europe, beginning his

great work, as all saints have done, in the humblest manner possible, by

hiring a small house (now converted into a wayside oratory), in which he

could place four or five poor people, nursing them himself night and day,

and only going out to beg, sell, and chop wood, or do anything to obtain

the necessary food and medicines for them. The archbishop, touched with his

burning charity, assisted him to build a larger hospital. This house soon

after took fire, when San Juan carried out the sick one by one on his back,

without receiving any hurt. It is thus that he is represented in the Statue

Gallery of Madrid. The people, inflamed by his loving zeal, and in

admiration of his great wisdom, humility, and prudence, came forward as one

man to help him to build the present hospital, which remains to this day as

a monument of what may be done by one poor man of humble birth, if really

moved by the love of God. His death was caused by rescuing a man in danger

of drowning from the sudden rising of the river, and then remaining, wet

and worn out as he was, while caring for the family. He died on his knees,

repeating the "Miserere," amidst the tears of the whole city, to whom, by

the special command of the archbishop, he gave his dying benediction. His

favorite saying was: "Labor without intermission to do all the good works

in your power while time is allowed you;" and this sentence is engraved in

Spanish on the door of the hospital.