"Some time, signore, I will tell you a story, not out of Boccalini,
which perchance will convince you that, strange as it may seem, the
realities of life and the delusions of disease are not so dissimilar as
you think."
"If it be so," said Inglesant, "your prescription is more terrible than
my complaint."
"I do not see that," replied the other. "I have said nothing but what
should show you how unwise you will be, if you overlook the bodily
ailment in searching into the diseases of the soul."
"I am well aware," replied Inglesant, "that my ailment is one of the
body as well as of the mind; but were my body made perfectly whole and
sound, my cure could scarcely be said to be begun."
"I hold that most of the sorrows and perplexities of the mind are to be
traced to a diseased body," replied the physician, not paying much
attention to what his patient said; "the passion of the heart, heavy and
dull spirits, vain imaginations, the vision of spectres and phantoms,
grief and sorrow without manifest cause,--all these things may be cured
by purging away melancholy humours from the body, especially as I
conceive from the meseraic veins; and the heart will then be comforted,
in the taking away the material cause of sorrow, which is not to be
looked for in the world of spirits, nor in any providential government
of God, nor even in outward circumstances and perplexities, but in the
mechanism of the body itself."
"What cures do you propound that may be hoped to work such happy
results?" said the Prior, for Inglesant did not speak.
"We have many such cures in physics--physics studied by the light of the
heavenly science," said the physician; "such as the Saturica Sancti
Juliani, which grows plentifully on the rough cliffs of the Tyrrhenian
Sea, as the old Greek chronographers called it, called St. Julian's
Rock; the Epithymum, or thyme, which is under Saturn, and therefore very
fitted for melancholy men; the Febrifuga, or, in our Italian tongue,
Artemisia Tenuifolia, good for such as be melancholy, sad, pensive, and
without power of speech; the distilled water of the Fraga, or
Strawberry, drunk with white wine reviveth the spirits, and as the holy
Psalmist says, 'Laetificat cor hominis;' and the herb Panax, which grows
on the top of the Apennine, and is cherished in all the gardens of Italy
for its wonderful healing qualities; but the liquor of it, which you may
buy in Venice, is not distilled in Italy, but is brought from
Alexandria, a city of Egypt."
"You do not speak of the chemical medicines," said Inglesant, "which
were much thought of in England when I was in Oxford; and many wonderful
cures were worked by them, though I remember hearing that the young
doctor who first introduced them, and wrought some great cures, died
himself soon after."
"I have indeed no faith in the new doctrine of chemical compositions and
receipts," said the physician, "which from mere empirics must needs be
very dangerous, but from a man that is well grounded in the old way may
do strange things. The works of God are freely given to man. His
medicines are common and cheap; it is the medicines of the new
physicians that are so dear and scarce to find."
Signore Zecca soon after took his leave, promising to send Inglesant a
cordial, the ingredients of which he said were gathered on "a Friday in
the hour of Jupiter," and which would be sufficient to give sleep,
pleasant dreams, and quiet rest to the most melancholy man in the world.
For, as he sensibly observed, "waking is a symptom which much tortures
melancholy men, and must therefore be speedily helped, and sleep by all
means procured. To such as you especially, who have what I call the
temperament of sensibility, are fearful of pain, covet music and sleep,
and delight in poetry and romance, sleep alone is often a sufficient
remedy."
The doctor frequently visited Inglesant, who found his humour and
curious learning entertaining; and on one occasion, when they were alone
together, he reminded him of his promise to relate a story which would
prove his assertion that the ills of the soul were occasioned by those
of the body.
* * * * *
NOTE.--The MSS. are here imperfect.
*CHAPTER III.*
In spite, however, of the reasonings and prescriptions of the physician,
the oppression upon Inglesant's brain became more intolerable. Every
new object seemed burnt into it by the sultry outward heat, and by his
own fiery thoughts. The livid scorched plains, with the dark foliage,
the hot piazzas and highways, seemed to him thronged with ghastly
phantoms, all occupied more or less in some evil or fruitless work. As
to his physical sense all objects seemed distorted and awry, so to his
mental perception the most ordinary events bore in them the germs,
however slight, of that terrible act of murderous terror that had marred
and ruined his own life. In some form or other, in the passionate look,
in the gambler's gesture, in the lover's glance, in the juggler's
grimace, in the passion of the little child, he saw the stealthy trail
of the Italian murderer, before whose cowardly blow his brother fell.
The cool neglected courts of Padua afforded no relief to his racked
brain, no solace to his fevered fancy. He frequented the shadowed
churches and the solemn masses daily without comfort; for his conscience
was once more weighted with the remembrance of Serenus de Cressy, and of
his own rejection of the narrow path of the Holy Cross. A sense of
oppression and confusion rested upon him mentally and physically, so
that he could see no objects steadily and clearly; but without was a
phantasmagoria of terrible bright colours, and within a mental chaos and
disorder without a clue. A constant longing filled his mind to accept
De Cressy's offer, and he would have returned to France but for the
utter impossibility of making the journey in his condition of health.
He withdrew himself more and more from society, and at last, without
informing his friends of his intention, he retired to a small monastery
without the city, about a mile from the Traviso Gate, and requested to
be admitted as a novice. The result of this step at the outset was
beneficial; for the perfect seclusion, and the dim light of the cells
and shaded garden, relieved the brain, and restored the disordered sense
of vision.
It was some time before Don Agostino received intelligence, through the
Prior, of this step of his friend's. He immediately came to Padua, and
had several interviews with Inglesant, but apparently failed to produce
any impression upon him. He then returned to Florence, and induced the
Cardinal Rinuccini, from whose influence upon Inglesant he hoped much,
to accompany him to Padua.
The Cardinal was a striking-looking and singularly handsome man, his
countenance resembling the reputed portraits of Moliere, whose bust
might be taken for that of a pagan god. There was the same open free
expression, as of a man who confined his actions by no bounds, who
tasted freely of that tree of good and evil, which, it is reported,
transforms a man into a god, and of that other tree which, since the
flaming sword of the cherubim kept the way to the true, has passed in
the world for the tree of life; who had no prejudices nor partialities,
but included all mankind, and all the opinions of men, within the wide
range of perfect tolerance and lofty indifference. He found Inglesant
in his novice's dress, walking in the small walled-in garden of the
monastery, beneath the mulberry trees, his breviary in his hand. After
the first greeting the Cardinal inquired touching his health.
"You are familiar with English, Eminence," replied Inglesant, "and
remember Hamlet; and you will therefore understand the state of a man
for whom the world is too strong."
"It is only the weak," replied the Cardinal, "for whom the world is too
strong. You know what Terence says, 'Ita vita est hominum quasi cum
ludas tesseris,' or, as we should rather say, 'Life is like a game of
cards;' you cannot control the cards, but of such as turn up you must
make the most."
"Illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas."
"The freewill, the reason, and the power of self-command, struggle
perpetually with an array of chance incidents, of mechanical forces, of
material causes, beyond foresight or control, but not beyond skilful
management. This gives a delicate zest and point to life, which it
would surely want if we had the power to frame it as we would. We did
not make the world, and are not responsible for its state; but we can
make life a fine art, and, taking things as we find them, like wise men,
mould them as may best serve our own ends."
"We are not all wise, your Eminence, and the ends that some of us make
our aim are far beyond our reach."
"I was ever moderate in my desires," said the Cardinal with a smile; "I
shoot at none of these high-flying game. I am content to live from day
to day, and leave the future to the gods; in the meantime sweetening
life as I can with some pleasing toys, here and there, to relish it."
"You have read Don Quixote, Eminence," said Inglesant; "and no doubt
hold him to have been mad."
"He was mad, doubtless," replied the Cardinal smiling.
"I am mad, like him," replied the other.
"I understand you," said the Cardinal; "it is a noble madness, from
which we inferior natures are free; nevertheless, it may be advisable
for a time to consult some worldly physician, that by his help this
nobleness may be preserved a little longer upon earth and among men."
"No worldly physician knows the disease, much less the cure," said
Inglesant. "Don Quixote died in his bed at last, talked down by petty
common-place, acknowledging his madness, and calling his noble life a
mistake; how much more shall I, whose life has been the more ignoble for
some transient gleams of splendour which have crossed its path in vain!
The world is too strong for me, and heaven and its solution of life's
enigma too far off."
"There is no solution, believe me," said the Cardinal, "no solution of
life's enigma worth the reading. But suppose there be, you are more
likely to find it at Rome than here. Put off that monk's dress, and
come with me to Rome. What solution can you hope to find, brooding on
your own heart, on this narrow plot of grass, shut in by lofty walls?
You, and natures like yours, make this great error; you are moralizing
and speculating upon what life ought to be, instead of taking it as it
is; and in the meantime it slips by you, and you are nothing, and life
is gone. I have heard, and you doubtless, in a fine concert of viols,
extemporary descant upon a thorough bass in the Italian manner, when
each performer in turn plays such variety of descant, in concordance to
the bass, as his skill and present invention may suggest to him. In
this manner of play the consonances invariably fall true upon a given
note, and every succeeding note of the ground is met, now in the unison
or octave, now in the concords, preserving the melody throughout by the
laws of motion and sound. I have thought that this is life. To a
solemn bass of mystery and of the unseen, each man plays his own descant
as his taste or fate suggests; but this manner of play is so governed
and controlled by what seems a fatal necessity, that all melts into a
species of harmony; and even the very discords and dissonances, the wild
passions and deeds of men, are so attempered and adjusted that without
them the entire piece would be incomplete. In this way I look upon life
as a spectacle, 'in theatro ludus.' Have you sat so long that you are
tired already of the play?"
"I have read in some book,"[#] said Inglesant, "that it is not the
play--only the rehearsal. The play itself is not given till the next
life. But for the rest your Eminence is but too right. There is no
solution within my own heart, and no help within these walls."
[#] What this book is I do not know. The remark was made by Jean Paul,
in Hesperus, some hundred years after Inglesant's day.
There can be little doubt that had Inglesant remained much longer in the
monastery, he would have sunk into a settled melancholy. The quiet and
calm, while it soothed his brain, and relieved it of the phantoms that
distracted it, allowed the mind to dwell exclusively upon those
depressing thoughts and ideas which were exhausting his spirit and
reducing him well-nigh to despair. However undesirable at other times
the Cardinal's philosophic paganism might be, no doubt, at this moment,
his society was highly beneficial to Inglesant, to whom, indeed, his
conversation possessed a peculiar charm. It could, indeed, scarcely
fail to attract one who himself sympathized with that philosophy of
tolerance of, and attraction to, the multiform aspects of life which
Paganism and the Cardinal equally followed. On the other hand,
Rinuccini had from the first been personally strongly attracted towards
Inglesant, and, as a matter of policy, attached just importance to
securing his services, both on account of what he had learnt from his
brother, and from the report of the Jesuits.
After some further conversation the Cardinal returned to Padua in
triumph, bringing Inglesant with him, whom he loaded with kindness and
attention. A suite of apartments was placed at his disposal, certain of
the Cardinal's servants were ordered to attend him, and the finest
horses were devoted to his use on the approaching journey. After
waiting in Padua some days, to make preparations which were necessary in
the neglected state of Inglesant's affairs, they set out for Rome. Don
Agostino was still in Florence, the politics of his family not suffering
him to visit the papal city at present.
Their first day's journey took them, through the fertile and
well-cultivated Venetian States, to Rovigo, where they crossed the Po,
dividing the territory of the Republic from the Ferrarese, which State
had lately been acquired by the Pope.
This country, which, while it possessed princes of its own, had been one
of the happiest and most beautiful parts of Italy, was now abandoned and
uncultivated to such an extent that the grass was left unmown on the
meadows. At Ferrara, a vast city which appeared to Inglesant like a
city of the dead as he walked through streets of stately houses without
an inhabitant, the chief concourse of people was the crowd of beggars
who thronged round the Cardinal's coach. After dinner Inglesant left
his companion, who liked to linger over his wine, and walked out into
the quiet streets. The long, deserted vistas of this vast city,
sleeping in the light and shadow of the afternoon sun, disturbed now and
then only by a solitary footstep, pleased his singular fancies as Padua
had done. He entered several of the Churches, which were mean and
poorly adorned, and spoke to several of the priests and loiterers.
Everywhere he heard complaints of the poverty of the place, of the
misery of the people, of the bad unwholesome air, caused by the dearth
of inhabitants to cultivate the land. When he came to inquire into the
causes of this, most held their peace; but one or two idlers, bolder or
more reckless than the rest, seeing that he was a foreigner, and
ignorant that he was riding in the train of a Cardinal, whispered to him
something of the severity of the Papal government, and of the heavy
taxes and frequent confiscations by which the nephews of several Popes
had enriched themselves, and devoured many of the principal families of
the city, and driven away many more. "They talk of the bad air," said
one of these men to Inglesant; "the air was the same a century ago, when
this city was flourishing under its own princes--princes of so eminent a
virtue, and of so heroical a nobleness, that they were really the
Fathers of their country. Nothing," he continued with a mute gesture of
the hands, "can be imagined more changed than this is now."
"But Bologna is under the Pope, also," said Inglesant, "and is
flourishing enough."
"Bologna," he answered, "delivered itself up to the Popedom upon a
capitulation, by which there are many privileges reserved to it. Crimes
there are only punished in the persons of those who commit them. There
are no confiscations of estates; and the good result of these privileges
is evident, for, though Bologna is neither on a navigable river nor the
centre of a sovereignty where a Court is kept, yet its happiness and
wealth amaze a stranger; while we, once equally fortunate, are like a
city in a dream."
Inglesant returned to the inn to the Cardinal, and related what he had
heard; to all which dismal stories the Prelate only replied by
significant gesture.
The next morning, however, as he was entering his carriage followed by
his friend, he seemed to take particular notice of the crowd of beggars
that surrounded the inn. In Inglesant's eyes they only formed part
(together with the strange, quiet streets, the shaded gardens, and the
ever-changing scenes of their journey) in that shifting phantasm of form
and colour, meaningless to him, except as it might suddenly, and in some
unexpected way, become a part and scene of the fatal drama that had
seized upon and crippled his life. But to the Cardinal, who had the
training of a politician, though he subordinated politics to enjoyment,
these swarms of beggars and these decaying states had at times a deeper
interest.
"These people," he said, as the carriage moved on, "certainly seem very
miserable, as you told me last night. To those whose tastes lay that
way it would not be a useless business to inquire into these matters,
and to try to set them right. Some day, probably far distant, some of
us, or those like us who clothe in scarlet and fine linen, will have to
pay a reckoning for these things."
"They are less unhappy than I am," said Inglesant. "As to the luxurious
persons of whom you speak, it has been my fate to be of their party all
my life, and to serve them for very poor reward; and I doubt not that,
when their damnation, of which your Eminence speaks, arrives, I shall
share it with them. But it might seem to one who knows little of such
things that some such attempt might be looked for from a sworn soldier
and prince of the Church."
The Cardinal smiled. The freedom with which Inglesant's sarcastic
humour showed itself at times, when the melancholy fit was upon him, was
one of the sources of attraction which attached the young Englishman to
his person.
"Life is short," he said, "and the future very uncertain; martyrs have
died, nay, still harder fate, have lived long lives of such devotion as
that which you wish me to attempt, and we see very little result.
Christianity is not of much use apparently to many of the nations of the
earth. Now, on my side, as I pass my life, I certainly enjoy this
world, and I as certainly have cultivated my mind to sustain, as far as
I can foresee the probable, the demand and strain that will be put upon
it, both in the exit from this life, and in the entrance upon another.
Why then should I renounce these two positive goods, and embrace a life
of restless annoyance and discomfort, of antagonism to existing systems
and order, of certain failure, disappointment, and the peevish
protestation of a prophet to whom the world will not listen?"
"There is no reason why, certainly," said Inglesant, "for a sane man
like your Eminence. I see clearly it must only have been madmen who in
all ages have been driven into the fire and upon the sword's point in
pursuit of an idea which they fancied was worth the pain, but which, as
they never realized it, they could never put to the test."
"I perceive your irony," said the Cardinal, "and I recognize your wit.
What astonishes me is the interest you take in these old myths and
dreary services. The charm of novelty must have worn itself out by this
time."
"Christ is real to many men," said Inglesant, "and the world seems to
manifest within itself a remedial power such as may be supposed to be
His."
"I do not dispute such a power," replied the Cardinal; "I only wonder at
the attachment to these old myths which profess to expound it."
"The world has now been satisfied with them for some centuries," said
Inglesant; "and for my own part, even in the blaze of a purer Mythos, I
cannot help thinking that some of us will look back with longing to 'one
of the days of the Son of man.' I do not perceive either that your
Eminence attempts to improve matters."
"I can afford to wait," replied the Cardinal, with lofty indifference;
"the myths of the world are slow to change."
"This one certainly," replied Inglesant, with a smile, "has been slow to
change, perhaps because men found in it something that reminded them of
their daily life. It speaks of suffering and of sin. The cross of
Christ is composed of many other crosses--is the centre, the type, the
essence of all crosses. We must _suffer_ with Christ whether we
_believe_ in Him or not. We must suffer for the sin of others as for our
own; and in this suffering we find a healing and purifying power and
element. That is what gives to Christianity, in its simplest and most
unlettered form, its force and life. Sin and suffering for sin: a
sacrifice, itself mysterious, offered mysteriously to the Divine Nemesis
or Law of Sin,--dread, undefined, unknown, yet sure and irresistible,
with the iron necessity of law. This the intellectual Christ, the
Platonic-Socrates, did not offer: hence his failure, and the success of
the Nazarene. Vicisti Galilaee."
*CHAPTER IV.*
Among the letters of introduction to persons in Rome which Inglesant
carried with him, was one from Father St. Clare to the Rector of the
English College, a Jesuit. The Cardinal had invited him to remain an
inmate of his family, but there were several reasons which induced
Inglesant to decline the offer. He was desirous of observing the
situation and habits of the great city in a more unfettered way than he
would probably be able to do if attached to the household of a great
man. This reason alone would probably have decided him, but it was not
the only one. In proportion as his mind recovered its natural tone, and
was able to throw off the depression which had so long troubled him,
another source of perplexity had taken its place. Most men, in those
days, with the exception of very determined Puritans, approached Rome
with feelings of veneration and awe. Inglesant's training and
temperament inclined him to entertain these feelings as strongly perhaps
as any man of the day; but since he had been in Italy, his eyes and ears
had not been closed, and it had been impossible for him to resist a
growing impression, scarcely perhaps amounting to conviction, that the
nearer he approached the Papal capital the more wretched and worse
governed did the country appear on every side. In the muttered
complaints which reached his ear these evils were charged partly upon
the abuses of the Papal chair itself, but principally upon the tyranny
and oppression of the society of the Jesuits. Inglesant made these
observations mostly in the taverns or cafes in the evenings when those
who were present, perceiving him to be a foreigner, were more disposed
to be communicative than they otherwise would have been. But the
Cardinal was known to associate rather with the Fathers of the Oratory
than with the Jesuits; and men did not hesitate therefore to speak
somewhat freely on these matters to his familiar companion. These
accusations did not destroy Inglesant's faith in the Society, but they
made him anxious to hear the other side, and to see, if possible from
within, the working of this great and powerful organization, and to
understand the motives which prompted those actions which were so much
blamed, and which were apparently productive of such questionable
fruits. If this were to be done, it must be done at once. He came to
Rome recommended to the Jesuits' College, almost an accredited agent. He
would be received without suspicion, and would probably be enabled to
obtain an insight into much of their policy. But if at the outset he
associated himself with persons and interests hostile, or at least
indifferent, to those of the party to which he belonged, and which he
wished to understand, this opportunity would doubtless soon be lost to
him. Acting upon these considerations, he parted from the Cardinal, to
whom he confided his motives, and made his way to the English College or
house, which was situated in the street leading to St. Peter's and the
Vatican, and not far from the Bridge and Castle of St. Angelo.
The College was a large and fair house, standing in several courts and
gardens. Inglesant was received with courtesy by the rector, who said
that he remembered seeing him in London, and that he had also been at
his father's house in Wiltshire. He named to him several Priests who had
also been there; but so many Papists had been constantly coming and
going at Westacre, during the time that Father St. Clare had resided
there, that Inglesant could not recall them to mind. The rector,
however, mentioned one whom he remembered, the gentleman who had given
him St. Theresa's Life. He advised Inglesant to remain some days at the
College, as the usual and natural resort of all Englishmen connected in
any way with the Court and Church of Rome, promising him pleasant rooms.
He showed him his apartment, a small but handsome guest-chamber, looking
upon a garden, with a sort of oratory or closet adjoining, with an altar
and crucifix. The bell rang for supper, but the rector had that meal
laid for himself and his guest in his private room. The students, and
those who took their meals at the common table, had but one good meal in
the day, that being a most excellent one. Their supper consisted of a
glass of wine and a manchet of bread.
The rector and Inglesant had much talk together, and after the latter
had satisfied his host, as best he could, upon all those points--and
they were many--connected with the state of affairs in England upon
which he desired information, the rector began in his turn to give his
guest a description of affairs in Rome, and of those things which he
should see, and how best to see them.
"I will not trouble you now," he said, "with any policy or State
affairs. You will no doubt wish to spend the next few days in seeing
the wonderful sights of this place, and in becoming familiar with its
situation, so that you may study them more closely afterwards. A man
must indeed be ill-endowed by nature who does not find in Rome delight
in every branch of learning and of art. The libraries are open, and the
students have access to the rarest books; in the Churches the most
exquisite voices are daily heard, the palaces are crowded with pictures
and with statues, ancient and modern. You have, besides, the stately
streets and noble buildings of every age, the presence of strangers from
every part of the world, villas covered with 'bassi relievi,' and the
enjoyment of nature in enchanting gardens. To a man who loves the
practices of devotion I need not mention the life-long employment among
the Churches, relics, and processions. It is this last that gives the
unique completeness of the Roman life within itself. To the abundance
of its earthly wealth, to the delights of its intellectual
gratifications, is added a feeling of unequalled security and
satisfaction, kept alive, in a pious mind, by the incessant
contemplation of the objects of its reverence. I do not know if you are
by taste more of a scholar than of a religious, but both tastes are
worthy of cultivation, nor is all spiritual learning necessarily
confined to the last. There is much that is very instructive in the
lessons which the silent stones and shattered monuments of the fallen
cities over which we walk teach us. It has been well observed that
everything that has been dug out of the ruins of ancient Rome has been
found mutilated, either by the barbarians, fanaticism, or time; and one
of our poets, Janus Vitalis, seeing all the massive buildings mouldered
or mouldering away, and the ever-changing Tiber only remaining the same,
composed this ingenious and pleasing verse--
'Disce hinc quid possit fortuna; immota labascunt;
Et quae perpetuo sunt fluitura, manent.'
You will find that the Italian humour delights much in such thoughts as
these, which make the French and other nations accuse us of melancholy.
The Italian has a strong fancy, yet a strong judgment, and this makes
him delight in such things as please the fancy, while at the same time
they are in accordance with judgment and with reason. He delights in
music, medals, statues, and pictures, as things which either divert his
melancholy or humour it; and even the common people, such as shoemakers,
have formed curious collections of medals of gold, silver, and brass,
such as would have become the cabinet of a prince. Do you wish to begin
with the Churches or with the antiquities?"
Inglesant said he wished to see the Churches first of all.
"You will, no doubt," said the rector, "find a great satisfaction in
such a choice. You will be overcome with the beauty and solemnity of
these sacred places, and the sweetness of the organs and of the singing
will melt your heart. At the same time, I should wish to point out to
you, to whom I wish to speak without the least reserve, that you will no
doubt see some things which will surprise you, nay, which may even
appear to you to be, to say the least, of questionable advantage. You
must understand once for all, and constantly bear in mind, that this
city is like none other, and that many things are natural and proper
here which would be strange and ill-fitted elsewhere. Rome is the
visible symbol and representation of the Christian truth, and we live
here in a perpetual masque or holy interlude of the life of the Saviour.
As in other countries and cities, outward representations are placed
before the people of the awful facts and incidents on which their
salvation rests, so here this is carried still farther, as indeed was
natural and almost inevitable. It was a very small step from the
representation of the flagellation of Christ to the very pillar on which
He leant. Indeed, where these representations were enacted, the simple
country people readily and naturally conceived them to have taken place.
Hence, when you are shown the three doors of Pilate's house in which
Jesus passed and repassed to and from judgment, the steps up which He
walked, the rock on which He promised to build His Church, the stone on
which the cock stood and crowed when Peter denied Him, part of His coat
and of His blood, and several of the nails of His cross,--more possibly
than were originally used, over which the heretics have not failed to
make themselves very merry;--when you see all these things, I say, and
if you feel, as I do not say you will feel--but if you feel any
hesitancy or even some repulsion, as though these miraculous things were
to you matters more of doubt than worship, you will not fail at once to
see the true nature and bearing of these things, nor to apply to them
the solution which your philosophy has doubtless given already to many
difficult questions of this life. These things are true to each of us
according as we see them; they are, in fact, but shadows and likenesses
of the absolute truth that reveals itself to men in different ways, but
always imperfectly and as in a glass. To the simple-hearted peasant
that pavement upon which in his mind's eye he sees Jesus walking, is
verily and indeed pressed by the Divine feet; to him this pillar, the
sight of which makes the stinging whips creep along his flesh, is the
pillar to which the Lord was tied. Our people, both peasant and noble,
are of the nature of children--children who are naughty one moment and
sincerely penitent the next. They are now wildly dissolute, the next
day prostrate before the cross; and as such, much that is true and
beautiful in their lives seems otherwise to the cold and world-taught
heart. But our Lord honoured the childlike heart, and will not send
away our poor peasants when they come to Him with their little
offerings, even though they lay them at the feet of a Bambino doll."
"But do you not find," said Inglesant, "that this devotion, which is so
ephemeral, is rather given to the sensible object than to the unseen
Christ?"
"It may be so," said the rector; "there is no good but what has its
alloy; but it is a real devotion, and it reaches after Christ. Granted
that it is dark, no doubt in the darkness it finds Him, though it cannot
see His form."
"Doubtless," said Inglesant, who saw that the rector did not wish to
dwell on this part of the subject, "as we say in our service in England,
we are the sheep of His pasture, and we are all branded with the mark
which He puts upon His sheep--the innate knowledge of God in the soul.
I remember hearing of a man who believed that he had a guardian spirit
who awoke him every morning with the audible words, 'Who gets up first
to pray?' If this man was deluded, it could not have been by Satan."
In the morning, when Inglesant awoke, he saw from his window, over the
city wall, the Monte Mario, with its pine woods, and the windows of its
scattered houses, lighted by the rising sun. The air was soft and
balmy, and he remained at the open window, letting his mind grow certain
of the fact that he was in Rome. In the clear atmosphere of the Papal
city there was a strange shimmer of light upon the distant hills, and on
the green tufts and hillocks of the waste ground beyond the walls. The
warm air fanned his temples, and in the stillness of the early morning a
delicious sense of a wonderful and unknown land, into the mysteries of
which he was about to enter, filled his mind.
It was indeed a strange world which lay before him, and resembled
nothing so much as that to which the rector had aptly compared it the
night before, a sacred interlude full of wild and fantastic sights;
Churches more sublime than the dreams of fancy painted, across whose
marble pavements saints and angels moved familiarly with men; pagan
sepulchres and banqueting chambers, where the phantoms flickered as in
Tartarus itself; vaults and Christian catacombs, where the cry of
martyrs mingled with the chanting of masses sung beneath the sod, and
where the torch-light flashed on passing forms of horror, quelled
everywhere by the figure of the Crucified, that at every turn kept the
place; midnight processions and singing, startling the darkness and
scaring the doers of darkness, mortal and immortal, that lurked among
the secret places, where the crimes of centuries stood like ghastly
corpses at every step; and above all and through all the life of Jesus,
enacted and re-enacted year after year and day by day continually, not
in dumb show or memorial only, but in deed and fact before the eyes of
men, as if, in that haunt of demons and possessed, in that sink of past
and present crime, nothing but the eternal presence and power of Jesus
could keep the fiends in check.
The rector took Inglesant over the College, and showed him the life and
condition of the inmates under its most pleasing aspect. As he then saw
it it reminded him of a poem he had heard Mr. Crashaw read at Little
Gidding, describing a religious house and condition of life, and he
quoted part of it to the rector:--
"No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep
Crowned woes awake, as things too wise for sleep:
But reverend discipline, and religious fear,
And soft obedience, find sweet biding here;
Silence and sacred rest, peace and pure joys."