Northumberland, jubilant over his certain liberation, calls upon Jane
and Guilford to rejoice at their renascent fortunes. The pure-souled
Jane refuses the crown once for all, and endeavors to lead her husband
and his father to proper gratitude for the reprieve. But in the midst
of Dudley’s “merry mood” Fakenham enters with a warrant――and not the
document so confidently looked for. It is now Northumberland’s turn to
despair; and the struggles of his soul, at the prospect of speedy
death, are depicted with great force. Hitherto, during his
imprisonment, he has been pretending to let Fakenham convert him. Now
he sees the necessity of conversion indeed, yet clings to the hope of
respite as the gain of professing the true Faith.
At the scaffold Pembroke meanly stings him into rage; but this
obnoxious person being removed, the arch-rebel seems to turn his
attention in earnest to the salvation of his soul, and after a prayer,
which sounds perfectly sincere, kneels to Fakenham for absolution,
then hurriedly ascends the scaffold. The scene closes, and a cannon is
heard――the appointed signal that the head has fallen.
The fate of Lady Jane Grey is next determined. Mary is strongly
inclined to spare her. Gardiner is to blame for the adverse decision.
Fakenham, however, obtains a promise that she shall be spared if she
abjure her heresy. But Mary, in the fifth scene, shows a sudden
tenderness for her doomed cousin, and, after a fit of raving
melancholy, sends Fakenham in all haste to bring her. It is too late.
Guilford has just been executed, and his widow is being led forth even
while the queen demands her presence. The sixth scene gives us the
parting of Jane and her mother, and closes as the victim of another’s
ambition heroically ascends the scaffold. In the last scene Mary
reaches Jane’s prison to find her gone, and rushes to the window in
the hope of signalling the executioner, but only in time to see him
hold up the severed head.
* * * * *
We shall now introduce our readers to some of the best passages from
this play. Our only difficulty will be to restrict their number within
necessary limits, for there is not a page but invites quotation. Here
is a fine bit of description to begin with. It is from the opening
scene. Sir Thomas Wyatt is amazed to learn that the king is “sick to
death.”
“WYATT. How can it be? But one short month it seems
Since I beheld him on his jennet’s back,
With hawk on wrist, his bounding hounds beside,
Charge up the hillside through the golden gorse,
Swallowing the west wind, till his cheeks glowed out
Like ripened pears. The whirring pheasant sprang
From the hedged bank; and, with a shout, in air
The bright boy tossed his falcon; then, with spur
Pressed to his jennet’s flank, and head thrown back,
And all the spirit of life within his eye
And voice, he drew not rein, till the spent quarry
Lay cowering ’neath the hawk’s expanded wings.”
To us, this dash into description, at the very beginning of the play,
shows how thoroughly our author feels himself at home. Had he not been
a conscious master of his art, he would scarcely have made such a
venture, for fear of exciting the suspicion that his talent lay in the
direction of descriptive rather than of dramatic poetry. As it is,
Wyatt’s burst of eloquence lends much to the easy strength of this
first scene.
We are little prepared, however, for the daring feat of two heroines:
each heroine enough to have the play to herself, yet neither
overshadowing the other. So lovely is the character of Lady Jane Grey,
and so keenly are our sympathies enlisted on her side, that we are
astonished to find any room left in our hearts for Mary Tudor;
whereas, in fact, so royal the latter’s bearing, so truly is she
“every inch a” queen, so indisputable are her rights, so outrageous
her wrongs, that we end by seeing only her noble qualities, and even
forgive her Jane Grey’s death.
The poet introduces Lady Jane at that post where woman is always “a
ministering angel”――by the death-bed of her cousin, King Edward. She
has been reading him to sleep, and he has just awaked.
“JANE. How fares your Highness now?
EDWARD. Thy sweet voice, Jane,
Soothes every pain. A film grew o’er mine eyes:
A murmur, as of breezes on the shore,
Or waters lapping in some gelid cave,
Coiled round my temples, and I slept.”
This gives our author an opportunity of bringing out Jane’s modesty
and humility――the very un-Protestant virtues with which he has chosen
to adorn his favorite heroine conspicuously.
“JANE. Ah, cousin!
Not in my voice the charm. Within this volume
A sanatory virtue lives enshrined,
As in Bethesda’s pool.
EDWARD. By an angel stirred.”
An answer no less just than felicitous.
Again, in the same scene, the guilelessness of her soul shines out in
her protest against being made heir to the crown. The pretext put
forth by Northumberland and Cranmer for persuading Edward to sign away
the throne from his sisters is the safety of the Protestant
cause――what Anglicans impudently call “the true church.” Jane, though
an earnest adherent of the new religion, will have nothing to do with
evil measures in its behalf.
“JANE. O no! not me! This remediless wrong
I have no part in. Edward, you have sisters.
Great Harry’s daughters, England’s manifest heirs.
Leave right its way, and God will guard his own.”
But now it is Mary’s turn to win our admiration. She comes upon the
scene the moment after the weak Edward has signed away the kingdom to
Jane. Unaware of the injury that has been done her, she greets her
“dear lost brother” with true sisterly affection, but, in another
minute, shows the Tudor in her veins by the courage with which she
confronts Dudley and tells the traitor she knows him at his worth.
Then, discovering the plot against her, she rises――suddenly but with
calmest dignity――to the attitude of queen, as though the crown had
just been placed upon her head instead of stolen for another’s.
“EDWARD. It is now too late――too late!
I have done what it were well had ne’er been done.
JANE. O would to God that act might be recalled!
MARY. What act?
JANE. That makes me queen.
MARY. Thou queen! O never
Shall regal crown clasp that unwrinkled brow!
Thou queen? Go, girl――betake thee to thy mappets!
Call Ascham back――philosophize――but never
Presume to parley with gray counsellors,
Nor ride forth in the front of harnessed knights!
_Leave that to me, the daughter of a king._”
Equally worthy is her reply to the insolent Dudley when he dares to
offer her the crown on condition of her “renouncing her errors”:
“MARY. Sir, have you done? Simply I thus reply.
Not to drag England from this slough of treason――
Nor save this lady’s head――nor yours, archbishop――
Not even my brother’s life――would I abjure
My faith, and forfeit heaven!”
But sublimer even than this avowal of her faith is the act of charity
she presently makes after her brother’s spirit has departed; and in
nothing has the poet done her so much justice:
“MARY. And thou art gone! hast left me unforgiven!
O brother! was this righteous? Gloomier now
This dreary world frowns on me, and its cares
Womanly dreams, farewell! Stern truths of life
Stamp on my heart all that becomes a queen.
Dudley, you have dared much: yet, standing here
By my poor brother’s clay, _I can forgive_.
Will you kneel, Dudley?”
After this, let the poet depict Jane in the most attractive colors he
can find, he has shown his Catholic heroine the greater woman. But, in
fact, we are convinced this is his aim. For although, as a Protestant,
he makes Jane become a saint (according to his idea of saintship), her
“path a shining light that goeth forward and increaseth to perfect
day”――while Mary’s way is over-clouded to the end, and cruel wrongs
goad her into rage which rouses all the Tudor and all the Spaniard in
her nature, and deepens her melancholy into madness――still, even in
her most painful moments, the daughter of Catherine is _great_. Her
enemies do homage to her greatness. Northumberland himself is forced
to say of her, in the scene we have quoted from above:
“The eighth Harry’s soul lives in her voice and eye.”
But the spell of her majestic bearing is best portrayed in the scene
where she meets the rebel leaders Wyatt and Brett with their
followers. Sir Thomas Wyatt, true to his character as indicated in the
first scene, indulges again in fine rhetoric, declaring that he and
his men have decided to stand for Mary, but putting in the condition
that “all things which touch the Church” shall “rest as King Edward
left them.” The queen answers this appeal by another to the
consciences of “English gentlemen,” demanding for her own the liberty
she willingly extends to theirs; but when, presently, Wyatt insults
her by raving, like a modern fanatic, about “the dogs of persecution,
insatiate brood of Rome,” and Brett sullenly refuses to march with her
to London, she passes on, leaving the two insurrectionists to pay her
tribute each in his own fashion.
“BRETT. Now, by all saints and martyrs calendared!
I could half worship such a tameless woman,
All shrewish though she be. With what a spirit,
Like thunder-riven cloud, her wrath poured forth,
And keen words flared! Ugly and old?――to that
I shall say nay hereafter. Autumn moons
Portend good harvests. Yet, that glance at parting
Flashed fierce as sunset through a blasted tree!
But hey! look yonder, Wyatt: half your men
Are scampering after her.
WYATT. I marked, and blame not.
I mar no fortune, and coerce no conscience.
_There is a fascination――all have felt it――
When Royalty and Woman join in one:
Austere allegiance softening into love;
And new-born fealty clinging to the heart,
Like a young babe that front its mother’s bosom
Looks up and smiles._”
(Here let us ask, if these lines we have italicized were quoted
anonymously, who would not take them for Shakspere’s?)
“BRETT. Trust me, I am much minded
To join her even yet.
WYATT. It cannot be.
I feel as you do: but I look beyond
The tempting present. _She goes forth to conquer:
So strong a heart must conquer._”
Mary’s affection for her sister Elizabeth is sincere and tender; while
Elizabeth’s for her, on the other hand, has a dubious quality. It is
strange that Sir Aubrey shows no enthusiasm over Elizabeth. He appears
to have learnt too much truth about her. Mary’s first inquiry, after
reaching Framlingham in her flight from Dudley’s machinations, is for
her sister:
“Why is Elizabeth not here to greet me?
Command her to the presence.”
And when the princess enters, and, kneeling, says, “Queen, sister!”
Mary’s joy at seeing her is very touching.
“To my arms! Pardie, sweet Bess,
You daily grow more stately. _Your great brows
Like our cathedral porches, double-arched,
Seem made for passage of high thought._”
A part of this scene is particularly fine.
“MARY. Never was kind counsel needed more
By aching heart. Little you know my trials.
The fleetness of my horse scarce saved my life;
And I am queen in nothing but the name!
O sister, canst thou love me? Thou her child――
Beautiful Boleyn’s daughter――who destroyed
My mother――hapless queen, dishonored wife!
Thou too, my brother――spurned from thy throne, thy death-bed!
O no! I shall go down into my earth
Desolate, unbeloved!――I wound thee, sister!
Pardon! I rave――I rave――
ELIZABETH. Abate this passion!
In very truth I love you――fondly pity――
MARY. Pity! not pity――give me love or nothing.
_I hope not happiness: I kneel for peace._
But no: this crown traitors would rive from me――
Which our great father Harry hath bequeathed
Undimmed to us――a righteous heritage――
This crown which we, my sister, must maintain
Or die: this crown, true safeguard of our people,
Their charter’s seal――crushes our peace for ever.
_All crowns, since Christ wore His, are lined with thorns._”
And again, as the melancholy gains upon her:
“MARY. Am I mad?
Think you I’m mad? I have been used to scorn,
Neglect, oppression, self-abasement, aye――
_My mother’s scorching heritage of woe!_
Ha! as I speak, behold, she visits me,
With that fair choir of angels trooping round her,
And cherub faces, with expanded wings
Upbearing her! O blessed Saint, depart not!
_Breathe on my cold lips those still cherished kisses
Which thine in death impressed! Sigh in mine ear
Those half-articulate blessings, unforgotten,
Which made my childhood less than martyrdom!_
I’ll clasp thee――mother!
[_Totters forward and falls._]”
Surely this, too, is worthy of Shakspere. And so is Northumberland’s
soliloquy with which the third Act opens; so much so, indeed, that we
can with difficulty persuade ourselves we are not reading Shakspere.
“I have plunged too deep. The current of the times
Hath been ill-sounded. _Frosty discontent
Breathes chilly in the face of our attempt_:
And, like the dry leaves in November winds,
_These summer-suited friends fly my nipped branches_.
What’s to be done? Time like a ruthless hunter,
Tramples my flying footsteps! Banned and baited
By my own pack, dogs fed from mine own hand
Gnash fangs and snarl on me.”
What is peculiarly Shaksperian here is the profusion of metaphors. It
is a sign of a great poet to deal freely with metaphors. We know how
Byron heaps them up in _Childe Harold_, and Tennyson in _In Memoriam_.
Another proof of high genius――especially dramatic――is the ready use of
wit and sarcasm. We have a passage of arms between Dudley and
Courtenaye which is very masterly.
Dudley, having lost his way in the Tower, gets the headsman to show
him to Courtenaye’s cell.
“EXETER. Ha! I should know that face; and lackeyed thus
By yon grim doomster, guess my coming fate.
NORTHUMBERLAND. I greet you well, Marquis of Exeter,
Noble Plantagenet!
EXETER. Hey, what means this?
The half-forgotten name, and fatal heritage!
Sir John of Dudley――bear and ragged staff――
Or memory fails me.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Now Northumberland.
EXETER. Indeed? Excuse me. _Prisoners limp behind
The vaulting world._ You are welcome.
NORTHUMBERLAND. I would greet you
With tidings of content.
EXETER. Long strangers here.
NORTHUMBERLAND. I take your hand: nor coldly, thus, hereafter
Will you, perchance, vouchsafe it. I have power
(In Edward’s time I only had the will)
To serve you.
EXETER. Ha! how well I guessed the truth!
One king the more is dead. Who now rules England?
_Chaste Boleyn’s babe, or the Arragonian whelp?_
No beauty, I’ll be sworn, unless time makes one.
NORTHUMBERLAND. The house of Grey is of the royal lineage.
To that King Edward’s will bequeathes the crown.
EXETER. My lady duchess queen? Now, God forbid!
NORTHUMBERLAND. All cry amen to that. Her Grace of Suffolk
Yields to her wiser daughter――Lady Jane――
My son, Lord Guilford’s wife: now Queen of England.
EXETER. _O, now I do begin to read the stars,
And note what constellation climbs._ My lord,
Excuse the stiffness of imprisoned knees.
The obsolete posterity of kings
Lowly should bend to kings’ progenitors.
Sir Headsman, art thou married?
HEADSMAN. Nay, my lord.
EXETER. Get thee a wife, then, in good haste: get sons!
_Full-bosomed honor, like a plant in the sun,
Plays harlot to the hour. Lo, thistles burgeon
Even through the Red Rose’ cradle!_
NORTHUMBERLAND. My good lord,
_Unseasonable wit hath a warped edge,
Whereby the unskilful take unlooked for scars._
Good-night. May fancy tickle you in dreams
In which nor Boleyn’s babe (I quote your phrase)
Nor whelp of Arragon――kind heaven forefend!――
Nor our grim friend here, with uncivil axe,
Dare mingle. Good-night, Courtenaye.”
To pass to the trial scene, in the fourth Act, a speech is put
into the mouth of Gardiner――who, as chancellor conducts the
prosecution――which reminds us of the unanswered arguments from Pole
and other Catholic characters in _Queen Mary_:
“GARDINER. My lords, religion was the plea for this.
Religion, a wide cloak for godless knaves.
What! knew they not the Apostolic rule
That men are bound to obey even sinful princes?
Who dares insinuate that our queen’s right rule
Shall be a snare for conscience? Hypocrites!
_Why claim ye toleration, yet refuse it?
Faith your perpetual cry, yet would ye stifle
That faith which is the trust of other hearts._
Your Bible is your idol: _all must bow
Before your exposition of its sense_,
Or forfeit all――the very throne!”
Had our author been a Catholic, he could not have stated the case
better.
Jane Grey pleads guilty so nobly, and prays so generously that her own
life may be taken and her husband’s spared, that Fakenham truly says
of her:
“She rises from the sea of her great trouble
Like a pure infant glowing from the bath.”
Here are some of her words:
“_I wake from the vain dream of a blind sleep_:
Nothing to hide, nothing extenuate.
My lords, reverse to me this good hath brought;
That I who dimly saw now plainly see,
And seeing loathe my fault, and loathing leave it.
_The bolts of heaven have split the aspiring tower
Of my false grandeur; and through every rent
The light of heaven streams in._
* * * * *
In time to come it shall be known, ambition
Was not my nature, though it makes my crime.”
Dudley’s defence would be manly and admirable were it not for his
hypocrisy. But the hour comes when hypocrisy can serve him no longer.
It is a powerful scene――the first of the fifth Act――where his
confident hopes are dashed to the ground for ever. And then he finds
Fakenham――whom he has called “worm” and “dog” before, and for whom his
hatred never could contain itself――his best friend and only succor. He
seems, indeed (so well is his character sustained throughout), to
cling to the hope of saving his bodily life by accepting the Catholic
faith, till he stands on the very scaffold; but there he drops
simulation.
“The terrible ‘to be’ is come! Time’s past!
Yet all’s to do――_an age crammed to a span!
Time, never garnered till thy last sands ebb,
How shall my sharp need eke thy wasted glass,
Or wit reverse it?_”
Lady Jane meets death like a martyr. Her resignation is shown as early
as the third scene of the third Act, while she is in the Tower with
her husband awaiting further tidings after learning that their cause
is lost.
“JANE. Midnoon, yet silent as midnight! My heart
Flutters and stops――flutters and stops again――
As in the pauses of a thunder-storm,
Or a bird cowering during an eclipse.
Alone through these deserted halls we wander,
Bereft of friends and hope. Speak to me, Guilford.
GUILFORD. Thy heart-strings, Jane, strengthened by discipline,
Endure the strain.
JANE. Say rather, my religion
Has taught this good. _Nor lacks our female nature
Courage to meet inevitable woe
With a beloved one shared._”
And again her generosity comes out:
“We have obscured a dawn. If spared, God grant
We may make bright the queen’s triumphant way
Like clouds that glorify the wake of noon.”
She, too, sees the “true minister of Christ” in Fakenham:
“Fearless of danger in discharge of duty,
And to the mourner prodigally kind.”
Such Protestants as she are never formal heretics: they have too much
humility. When Fakenham is pleading her cause with the Tudor, who
displays for a season the vindictiveness of woman against woman, Jane
disallows his attestation of her innocence:
“Ah, sir, too gently have you judged me!
Usurper of the consecrated crown.
The sacred sceptre, how can I be pure?
_Welcome Adversity, lifter up of veils!_
Before me, _naked as a soul for judgment_,
Stands up my sin. ’Tis well! the worst is o’er.
Suffer I must; but I will sin no longer.”
When, in the fifth Act, she approaches the scaffold, she alone is
firm, she alone makes no complaint against the justice of her
sentence, but, on the contrary, defends it.
“BEDINGFIELD. Madam,
We fain would linger on the way. Our eyes,
Blind though they be with tears, strain round to catch
Some signal of reprieve.
JANE. O, seek it not!
It cannot be. _My life may not consist
With the realm’s safety._ Innocent am I
In purpose; but the object of great crimes.
Good blood must still flow on till Jane’s be shed.”
So again, in her final address to the spectators:
“My sentence hath been just: _not for aspiring
Unto the crown, but that, with guilty weakness,
When proffered I refused it not._ From me
Let future times be warned that _good intent
Excuseth not misdeeds: all instruments
Of evil must partake its punishment_.”
In the meantime Mary softens somewhat after Dudley’s execution, and is
inclined to spare Guilford, as well as Jane. Gardiner argues against
the husband’s reprieve, on the ground of certain peril to throne,
church, and commonweal; and here he carries his point easily. He is
not successful in securing Jane’s doom, even though he tells the queen:
“She is proclaimed
From street to street. The very walls are ciphered
With traitorous scrolls that hail her ‘Jane the Queen.’
Shall such wrong go unchecked?
MARY. That is their folly;
Not hers. The culpable shall smart for this.”
But here Bedingfield enters hastily to announce the escape of Suffolk
and his having “joined with Wyatt.”
“MARY. Suffolk fled? Jane’s father?
Henceforth let justice rule. Farewell, weak pity!
We cannot, Jane, both live: why, then, die thou!”
Yet, even after this, her good genius, Fakenham, obtains from Mary a
promise that Jane shall live “if she abjure her heresy.” It does not
appear, however, that Fakenham had any further interview with Jane. It
would have been useless, if he had; for when, just before her
execution, Bedingfield says:
“At least, we may delay till the dean comes
To whisper spiritual comfort,”
Jane replies:
“Infinite
Is the Almighty’s goodness. In that only
I put my trust. My time, sir is too short
For controversy: and that good man’s duty
Compels him to dispute my creed. I thank him:
Pray you, sir, say I thank him, from my heart,
For all his charities. In privacy
My prayers――not unacceptable, I trust,
To God my Saviour――have been offered up.
So must they to the end.”
But in the scene before the execution――one of singular power――the
unhappy queen evinces a yearning for sympathy which triumphs over
rigor, and, in spite of Gardiner’s presence, makes her relent, though
too late.
First we see her alone. She is vindicating herself to her conscience:
“I have no thirst for blood; nor yet would shrink
From shortening earthly life: for what is life
That we should court its stay? A pearl of price
In festal days, but mockery to mourners.
What’s life to thee, thy loved one dead, poor Jane?
What’s life to me, by him I loved betrayed?
I take from thee what is no loss to thee
And much infects the realm. Gladly would I
My life on such conditions sacrifice.
_The time for thy short widowhood is come:
But ye shall reunite above. For me
The heart’s blank widowhood must be for ever.
Jane! on thy block the throned queen envies thee!_”
She is full of her own betrayal by Courtenaye――a wrong which has left
a more cruel wound than all the plots of treason have effected.
Here Gardiner and Fakenham enter to announce that Brett and Wyatt are
taken. Presently, after a burst of fevered excitement, she says:
“I want
To see Jane Grey-after her widowhood.
FAKENHAM [_aside_]. After?――She then shall live.
GARDINER [_aside_]. Observe, she raves.
MARY. We’ll sit together in some forest nook,
_Or sunless cavern by the moaning sea_,
And talk of sorrow and vicissitudes
Of hapless love, and luckless constancy;
And hearts that death or treachery divides.”
She then goes off into a fit of raving, and declares that “the spirit
of the fatal Sisterhood riots in her veins,” and “the snakes of the
Eumenides brandish their horrent tresses round her head.” Fakenham
suggests music as the remedy for her “sick mind”; and Gardiner bids
him throw aside the gallery doors that open on the chapel. It being
the hour for service, the choir is heard.
“[_As the music proceeds, the queen’s stupor relaxes, and her
sensibility gradually revives. The music ceases._]
MARY. Airs fresh from heaven breathe round me!
Sing on, bright angels! tears relieve my heart――
My brain is calmed. Sing on and let me weep.
[_A pause._
Would they were saved! Alas, poor widowed one!
Can it not still be done? No, no――too late!”
Then she describes the “dark procession” of Guilford to the scaffold,
as seen in a vision. The signal gun is heard. The head has fallen.
“MARY. He is no more! Great God,
Have mercy upon both!
GARDINER. Her thoughts are changed:
Her brain relieved.
FAKENHAM. Now plead for Jane!
GARDINER. Too late!
Hear yonder bell.
MARY. What’s that? Again the death-bell?
Hark you! I would have speech with Jane. Fly, Fakenham!
My foot is weak and slow. Gardiner, attend me.
Fly, Fakenham, fly!
FAKENHAM. Too late! too late! too late!”
The scene of Jane’s execution intervenes; and then comes the last
scene, brief and terrible.
“_Jane Grey’s prison in the Tower. An open window
in the rear._
_Enter hurriedly_ MARY _followed by_ GARDINER.
MARY. She’s gone――I come too late――forgive me, God!
Myself I never, never shall forgive.
Ha! from yon casement they may mark a signal!
[_She leans from the window._
Hold! Hold! [_She draws back with a shriek._
Great God! it is――it is――her head
That demon lifts and brandishes before me!
[_She rushes from the window, rubbing her eyes wildly._
Pah! I am choked-my mouth is choked with blood!
My eyes, my nostrils, swim in blood――my hair
Stiffens with blood――the floor is slippery
With blood――all――blood! Mother and unborn babe
Both slain! Mother and child! The cry of blood
Rises to heaven――the curse of Cain is launched
Upon me! Innocent victims! At God’s throne
Already ye bear witness. Mercy, mercy!
_Spare one who knew not how to spare._
[_She kneels._
_Enter_ FAKENHAM.
Ay, kneel
To heaven――and pray! Lift up your hands to God!
Lift up your voice-your heart! Pray, sinner, pray!
[_The curtain falls._”
So ends the first part of this masterly drama, and, we think, the far
finer of the two plays――certainly the less painful to a Catholic
reader. We have given it unqualified praise, because we have dealt
with it purely as a drama. We are afraid that the real Jane Grey was a
much less lovely character than the poet’s, and are thankful to know
that the real Mary Tudor was a very different compound indeed. But we
give the poet credit for perfect sincerity in his delineation of
either character. We believe that if he was consciously partial at
all, it was rather to the Catholic side――from a wish to do Catholics
all the justice in his power. And this but makes us regret the more
that, together with the genius he manifests, he had not the faith of
the gifted son to whom he has left his mantle.
[189] _Mary Tudor: An Historical Drama._ By Sir Aubrey De
Vere, Bart. London: William Pickering. 1875.
A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF TOLEDO.
“Behold,” said the owl to Prince Ahmed, “the ancient and renowned city
of Toledo――a city famous for its antiquities. Behold those venerable
domes and towers, hoary with time, and clothed with legendary
grandeur, in which so many of my ancestors have meditated.”
We had arrived at the foot of the rocky promontory on which stands
imperial Toledo. The first sight of it is exceedingly impressive. Its
aspect is grave and majestic, and the thousand grand memories that
hover over it add to the fascination. It is the royal city, the
capital of the Gothic kings. For four hundred years it was in
possession of the Moors, and in the middle ages it was so renowned for
its learning as to attract numerous students from foreign parts. It
is, too, _par excellence_, the ecclesiastical city of Spain, and
stands proudly on its seven hills like Rome. The long line of its
bishops comprises many saints, as well as mighty prelates who not only
held spiritual primacy over the land, but took a prominent part in the
political affairs of the nation. It looks just as a city of the middle
ages, with a due sense of the fitness of things, ought to
look――antique, picturesque, and romantic――surrounded by its ancient
walls, from which rise, as if hewn out of the rock, the massive gray
towers that still bear the impress of the Goth and the Moor. Around
its base winds the golden Tagus over its rocky bed, foaming and wildly
raving, in a grand, solemn kind of a way, as if sensible of its high
functions and knowing the secrets of the magic caves that extend
beneath its very bed――caves wrought out of the live rock by the
cunning hand of Tubal, the grandson of Noe, and where Hercules the
Mighty taught the dark mysteries of Egyptian art, handed down to
posterity, and long after known as the _Arte Toledana_. For this
ancient city claims as its founder Tubal, the son of Japhet, who, as
the Spanish chroniclers say, with the memory of the Deluge still fresh
in his mind, naturally built it on an eminence, and hewed out caverns
as places of refuge from the watery element. So remote an origin might
reasonably be supposed enough to satisfy the most owlish of
antiquarians; but some hoary old birds have gone so far as to whisper
that Adam himself was the first king of Toledo; that the sun, at its
creation, first shone over this the true centre of the world; and that
its very name is derived from two Oriental words signifying the Mother
of Cities. However this may be, it was Hercules, the Libyan, who,
versed in the supernatural arts, achieved labors no mere human arm
could have accomplished, who gave the finishing touches to the city,
and set up the necromantic tower of legendary fame, in after-years so
rashly entered by Roderick, the last of the Goths, letting out a flood
of evils that spread over all the land. This was “one of those
Egyptian or Chaldaic piles, storied with hidden wisdom and mystic
prophecy, which were devised in past ages when man yet enjoyed
intercourse with high and spiritual natures, and when human foresight
partook of divination,” and its mysterious fate was worthy of its
origin.
But Toledo did not fully awake to its importance till the fifth
century after Christ, when it fell into the hands of the Goths, who
made it their capital and enlarged and embellished it, especially in
the good old times of King Wamba, whose name is still popular in
Castile, and corresponds to that of King Dagobert in France. It now
became renowned for its splendor and wealth, and, when taken by the
Moors at the end of the seventh century, they found here an immense
booty, including the spoils of Alaric from Rome and Jerusalem, among
which was the famous table of talismanic powers, wrought for King
Solomon out of a single emerald by the genii of the East, which had
the power of revealing, as in a mirror, all future events, and from
which that monarch acquired so much of his wisdom.
All these and many other things were flitting through our minds as we
crossed the bridge of Alcantara, with its tower of defence and
tutelary saint, and wound up the steep hillside into the city. We
alighted in the court of the Fonda de Lino, where we learned once more
that an old bird sometimes gets caught with mere chaff. It soon became
alarmingly evident that, between the Goth and the Moor, but little had
been left behind――at least, at the Fonda. But “Affliction is a divine
diet,” says Izaak Walton, and we took to it as kindly as possible. In
this state of affairs, we gave ourselves unresistingly up to a
_valet-de-place_, who lay in wait for his prey, and, for once in the
world, did not regret it; for he proved quite indispensable in the
maze of narrow, tortuous streets, and was tolerably versed in the
archæology of the place. Few cities are more rich in historic,
religious, and poetic memories, or have as many interesting monuments
of the past. At every step we were surprised by something novel and
curious. The streets themselves run zigzag, so that we were always
dodging around a corner, like our old friend Mr. Chevy Slyme, and soon
began to feel very mean and pitiful indeed. This must have been
convenient in days when arrows were weapons, but to honest,
straightforward folk in these pacific times they are peculiarly
trying. One side of you always seems getting in advance of the other,
and you soon begin to feel as if blind of one eye. It is to be hoped
obliquity of the moral sense does not follow from this necessity of
going zigzag. The streets are extremely clean, but so narrow as to
afford passage only to men and donkeys, or men _on_ donkeys, sometimes
looking, in their queer accoutrements, “like two beasts under one
skin,” as Dante says. These sombre, winding streets are lined with
lofty houses that are gloomy and solid as citadels, with few windows,
and these defended by strong iron grates. The portals are flanked with
granite columns and surmounted by worn escutcheons carven in stone.
They are frequently edged with the cannon-ball ornaments peculiar to
Castile, like rows of great stone beads. The doors themselves are so
thick and massive that they have withstood all ancient means of
assault, and the resinous wood of which they are made seems to defy
the very tooth of time itself. They are studded with enormous nails of
forged iron, with diamond-shaped or convex heads, sometimes as large
as half a cocoanut, and curiously wrought. Frequently they are not
content with their primitive forms, but go straying off into long,
artistic ramifications that cover the door like some ancient
embroidery. The gabled ends of the houses often project over the
streets with huge beams, carved and stained, that add to the gloom.
These streets do not seem to have changed for ages. Every instant we
saw some trace of the Goths or an Arabic inscription, or Moorish
galleries and balconies. Once we entered an old archway, and found
ourselves in a court with sculptured granite pillars that supported
Oriental-like galleries, to which we ascended by stairs faced with
colored _azulejos_, old and glittering, as the Moors alone knew how to
make them. Once the city contained two hundred thousand inhabitants;
now there are not more than twenty thousand. The streets are deserted
and silent, the houses empty. Everywhere are ruins and traces of past
grandeur over which nothings of modern life is diffused. You seem to
be wandering in a museum of antiquities. Above all, you feel it was
once, and perhaps still is, a city of deep religious convictions, from
the numerous monasteries and magnificent churches. Pious emblems are
on the houses. Among others, we remember the cord of St. Francis,
carven in stone, with its symbolic knots of the Passion. At the
Ayuntamiento, built after the designs of El Greco, who, like several
other eminent artists, was at once painter, architect, and sculptor,
is an inscription on the side of the staircase by the poet Jorje
Manrique worthy of a place over the entrance of every city-hall: “Ye
noble, judicious lords who govern Toledo, on these steps leave all
your passions――avarice, weakness, fear. For the public good forget
your own private interests; and since God has made you the pillars of
this august house, continue always to be firm and upright.”
We were now near the cathedral――one of the grandest, and certainly the
richest, in Spain. Its first foundation is lost in the obscurity of
legendary times. The people, however, are not so indefinite in their
opinion. With a true Oriental love of the marvellous, they not only
attribute the foundation of Toledo to patriarchal times, but declare
this church was built by the apostles, and that even the Blessed
Virgin herself took a personal interest in its erection. It is at
least certain that a church was consecrated here in the time of King
Ricared the Goth, after the condemnation of the Arians by the Council
of Toledo, and it was probably built on the site of a previous one. It
was placed under the invocation of the Virgin, and her ancient statue,
which has been preserved to this day, was regarded then, as now, with
special veneration. The old Gothic kings were noted for their devotion
to Mary, and hung up at her altar the beautiful crowns of pure beaten
gold and precious stones discovered a few years ago near Toledo, and
now at the Hôtel Cluny at Paris.[190]
The Moors, when they took Toledo, seized this church, so sacred to the
Christians, razed it to the ground, and erected a mosque in its place;
and when Alfonso VI. triumphantly entered the old capital of the
Visigoths, May 25, 1085――the very day the great Hildebrand died at
Salerno, exclaiming: “I have loved justice and hated iniquity, and
therefore I die an exile”――having left the Moors in possession of the
building, he was forced to hear Mass in a little mosque of the tenth
century, afterwards given to the Knights Templars and called the
Christo de la Luz, where may still be seen the wooden shield hung up
by King Alfonso, with its silver cross on a red ground.
The people, of course, were dissatisfied to see the infidel left to
defile a spot where the Gospel had first been announced to their
forefathers and the Christian mysteries first celebrated, and, as soon
as the king left the city, determined to regain possession of it.
Queen Constanza herself, though a native of France, favored the
movement, and had the doors of the mosque forced open in the night.
The archbishop purified it with incense, aspersions, and prayer; an
altar was hastily set up, and a bell hung in the tower, which, after a
silence of four centuries, rang out as soon as daylight appeared, to
call the people to a solemn service of thanksgiving.
Bernard de Sédirac was now Archbishop of Toledo. He belonged to a
noble family of Aquitaine, and became early in life a Benedictine monk
at St. Oren’s Priory, Auch, of which he was soon made prior. This
house was affiliated to the Abbey of Cluny, to which he was
transferred by St. Hugo on account of his talents and eminent virtues,
and when Alfonso VI. sent there for a monk capable of re-establishing
monastic discipline in the convents of Castile, Dom Bernard had the
honor of being appointed to the mission. He found not in the Spanish
monasteries the austerity and silence of Cluny. The neighing of
steeds, the baying of hounds, and the whistle of the falcon prevailed
over the choral chants, and soft raiment had taken the place of
haircloth and the scourge. The monks, however, were by no means
depraved, and Bernard soon acquired such an ascendency over them as to
effect a radical change in their habits, especially at the great Abbey
of San Facundo, of which he had been made abbot.
When Alfonso VI. took Toledo, desirous of restoring the see to its
ancient grandeur and importance, he endowed it magnificently, and
appointed Dom Bernard archbishop. The part this prelate took in the
seizure of the mosque has been alluded to. Mariana, the Jesuit
historian, considers his zeal on this occasion as too lively and
impetuous. The Moors were naturally enraged at losing their chief
place of worship, and for a time it was feared they would break out
into open revolt. But they finally concluded to send a deputation to
the king to make known the violation of the treaty and demand redress.
Alfonso was then in the kingdom of Leon, and, when he learned what had
occurred, he was not only alarmed for the safety of his capital, but
angry with those who had endangered it. He at once set out for Toledo,
resolved to punish the queen and archbishop. When the Christians of
Toledo learned that he was approaching the city in such a disposition
the principal citizens clothed themselves in black, and the clergy put
on their sacred robes, and went forth to meet him. In the midst was
the fair Princess Urraca, pale and trembling, clothed in sackcloth,
with ashes on her head, sent by the queen to appease the king’s anger,
knowing, if anything could turn him from his purpose, it would be the
sight of his favorite daughter. But Alfonso hardened his heart when he
saw them approach, and silently registered a vow not to be moved by
the princess’ entreaties. Urraca had the true tact of a woman, and,
divining her father’s thoughts, fell at his feet, conjuring him to
grant her but one favor――to show no mercy on those who had set at
naught his authority out of obedience to a higher will!
The king was taken aback by this pious stratagem, and, before he
recovered from his embarrassment, a second embassy from the Moors
appeared. The king, in anticipation of their renewed complaints,
exclaimed: “It is not to you the injury has been done, but to me; and
my own interest and glory forbid me to allow my promises to be
violated with impunity.”
The messengers fell on their knees and replied: “The archbishop is the
doctor of your law, and if we, however innocent, be the cause of his
death, his followers will some day take vengeance on us. And should
the queen perish, we shall become an object of hatred to her
posterity, of which we shall feel the effects when you have ceased to
reign. Therefore, O king! we release you from your promise, and beg
you to pardon them. If you refuse our petition, allow us to seek in
another country an asylum from the dangers that threaten us here.”
The king, who had been weighed down with sadness, broke into
transports of joy: “You have not only saved the archbishop, but the
queen and princess. Never shall I forget so happy a day. Henceforth
you may be assured of my special protection.”
When the king entered the city a few hours after, he proceeded
directly towards the mosque taken from the Moors. On the threshold
stood Queen Constanza in garments of mourning, and Dom Bernard in
pontifical vestments. The king kissed the archbishop’s hand, embraced
the queen, and entered the church to give thanks unto God for the
happy ending of so threatening a drama. And so, adds Mariana, this day
of tears and lamentations was changed into a day of joy. This was in
the year of our Lord 1087.
The _Alfaqui_, or Moorish doctor, whose sagacious advice the Moors had
followed on this occasion, was regarded with so much gratitude by the
Christians that they set up his statue in the Holy of Holies, where it
is to be seen to this day among the kings of Spain and the dignitaries
of the church.
The present cathedral was begun by St. Ferdinand in 1227. Eight
portals give entrance to the edifice. The principal one is called the
great Door of Pardon. Seven steps lead up to it, which the people
often ascend on their knees. And to kneel is the attitude one
instinctively takes on entering this magnificent church, which is like
a great jewelled cross of marvellous workmanship. It is, in fact, a
museum of sculpture and painting. The eye is absolutely dazzled by its
richness, as it looks up the long aisles with their clustered columns,
lit up by the finest stained-glass windows in Spain. The choir alone
it would take hours to examine, so profuse are the beautiful carvings.
On the lower stalls――those of the choristers――are carved jousts,
tourneys, battles, and sieges, as if to figure the constant warfare of
man here below. Even the very animals in the accessory carvings are
represented contending. Forty-five of these stalls represent the siege
of some city or fortress in the war with the Moors, and are curious
for the costumes and arms of the time. The most interesting relate to
the conquest of Granada, just after which they were executed. Nor is
it surprising to find such things commemorated in so holy a place. The
war with the Saracens was not merely a national enterprise, but a holy
crusade on which depended, not only the safety of Spain, but of all
Christendom, and Europe has never been sufficiently grateful to the
Spaniards for saving it from the yoke of Islam. These carvings seem
like a psalm of triumph for ever echoed in this choir: “The Lord hath
triumphed gloriously: the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the
sea.” Each panel, labelled with its victory, seems chanting, one after
the other:
“To him which smote great kings:
For his mercy endureth for ever!――
Sihon, the King of the Amorites:
For his mercy endureth for ever!
And Og, the King of Bashan:
For his mercy endureth for ever!
――And hath redeemed us from our enemies:
For his mercy endureth for ever!”
On the upper stalls, where sit the canons of the church between red
marble columns, are the holy mysteries of the faith, carved by
Berruguete and Felipe de Borgoña, and above in alabaster is the
genealogy of Christ. At the head of the choir is the archbishop’s
throne, like the stalls of carved walnut, but supported by bronze
pillars. Among other carvings on it is the legend of St. Ildefonso and
the sacred _Casulla_, so popular at Toledo, and which has inspired the
pencil of Murillo, Rubens, and other eminent artists. St. Ildefonso
was Archbishop of Toledo in the seventh century, and the author of a
famous work entitled _De Virginitate Mariæ_. It is said that one night,
entering the church at the head of his clergy to sing the midnight
office, he found the altar illuminated, and the Blessed Virgin seated
on his ivory throne surrounded by a throng of angels, holding in her
hand the book he had written in defence of her virginity. She beckoned
him towards her, and said, as she bestowed on him a beautiful white
chasuble of celestial woof: “Inasmuch as with a firm faith and a clean
heart, having thy loins girt about with purity, thou hast, by means of
the divine grace shed on thy lips, diffused the glory of my virginity
in the hearts of the faithful, I give thee this vestment, taken from
the treasury of my Son, that even in this life thou mayest be clothed
with the garment of light.” And the attendant angels came forward to
fasten the sacred _Casulla_ around him.
After the time of St. Ildefonso no one ever ventured to use this
chasuble till the presumptuous Sisberto was made archbishop; but he
experienced the fatal effects of his rashness and died a miserable
death in exile. This precious garment was carefully preserved
fifty-seven years at Toledo, and then carried to the Asturias to save
it from the Moors――perhaps by Pelayus when he floated down the Tagus
two hundred and fifty miles in a wooden chest, a second Moses destined
to save his nation:
“The relics and the written works of saints,
Toledo’s treasure, prized beyond all wealth,
Their living and their dead remains,
These to the mountain fastnesses he bore.”
When the church of San Salvador at Oviedo was completed, Alfonso el
Casto had the Santa Casulla solemnly conveyed thither, and there it
remains to this day.
St. Ildefonso and the holy Casulla are to be seen at every hand’s turn
at Toledo. Countless houses have a majolica medallion depicting them
inserted in their front walls. They are sculptured over one of the
doors of the cathedral, and several times within. And among the
numerous paintings that adorn the edifice are two in which the Blessed
Virgin is clothing St. Ildefonso with something of the grace and
majesty of heaven.
But the vision of St. Ildefonso is specially commemorated on the spot
where it occurred by a beautiful little temple of open Gothic work on
one side of the nave. Here the whole legend is admirably told by
Vigarny in a series of bas-reliefs in marble. In the outer wall is
inserted the slab on which the Virgin’s feet rested, protected by an
iron grating. Both the grate and slab are worn by the fingers of the
devout. No one passes without thrusting his hands through the grating
to touch the stone, after which he kisses the tips of his fingers and
makes the sign of the cross.
The _Capilla mayor_ is of excessive richness. Jasper steps lead up to
the high altar. The retable, covered with countless sculptures, rises
almost to the arches, alive with scenes from the life of our Saviour
amid innumerable pinnacles, and niches, and statues of most elaborate
workmanship. Around are the tombs of the ancient kings of Spain, and
among them that of the celebrated Cardinal Mendoza, the _tertius rex_,
who took so prominent a part in the government in the time of
Ferdinand and Isabella――a tomb in the Plateresco style, and worthy,
not only of that great prelate, but of the marvellous chapel in which
it stands. Near by is the effigy of the _Alfaqui_, who interposed in
favor of Queen Constanza and Archbishop Bernard, and opposite is a
statue of San Isidro, who led Alfonso VIII. to victory at Navas de
Tolosa, as well as one of that king himself in a niche. There is
certainly nothing grander in all Christendom than this chapel――nothing
more in harmony with the imposing rites of the church, which are here
celebrated with a majesty that is infinitely impressive.
The chapel of the Sagrario contains the celebrated statue of the
Virgin so honored by the Goths, said to have been saved from the Moors
by an Englishman. It is of wood, black with age, but entirely plated
with silver, excepting the face and hands. This Madonna stands in a
blaze of light from the numerous lamps, and is absolutely sparkling
with jewels. One of her mantles is of silver tissue embroidered with
gold thread (that required three hundred ounces of gold to make) and
thousands of pearls weighing nearly as much. There is scarcely room
for the rubies, emeralds, and diamonds suspended on this mantle. That
of the Child is similar in style, and took nine persons over a year to
embroider.
Near by, in the chapel of Santa Marina, is a tombstone over the
re-mains of Cardinal de Carrero, the king-maker of Philip the Fifth’s
time, with its _Hic jacet pulvis, cinis, et nihil!_――sublime cry of
Christian humility.
Every chapel in this cathedral is worthy of interest. One bears the
curious name of the _Christo de las Cucharas_, or of Spoons, from the
_armes parlantes_ of Diego Lopez de Padilla emblazoned here――three
_padillas_, or little paddles in the form of a spoon. It was a lady of
this family who, in some civil contest, stripped the statues in the
cathedral of their valuable ornaments as a means of defraying the
expenses of the war, but first kneeling before them to beg the saints’
pardon for the liberty she was about to take.
Then there is the beautiful chapel of _Los Reyes Nuevos_, lined with
rich tombs in sculptured recesses, each with its recumbent effigy,
among which is that of a daughter of John of Gaunt, “time-honored
Lancaster,” who married a Spanish prince.
The chapel of Santiago, in the flamboyant style, was built before the
discovery of America, by Alvaro de Luna, grand-master of the Knights
of Santiago. On every side are scallop-shells, emblem of the tutelar,
and the crescent, cognizance of the Luna family. The tomb of the
founder is in the centre, with knights, cut in alabaster, keeping
eternal watch and ward around their chief, who is lying on his tomb;
while monks and nuns that have turned to stone seem to pray for ever
around that of his wife.
The Mozarabic chapel, with its memories of Cardinal Ximenes, is very
interesting. One side of it is entirely covered with a fresco of the
battle of Oran, in which the cardinal took a leading part, full of
animation and vigor. Here the Mozarabic rite which he re-established
is still kept up.
What the primitive form of the Spanish liturgy was we have no certain
knowledge, for it was superseded, or greatly modified, by the Goths.
After the fourth Council of Toledo, presided over by St. Isidore of
Seville, a uniform liturgy was established throughout the kingdom, to
which was given the name of Mozarabic from that of the Christians who
lived under the Moorish rule, and only had permission to maintain
their own rites by the payment of an annual tribute. The Gregorian
liturgy was introduced in the time of Alfonso VI. by the wish of the
pope. The clergy and people were at first in consternation at the
proposed change, but the archbishop, Bernard de Sédirac, was in favor
of it, and he was sustained by the government. Six churches at Toledo
were assigned to the Mozarabic rite, but by degrees the Gregorian
acquired ascendency. Mozarabic books became more and more rare, and
the rite was nearly abandoned when Cardinal Ximenes, in order to
preserve a vestige of it, founded this chapel in the year 1500, and
had the ancient service printed at Alcala de Henares. One peculiarity
of this rite is, the Host is divided into nine parts, which are placed
on the paten in the form of a cross, in memory of the Incarnation,
Nativity, Circumcision, Adoration of the Magi, Passion, Death,
Resurrection, Ascension, and Eternal Reign.
The chapter-room of the cathedral is the richest in Spain. It is
Moorish in style, and has a magnificent _artesonado_ ceiling of gold
and azure, rare carvings in oak, and a profusion of paintings, mostly
portraits of the archbishops of Toledo, ninety-four in number, among
which is that of Carranza, the confessor of Mary Tudor, and such a
favorite of Charles V. that he summoned him to his death-bed at Yuste.
But the best paintings are in the sacristy. Here is the Santa Casulla
on the ceiling, by Luca Giordano, the most productive painter that
ever existed, and on the wall is El Greco’s _chef d’œuvre_――the
casting of lots for Christ’s garment――in which the artist introduced
his own portrait as one of the soldiers. There is also a beautiful
Santa Leocadia rising from her tomb, by Orrente. St. Ildefonso is
cutting off a portion of her veil, according to the legend, which says
that while he was celebrating Mass at the tomb of this saint on her
festival, Dec. 9, in presence of the king and a great crowd, the stone
that covered the tomb, which it took thirty strong men to remove, was
suddenly raised, to the amazement of the assembly, and St. Leocadia
came forth shrouded in her veil. Going to St. Ildefonso, she took him
by the hand and said: “Ildefonso, it is by thee the Queen we serve in
heaven hath obtained victory over her enemies; by thee her memory is
kept alive in the hearts of the faithful.” She then returned to her
tomb, but before it closed on her for ever the archbishop had presence
of mind enough to commend the king and nation to her prayers, and,
taking a knife from the king, cut off a corner of her veil, which is
still preserved in the Ochavo and solemnly exhibited on her festival.
The Ochavo is a fine octagonal room entirely lined with precious
marbles. Here are the silver shrines of St. Eugenius and St. Leocadia,
with silver statues and reliquaries, and countless articles of great
value. The riches of this church are still extraordinary, though the
French carried off more than a ton of silver objects in their day. A
dignitary who officiated in a procession while we were there wore a
magnificent collar, which we afterwards examined. It was absolutely
covered with pearls, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, etc. A man followed
him with a mace, as if to guard it. The silver custodia for the Host,
the largest in the world, weighs four hundred pounds, and is composed
of eighty thousand pieces. It is of the florid Gothic style, and
contains two hundred and sixty-six statuettes. Cardinal Ximenes
ordered it to be made in 1515, but it took nine years to complete it.
There is another of pure gold, weighing thirty-two pounds, which
Isabella the Catholic had made of the first ingots from the New World,
as a tribute to the divine Host. After her death Cardinal Ximenes
bought it and presented it to his cathedral.
The vestments in the sacristy are perhaps unrivalled. Many of them are
hundreds of years old, of rare embroidery that looks like painting,
done on cloth of gold. We remember one cope in particular, on which is
the coronation of Mary, done by hands of fairy-like skill. All the
crowns of the divine personages, as well as their garments, are edged
with real pearls, and the whole scene, though wrought with silk,
seemed to have caught something of the celestial beauty and calm
rapture of Fra Angelico.
We have given only a faint idea of this magnificent cathedral, which
must be seen to be fully appreciated. No wonder the proverb says:
_Dives Toledana_. Leaving the church by the first door at hand, we
saluted the huge San Christobalón, forty feet high, on the wall――saint
of propitious omen, whom we always like to meet.