When they had seen the College the rector said,--

"We will go this morning to St. Peter's. It is better that you should

see it at once, though the first sight is nothing. Then at three o'clock

we will attend vespers at the Capello del Coro, where there is fine

music every day in the presence of a cardinal; afterwards, as Rome is

very full, there will be a great confluence of carriages in the Piazza

of the Farnese Palace, which is a favourite resort. There I can show

you many of the great ones, whom it is well you should know by sight,

and hear something of, before you are presented to them."

As they passed out into the street of the city the rector began a

disquisition on the discovery of antiquities in Rome. He advised

Inglesant to study the cabinets of medals which he would meet with in

the museums and palaces, as they would throw great light upon the

statues and other curiosities.

"A man takes a great deal more pleasure," he said, "in surveying the

ancient statues, who compares them with medals, than it is possible for

him to do without some such knowledge, for the two arts illustrate each

other. The coins throw a great light upon many points of ancient

history, and enable us to distinguish the kings and consuls, emperors

and empresses, the deities and virtues, with their ensigns and trophies,

and a thousand other attributes and images not to be learnt or

understood in any other way. I have a few coins myself, which I shall

be glad to show you, and a few gems, among which is an Antinous cut in a

carnelian which I value very highly. It represents him in the habit of

a Mercury, and is the finest Intaglio I ever saw. I obtained it by

accident from a peasant, who found it while digging in his vineyard."

Inglesant was too much occupied watching the passers-by in the thronged

streets to pay much attention to what he said. The crowded pavements of

Rome offered to his eyes a spectacle such as he had never seen, and to

his imagination a fanciful pageant such as he had never pictured even in

his dreams. The splendid equipages with their metal work of massive

silver, the strange variety of the clerical costumes, the fantastic

dresses of the attendants and papal soldiers, the peasants and pilgrims

from all countries, even the most remote, crossed his vision in an

entangled maze.

As they crossed the bridge of St. Angelo, the rector informed him of the

invaluable treasures of antique art which were supposed to lie beneath

the muddy waters of the river. They passed beneath the castle, and a few

moments more brought them to the piazza in front of the Church.

The colonnade was not finished, one side of it being then in course of

completion; but in all its brilliant freshness, with the innumerable

statues, white from the sculptor's hand, it had an imposing and stately

effect. The great obelisk, or Guglia, as the Italians called it, had

been raised to its position some seventy years before, but only one of

the great fountains was complete. Crossing the square, which was full

of carriages, and of priests and laymen on foot, the rector and

Inglesant ascended the marble stairs which had formed part of the old

Basilica, and up which Charlemagne was said to have mounted on his

knees, and passing through the gigantic porch, with its enormous pillars

and gilt roof, the rector pushed back the canvas-lined curtain that

closed the doorway, and they entered the Church.

The masons were at work completing the marble covering of the massive

square pillars of the nave; but though the work was unfinished, it was

sufficient to produce an effect of inexpressible richness and splendour.

The vast extent of the pavement, prepared as for the heavenly host with

inlaying of colours of polished stone, agate, serpentine, porphyry, and

chalcedon; the shining walls, veined with the richest marbles, and

studded with gems; the roof of the nave, carved with foliage and roses

overlaid with gold; the distant walls and chambers of imagery, dim with

incense, through which shone out, scarcely veiled, the statues and

tombs, the paintings and crucifixes and altars, with their glimmering

lights;--all settled down, so to speak, upon Inglesant's soul with a

perception of subdued splendour, which hushed the spirit into a silent

feeling which was partly rest and partly awe.

But when, having traversed the length of the nave without uttering a

word, he passed from under the gilded roofs, and the spacious dome,

lofty as a firmament, expanded itself above him in the sky, covered with

tracery of the celestial glories and brilliant with mosaic and stars of

gold; when, opening on all sides to the wide transepts, the limitless

pavement stretched away beyond the reach of sense; when, beneath this

vast work and finished effort of man's devotion, he saw the high altar,

brilliant with lights, surmounted and enthroned by its panoply of

clustering columns and towering cross; when, all around him, he was

conscious of the hush and calmness of worship, and felt in his inmost

being the sense of vastness, of splendour, and of awe;--he may be

pardoned if, kneeling upon the polished floor, he conceived for the

moment that this was the house of God, and that the gate of heaven was

here.

* * * * *

*CHAPTER V.*

"It is almost impossible for a man to form in his imagination," said the

rector to Inglesant, as they left the Church, "such beautiful and

glorious scenes as are to be met with in the Roman Churches and Chapels.

The profusion of the ancient marble found within the city itself, and

the many fine quarries in the neighbourhood, have made this result

possible; and notwithstanding the incredible sums of money which have

been already laid out in this way, the same work is still going forward

in other parts of Rome; the last effort still endeavouring to outshine

those that went before it."

Inglesant found this assertion to be true. As he entered Church after

Church, during the first few days of his sojourn in Rome, he found the

same marble walls, the same inlaid tombs, the same coloured pavements.

In the sombre autumn afternoons this splendour was toned down and

veiled, till it produced an effect which was inexpressibly noble,--a dim

brilliance, a subdued and restrained glory, which accorded well with the

enervating perfume and the strains of romantic music that stole along

the aisles. In these Churches, and in the monasteries adjoining,

Inglesant was introduced to many priests and ecclesiastics, among whom

he might study most of the varieties of devout feeling, and of religious

life in all its forms. To many of these he was not drawn by any feeling

of sympathy; many were only priests and monks in outward form, being in

reality men of the world, men of pleasure, or antiquarians and artists.

But, introduced to the society of Rome in the first place as a "devoto,"

he became acquainted naturally with many who aspired to, and who were

considered to possess, exceptional piety. Among these he was greatly

attracted by report towards a man who was then beginning to attract

attention in Rome, and to exert that influence over the highest and most

religious natures, which, during a period of twenty years, became so

overpowering as at one time to threaten to work a complete revolution in

the system and policy of Rome. This was Michael de Molinos, a Spanish

monk, who, coming to Rome some years before, began to inculcate a method

of mystical devotion which he had no doubt gathered from the followers

of St. Theresa, who were regarded with great veneration in Spain, where

the contemplative devotion which they taught was held in high esteem.

On his first coming to Rome Molinos refused all ecclesiastical

advancement, and declined to practise those austerities which were so

much admired. He associated with men of the most powerful minds and of

the most elevated thoughts, and being acknowledged at once to be a man

of learning and of good sense, his influence soon became perceptible.

To all who came to him for spiritual comfort and advice he insisted on

the importance of mental devotion, of daily communion, and of an inward

application of the soul to Jesus Christ and to His death. So attractive

were his personal qualities, and so alluring his doctrine to minds which

had grown weary of the more formal ceremonies and acts of bodily penance

and devotion, that thousands thronged his apartments, and "the method of

Molinos" became not only a divine message to many, but even the

fashionable religion of Rome.

It spoke to men of an act of devotion, which it called the contemplative

state, in which the will is so united to God and overcome by that union

that it adores and loves and resigns itself up to Him, and, not exposed

to the wavering of the mere fancy, nor wearied by a succession of formal

acts of a dry religion, it enters into the life of God, into the

heavenly places of Jesus Christ, with an indescribable and secret joy.

It taught that this rapture and acquiescence in the Divine Will, while

it is the highest state and privilege of devotion, is within the reach

of every man, being the fruit of nothing more than the silent and humble

adoration of God that arises out of a pure and quiet mind; and it

offered to every man the prospect of this communion--a prospect to which

the very novelty and vagueness gave a hitherto unknown delight--in

exchange for the common methods of devotion which long use and constant

repetition had caused to appear to many but as dead and lifeless forms.

Those who followed this method generally laid aside the use of the

rosary, the daily repeating of the breviary, together with the common

devotion of the saints, and applied themselves to preserve their minds

in an inward calm and quiet, that they might in silence perform simple

acts of faith, and feel those inward motions and directions which they

believed would follow upon such acts.

To such a doctrine as this, taught by such a man, it is not surprising

that Inglesant was soon attracted, and he visited Molinos's rooms

several times. On one of these occasions he met in the anteroom a

gentleman he had seen more than once before, but had never spoken to.

He was therefore somewhat surprised when he accosted him, and seemed

desirous of some private conference. Inglesant knew that he was the

Count Vespiriani, and had heard him described as of a noble and refined

nature, and a hearty follower of Molinos. They left the house together,

and driving to the gardens of the Borghese Palace, they walked for some

time.

The Count began by expressing his pleasure that at so early a period of

his residence in Rome Inglesant had formed the acquaintance of Molinos.

"You are perhaps," he said, "not aware of the importance of the

movement, nor of the extent to which some of us are not without hope

that it may ultimately reach. Few persons are aware of the numbers

already devoted to it, including men of every rank in the Church and

among the nobility, and of every variety of opinion and of principle.

It cannot be supposed that all these persons act thus under the

influence of any extraordinary elevation of piety or devotion. To what

then can their conduct be ascribed? It cannot have escaped your notice,

since you have been in Italy, that there is much that is rotten in the

state of government, and to be deplored in the condition of the people.

I do not know in what way you may have accounted for this lamentable

condition of affairs in your own mind; but among ourselves (those among

us at any rate who are men of intelligence and of experience of the life

of other countries, and especially Protestant ones) there is but one

solution--the share that priests have in the government, not only in the

Pope's territory, but in all the other courts of Italy where they have

the rule. This does not so much arise from any individual errors or

misdoing as from the necessary unfitness of ecclesiastics to interfere

in civil affairs. They have not souls large enough nor tender enough

for government; they are trained in an inflexible code of morals and of

conduct from which they cannot swerve. To this code all human needs

must bow. They are cut off from sympathy with their fellows on most

points; and their natural inclinations, which cannot be wholly

suppressed, are driven into unworthy and mean channels; and they acquire

a narrowness of spirit and a sourness of mind, together with a bias to

one side only of life, which does not agree with the principles of human

society. All kinds of incidental evils arise from these sources, in

stating which I do not wish to accuse those ecclesiastics of unusual

moral turpitude. Among them is the fact that, having individually so

short and uncertain a time for governing, they think only of the

present, and of serving their own ends, or satisfying their own

conceptions, regardless of the ultimate happiness or misery which must

be the consequence of what they do. Whatever advances the present

interests of the Church or of themselves, for no man is free altogether

from selfish motives--whatever enriches the Church or their own

families, for no man can help interesting himself in those of his own

house,--is preferred to all wise, great, or generous counsels. You will

perhaps wonder what the mystic spiritual religion of Molinos has to do

with all this, but a moment's explanation will, I think, make it very

clear to you. The hold which the priests have upon the civil government

is maintained solely by the tyranny which they exercise over the

spiritual life of men. It is the opinion of Molinos that this function

is misdirected, and that in the place of a tyrant there should appear a

guide. He is about to publish a book called 'Il Guida Spirituale,'

which will appear with several approbations before it,--one by the

general of the Franciscans, who is a Qualificator of the Inquisition,

and another by a member of the society to which you are attached, Father

Martin de Esparsa, also one of the Qualificators. This book, so

authorized and recommended, cannot fail not only to escape censure, but

to exert a powerful influence, and will doubtless be highly esteemed.

Now the importance of Molinos's doctrine lies in this, that he presses

the point of frequent communion, and asserts that freedom from mortal

sin is the only necessary qualification. At the same time he guards

himself from the charge of innovation by the very title and the whole

scope of his book, which is to insist upon the necessity of a spiritual

director and guide. You will see at once what an important step is here

gained; for the doctrine being once admitted that mortal sin only is a

disqualification for receiving the sacrament, and the necessity of

confession before communion being not expressed, the obligation of

coming always to the priest, as the minister of the sacrament of

penance, before every communion, cannot long be insisted upon. Indeed,

it will become a rule by which all spiritual persons who adhere to

Molinos's method will conduct their penitents, that they may come to the

sacrament when they find themselves out of the state of mortal sin,

without going at every time to confession; and it is beginning to be

observed already in Rome that those who, under the influence of this

method, are becoming more strict in their lives, more retired and

serious in their mental devotions, are become less zealous in their

whole deportment as to the exterior parts of religion. They are not so

assiduous at mass, nor in procuring masses for their friends, nor are

they so frequent at confession or processions. I cannot tell you what a

blessing I anticipate for mankind should this method be once allowed;

what a freedom, what a force, what a reality religion would obtain! The

time is ripe for it, and the world is prepared. The best men are giving

their adherence; I entreat you to lend your aid. The Jesuits are

wavering; they have not yet decided whether the new method will prevail

or not. The least matter will turn the scale. You may think that it is

of little importance which side you take, but if so, you are mistaken.

You are not perhaps aware of the high estimation in which the reports

and letters which have preceded you have caused you to be held at the

Jesuits' College. You are supposed to have great influence with the

English Catholics and Protestant Episcopalians, and the idea of

promoting Catholic progress in England is the dearest to the mind of the

Roman Ecclesiastic."

Inglesant listened to the Count attentively, and did not immediately

reply. At last he said,--

"What you have told me is of the greatest interest, and commends itself

to my conscience more than you know. As to the present state and

government of Italy I am not competent to speak. One of the things

which I hoped to learn in Rome was the answer to some complaints which I

have heard in other parts of Italy. I fear also that you may be too

sanguine as to the result of such freedom as you desire. This age is

witness of the state to which too much freedom has brought England, my

own country, a land which a few years ago was the happiest and

wealthiest of all countries, now utterly ruined and laid waste. The

freedom which you desire, and the position of the clergy which you

approve, is somewhat the same as that which existed in the Protestant

Episcopal Church of England; but the influence they possessed was not

sufficient to resist the innovations and wild excesses of the Sectaries.

The freedom which I desire for myself I am willing to renounce when I

see the evil which the possession of it works among others and in the

State. What you attempt, however, is an experiment in which I am not

unwilling to be interested; and I shall be very curious to observe the

result. The main point of your method, the freedom of the blessed

sacrament, is a taking piece of doctrine, for the holding of which I

have always been attracted to the Episcopal Church of England. It is,

as you say, a point of immense importance, upon which in fact the whole

system of the Church depends. I have been long seeking for some

solution of the mysterious difficulties of the religious life. It may

be that I shall find it in your society, which I perceive already to

consist of men of the highest and most select natures, with whom, come

what may, it is an honour to be allied. You may count on my adherence;

and though I may seem a half-hearted follower, I shall not be found

wanting when the time of action comes. I should wish to see more of

Molinos."

"I am not at all surprised," said the Count, "that you do not at once

perceive the full force of what I have said. It requires to be an

Italian, and to have grown to manhood in Italy, to estimate justly the

pernicious influence of the clergy upon all ranks of society. I have

travelled abroad, and when I have seen such a country as Holland, a land

divided between land and sea, upon which the sun rarely shines, with a

cold and stagnant air, and liable to be destroyed by inundations; when I

see this country rich and flourishing, full of people, happy and

contented, with every mark of plenty, and none at all of want; when I

see all this, and then think of my own beautiful land, its long and

happy summers, its rich and fruitful soil, and see it ruined and

depopulated, its few inhabitants miserable and in rags, the scorn and

contempt instead of the envy of the world; when I think of what she was

an age or two ago, and reflect upon the means by which such a fall, such

a dispeopling, and such a poverty, has befallen a nation and a climate

like this;--I dare not trust myself to speak the words which arise to my

lips. Those with whom you associate will doubtless endeavour to prevent

these melancholy truths from being perceived by you, but they are too

evident to be concealed. Before long you will have painful experience

of their existence."

"You say," said Inglesant, "that one or two ages ago Italy was much more

prosperous than at present; were not the priests as powerful then as

now?"

"I do not deny," replied the Count, "that there have been other causes

which have tended to impoverish the country, but under a different

government many of these might have been averted or at any rate

mitigated. When the commerce of the country was flourishing the power

of the wealthy merchants and the trading princes was equal or superior

to that of the priests, especially in the leading States. As their

influence and wealth declined, the authority of the clergy increased. A

wiser policy might have discovered other sources of wealth and of

occupation for the people; they only thought of establishing the

authority of the Church, of adorning the altars, of filling the Papal

coffers."

Inglesant may have thought that he perceived a weak point in this

explanation, but he made no reply, and the Count supposed he was

satisfied.

A few days afterwards he had the opportunity of a long and private

conversation with Molinos.

The Spaniard was a man of tall and graceful exterior, with a smile and

manner which were indescribably alluring and sweet. Inglesant confided

to him something of his past history, and much of his mental troubles

and perplexities. He spoke of De Cressy and of the remorse which had

followed his rejection of the life of self-denial which the Benedictine

had offered him. Molinos's counsel was gentle and kindly.

"It was said to me long ago," said Inglesant, "that 'there are some men

born into the world with such happy dispositions that the cross for a

long time seems very light, if not altogether unfelt. The strait path

runs side by side with the broad and pleasant way of man's desires; so

close are they that the two cannot be discerned apart. So the man goes

on, the favourite seemingly both of God and his fellows; but let him not

think that he shall always escape the common doom. God is preparing

some great test for him, some great temptation, all the more terrible

for being so long delayed. Let him beware lest his spiritual nature be

enervated by so much sunshine, so that when the trial comes, he may be

unable to meet it. His conscience is easier than other men's; what are

sins to them are not so to him. But the trial that is prepared for him

will be no common one; it will be so fitted to his condition that he

cannot palter with it nor pass it by; he must either deny his God or

himself.' This was said to me by one who knew me not; but it was said

with something of a prophetic instinct, and I see in these words some

traces of my own fate. For a long time it seemed to me that I could

serve both the world and God, that I could be a courtier in kings'

houses and in the house of God, that I could follow the earthly learning

and at the same time the learning that is from above. But suddenly the

chasm opened beneath my feet; two ways lay before me, and I chose the

broad and easy path; the cross was offered to me, and I drew back my

hand; the winnowing fan passed over the floor, and I was swept away with

the chaff."

"I should prefer to say," replied the Spaniard,--and as he spoke, his

expression was wonderfully compassionate and urbane,--"I should prefer

to say that there are some men whom God is determined to win by love.

Terrors and chastisements are fit for others, but these are the select

natures, or, as you have yourself termed them, the courtiers of the

household of God. Believe me, God does not lay traps for any, nor is He

mistaken in His estimate. If He lavishes favour upon any man, it is

because he knows that that man's nature will respond to love. It is the

habit of kings to assemble in their houses such men as will delight them

by their conversation and companionship, 'amor ac deliciae generis

humani,' whose memory is fresh and sweet ages after, when they be dead.

Something like this it seems to me God is wont to do, that He may win

these natures for the good of mankind and for His own delight. It is

true that such privilege calls for a return; but what will ensure a

return sooner than the consideration of such favour as this? You say

you have been unworthy of such favour, and have forfeited it for ever.

You cannot have forfeited it, for it was never deserved. It is the

kingly grace of God, bestowed on whom He will. If I am not mistaken in

your case, God will win you, and He will win you by determined and

uninterrupted acts of love. It may be that in some other place God

would have found for you other work; you have failed in attaining to

that place; serve Him where you are. If you fall still lower, or

imagine that you fall lower, still serve Him in the lowest room of all.

Wherever you may find yourself, in Courts or pleasure-houses or gardens

of delight, still serve Him, and you will bid defiance to imaginations

and powers of evil, that strive to work upon a sensitive and excited

nature, and to urge it to despair. Many of these thoughts which we look

upon as temptations of God are but the accidents of our bodily

temperaments. How can you, nursed in Courts, delicately reared and

bred, trained in pleasure, your ear and eye and sense habituated to

music and soft sounds, to colour and to beauty of form, your brain

developed by intellectual effort and made sensitive to the slightest

touch--how can religious questions bear the same aspect to you as to a

man brought up in want of the necessaries of life, hardened by toil and

exposure, unenlightened by learning and the arts, unconscious of the

existence even of what is agony or delight to you? Yet God is equally

with both of these; in His different ways He will lead both of them,

would they but follow, through that maze of accident and casualty in

which they are involved, and out of the tumult of which coil they

complain to the Deity of what is truly the result of their own

temperaments, ancestry, and the besetments of life. I tell you this

because I have no fear that it will exalt you, but to keep you from

unduly depreciating yourself, and from that terrible blasphemy that

represents God as laying snares for men in the guise of pretended

kindness. God is with all, with the coarse and dull as with the refined

and pure, but He draws them by different means,--those by terror, these

by love."

Inglesant said little in answer to these words, but they made a deep

impression upon him. They lifted a weight from his spirits, and enabled

him henceforward to take some of the old pleasure in the light of heaven

and the occurrences of life. He saw much of Molinos, and had long

conferences with him upon the solution of the greatest of all problems,

that of granting religious freedom, and at the same time maintaining

religious truth. Molinos thought that his system solved this problem,

and although Inglesant was not altogether convinced of this, yet he

associated himself heartily, if not wholly, with the Quietists, as

Molinos's followers were called, in so much that he received some

friendly cautions from the Jesuit College not to commit himself too far.

* * * * *

It must not be supposed, however, that he was altogether absorbed in

such thoughts or such pursuits. To him, as to all the other inhabitants

of Rome, each in his own degree and station, the twofold aspect of

existence in the strange Papal city claimed his alternate regard, and

divided his life and his intellect. The society of Rome, at one moment

devout, the next philosophic, the next antiquarian, artistic,

pleasure-seeking, imparted to all its members some tincture of its

Protean character. The existence of all was coloured by the many-sided

prism through which the light of every day's experience was seen.

Inglesant's acquaintance with the Cardinal introduced him at once to all

the different coteries, and procured him the advantage of a companion

who exerted a strong and cultivated mind to exhibit each subject in its

completest and most fascinating aspect. Accompanied by the Cardinal,

and with one or other of the literati of Rome, each in his turn a master

of the peculiar study to which the day was devoted, Inglesant wandered

day after day through all the wonderful city, through the palaces,

ruins, museums, and galleries. He stood among the throng of statues,

that strange maze of antique life, which some enchanter's wand seems

suddenly to have frozen into marble in the midst of its intricate dance,

yet so frozen as to retain, by some mysterious art, the warm and

breathing life. He saw the men of the old buried centuries, of the magic

and romantic existence when the world was young. The beautiful gods

with their white wands; the grave senators and stately kings; the fauns

and satyrs that dwelt in the untrodden woods; the pastoral flute

players, whose airs yet linger within the peasant's reeds; the slaves

and craftsmen of old Rome, with all their postures, dress, and bearing,

as they walked those inlaid pavements, buried deep beneath the soil,

whose mosaic figures every now and then are opened to the faded life of

to-day. Nor less entrancing were those quaint fancies upon the classic

tombs, which showed in what manner the old pagan looked out into the

spacious ether and confronted death,--a child playing with a comic

masque, bacchanals, and wreaths of flowers, hunting parties and battles,

images of life, of feasting and desire; and finally, the inverted torch,

the fleeting seasons ended, and the actor's part laid down.

Still existing as a background to this phantom life was the stage on

which it had walked; the ruined splendour of Rome, in its setting of

blue sky and green foliage, of ivy and creeping plants, of laurels and

ilex, enfolded in a soft ethereal radiance that created everywhere a

garden of romance.

"Nothing delights and entertains me so much in this country," said

Inglesant one day to a gentleman with whom he was walking, "as the

contrasts which present themselves on every hand, the peasant's hut

built in the ruins of a palace, the most exquisite carving supporting

its tottering roof, cattle drinking out of an Emperor's tomb, a theatre

built in a mausoleum, and pantomime airs and the "plaudite" heard amid

the awful silence of the grave; here a Christ, ghastly, naked, on a

cross; there a charming god, a tender harmony of form and life;

triumphal arches sunk in the ruins not of their own only, but of

successive ages, monuments far more of decay and death than of glory or

fame; Corinthian columns canopied with briars, ivy, and wild vine, the

delicate acanthus wreaths stained by noisome weeds. The thoughts that

arise from the sight of these contrasts are pleasing though melancholy,

such ideas, sentiments, and feelings as arise in the mind and in the

heart at the foot of antique columns, before triumphal arches, in the

depths of ruined tombs, and on mossy banks of fountains; but there are

other contrasts which bring no such soothing thoughts with them, nothing

but what may almost be called despair; profusion of magnificence and

wealth side by side with the utmost wretchedness; Christ's altar blazing

with jewels and marble, misery indescribable around; luxury, and

enjoyment, and fine clothes almost hustled by rags, and sores, and

filth. Amid the lesson of past ages, written on every ruined column and

shattered wall, what a distance still exists between the poor and the

rich! Should the poor man wish to overpass it, he is driven back at

once into his original wretchedness, or condemned more mercifully to

death, while every ruined column and obelisk cries aloud, 'Let

everything that creeps console itself, for everything that is elevated

falls.'"

"We Romans," said the gentleman, "preserve our ruins as beggars keep

open their sores. They are preserved not always from taste; nor from a

respect of antiquity, but sometimes from mere avarice, for they attract

from every corner of the world that crowd of strangers whose curiosity

has long furnished a maintenance to three-fourths of Italy. But you

were speaking of the charming gods of the ancients. We are not inferior

to them. Have you seen the Apollo of Bermini pursuing Daphne, in the

Borghese Palace? His hair waves in the wind, you hear the entreaties of

the god."

"Yes, I have seen it," said Inglesant; "it is another of those wonderful

contrasts with which Rome abounds. We are Catholic and Pagan at the

same time."

"It is true," said the other; "nevertheless, in the centre of the

blood-stained Colisseo stands a crucifix. The Galilean has triumphed."

Inglesant stopped. They were standing before the Apollo in the

Belvedere gardens. Inglesant took from beneath his vest a crucifix in

ivory, exquisitely carved, and held it beside the statue of the god.

The one the noblest product of buoyant life, the proudest perfection of

harmonious form, purified from all the dross of humanity, the head

worthy of the god of day and of the lyre, of healing and of help, who

bore in his day the self-same name that the other bore, "the great

physician;" the other, worn and emaciated, helpless, dying, apparently

without power, forgotten by the world. "Has the Galilean triumphed? Do

you prefer the Christ?" he said.

The gentleman smiled. "The benign god," he said, "has doubtless many

votaries, even now."

It is probable that the life of Rome was working its effect upon

Inglesant himself. Under its influence, and that of the Cardinal, his

tone of thought became considerably modified. In a strange and

unexpected way, in the midst of so much religion, his attention was

diverted from the religious side of life, and his views of what was

philosophically important underwent considerable change. He read

Lucretius less, and Terence and Aristophanes more. Human life, as he

saw it existing around him, became more interesting to him than theories

and opinions. Life in all its forms, the Cardinal assured him, was the

only study worthy of man; and though Inglesant saw that such a general

assertion only encouraged the study of human thought, yet it seemed to

him that it directed him to a truth which he had hitherto perhaps

overlooked, and taught him to despise and condemn nothing in the common

path of men in which he walked. If this were true, the more carefully

he studied this common life, and the more narrowly he watched it, the

more worthy it would appear of regard; the dull and narrow streets, the

crowded dwellings, the base and vulgar life, the poverty and distress of

the poorer classes, would assume an interest unknown to him before.

"This life and interest," the Cardinal would say, "finds its best

exponent in the old pantomime and burlesque music of Italy. The real,

every-day, commonplace, human life, which originates absolutely among

the people themselves, speaks in their own music and street airs; but

when these are touched by a master's hand, it becomes revealed to us in

its essence, refined and idealized, with all its human features, which,

from their very familiarity, escape our recognition as we walk the

streets. In the peculiarity of this music, its graceful delicacy and

lively frolic and grotesqueness, I think I find the most perfect

presentment, to the ear and heart, of human life, especially as the

slightest variation of time or setting reveals in the most lively of

these airs depths of pathos and melodious sorrow, completing thus the

analogy of life, beneath the gayest phases of which lie unnoticed the

saddest realities."

"I have often felt," said Inglesant, "that old dance-music has an

inexpressible pathos; as I listen to it I seem to be present at long

past festivities, whose very haunts are swept away and forgotten; at

evenings in the distant past, looked forward to as all-important, upon

whose short and fleeting hours the hopes and enjoyments of a lifetime

were staked, now lost in an undistinguished oblivion and dust of death.

The young and the beautiful who danced to these quaint measures, in a

year or two had passed away, and other forms equally graceful took their

place. Fancies and figures that live in sound, and pass before the eyes

only when evoked by such melodies, float down the shadowy way and pass

into the future, where other gay and brilliant hours await the young, to

be followed as heretofore by pale and disappointed hopes and sad

realities, and the grave."

"What do you mean," said the Cardinal, "by figures that live in sound?"

"It seems to me," said Inglesant, "that the explanation of the power of

music upon the mind is, that many things are elements which are not

reckoned so, and that sound is one of them. As the air and fire are

said to be peopled by fairy inhabitants, as the spiritual man lives in

the element of faith, so I believe that there are creatures which live

in sound. Every lovely fancy, every moment of delight, every thought

and thrill of pleasure which music calls forth, or which, already

existing, is beautified and hallowed by music, does not die. Such as

these become fairy existences, spiritual creatures, shadowy but real,

and of an inexpressibly delicate grace and beauty, which live in melody,

and float and throng before the sense whenever the harmony that gave and

maintains their life exists again in sound. They are children of the

earth, and yet above it; they recall the human needs and hopes from

which they sprang. They have shadowy sex and rank, and diversity of

bearing, as of the different actors' parts that fill the stage of life.

Poverty and want are there, but, as in an allegory or morality, purified

and released from suffering. The pleasures and delights of past ages

thus live again in sound, the sorrows and disappointments of other days

and of other men mingle with our own, and soften and subdue our hearts.

Apollo and Orpheus tamed the savage beasts; music will soften our rugged

nature, and kindle in us a love of our kind and a tolerance of the petty

failings and the shortcomings of men."

It was not only music that fostered and encouraged in Rome an easy

tolerant philosophy. No society could be more adapted than that of the

Papal city to such an end. A people whose physical wants were few and

easily supplied (a single meal in such a climate, and that easily

procured, sufficing for the day); a city full of strangers, festivals

and shows; a conscience absolutely at rest; a community entirely set

apart from politics, absolutely at one with its government by habit, by

interest, and by religion;--constituted a unique state and mental

atmosphere, in which such philosophy naturally flourished. The early

hours of the day were spent in such business as was necessary for all

classes to engage in, and were followed by the dinner of fruit,

vegetables, fish, and a little meat. From dinner all went to sleep,

which lasted till six o'clock in the evening. Then came an hour's

trifling over the toilette, all business was at an end, and all the

shops were shut. Till three o'clock in the morning the hours were

devoted to enjoyment. Men, women, and children repaired to the public

walks, to the corso and squares, to conversation in coteries, to

assemblies in arcaded and lighted gardens, to collations in taverns.

Even the gravest and most serious gave themselves up to relaxation and

amusement till the next day. Every evening was a festival; every

variety of character and conversation enlivened these delicious hours,

these soft and starry nights.

Nothing pleased Inglesant's fancy so much, or soothed his senses so

completely, as this second dawn of the day and rising to pleasure in the

cool evening. Soothed and calmed by sleep, the irritated nerves were

lulled into that delicious sense for which we have no name, but which we

compare to flowing water, and to the moistening of a parched and dusty

drought. All thoughts of trouble and of business were banished by the

intervening hours of forgetfulness, from which the mind, half-aroused

and fresh from dreamland, awoke to find itself in a world as strange and

fantastic as the land of sleep which it had left; a land bathed in

sunset light, overarched by rainbows, saluted by cool zephyrs, soothed

by soft strains of music, delighted and amused by gay festivals, peopled

by varied crowds of happy people, many-coloured in dress, in green walks

sparkling with fairy lamps, and seated at al fresco suppers, before cosy

taverns famous for delicious wines, where the gossip of Europe, upon

which Rome looked out as from a Belvedere, intrigue, and the promotions

of the morning, were discussed.

Inglesant had taken lodgings in an antique villa on the Aventine,

surrounded by an uncultivated garden and by vineyards. The house was

partly deserted and partly occupied by a family of priests, and he slept

here when he was not at the Cardinal's palace, or with other of his

friends. The place was quiet and remote from the throng and noise of

Rome; in the gardens were fountains in the cool shade; frescos and

paintings had been left on the walls and in the rooms by the owner of

the villa; the tinkling of convent bells sounded from the slopes of the

hills through the laurels and ilex and across the vines; every now and

then the chanting of the priests might be heard from a small Chapel at

the back of the house.

Inglesant awoke from his mid-day sleep one evening to the splash of the

fountain, and the scent of the fresh-turned earth in the vineyard, and

found his servant arranging his room for his toilette. He was to sup

that evening at the Cardinal's with some of the Fathers of the Oratory,

and he dressed, as was usual with him even in his most distracted moods,

with scrupulous care. A sedan was waiting for him, and he set out for

the Cardinal's palace.

It was a brilliant evening; upon the hill-sides the dark trees stood out

against the golden sky, the domes and pinnacles of the Churches shone in

the evening light. In the quiet lanes, in the neighbourhood of the

Aventine, the perfume of odoriferous trees was wafted over lofty garden

walls; quiet figures flitted to and fro, a distant hum of noisy streets

scarcely reached the ear, mingled with the never-ceasing bells. That

morning, before he went to sleep, Inglesant had been reading "The Birds"

of Aristophanes, with a voluminous commentary by some old scholar, who

had brought together a mass of various learning upon the subject of

grotesque apologue, fable, and the fanciful representation of the facts

and follies of human life under the characters of animals and of

inanimate objects. A vast number of examples of curious pantomime and

other stage characters were given, and the idea preserved throughout

that, by such impersonations, the voices of man's existence were able to

speak with clearness and pathos, and were more sure of being listened to

than when they assumed the guise of a teacher or divine. Beneath a

grotesque and unexpected form they conceal a gravity more sober than

seriousness itself, as irony is more sincere than the solemnity which it

parodies. Truth drops her stilted gait, and becomes natural and real, in

the midst of ludicrous and familiar events. The broad types of life's

players into which the race is divided, especially the

meanest,--thieves, beggars, outcasts,--with whom life is a reality

stripped of outward show, will carry a moral and a teaching more aptly

than the privileged and affected classes. Mixed with these are animals

and familiar objects of household life, to which everyday use has given

a character of their own. These, not in the literal repulsiveness or

dulness of their monotonous existence, but abstracted, as the types or

emblems of the ideas associated with each one--not a literal beggar, in

his dirt and loathsomeness, but poverty, freedom, helplessness, and

amusing knavery, personified in the part of a beggar--not a mere article

of household use in its inanimate stupidity, but every idea and

association connected with the use of such articles by generations of

men and women;--these and such as these, enlivened by the sparkle of

genius, set forth in gay and exquisite music, and by brilliant repartee

and witty dialogue, certainly cannot be far behind the very foremost

delineation of human life.

Educated in the Court of King Charles to admire Shakespeare and the

Elizabethan stage, Inglesant was better able to understand these things

than the Italians were, suggestive as the Italian life itself was of

such reflections. The taste for music and scenery had driven dialogue

and character from the stage. Magnificent operas, performed by

exquisite singers, and accompanied by mechanical effects of stupendous

extent, were almost the only scenic performances fashionable in Italy;

but this was of less consequence where every street was a stage, and

every festival an elaborate play. The Italians were pantomimic and

dramatic in the highest degree without perceiving it themselves. The

man who delights in regarding this life as a stage cannot attach an

overwhelming importance to any incident; he observes life as a

spectator, and does not engage in it as an actor; but the Italian was

too impetuous to do this--he took too violent an interest in the events

themselves.

The narrow streets through which Inglesant's chair passed terminated at

last in a wide square. It was full of confused figures, presenting to

the eye a dazzling movement of form and colour, of which last, owing to

the evening light, the prevailing tint was blue. A brilliant belt of

sunset radiance, like molten gold along the distant horizon, threw up

the white houses into strong relief. Dark cypress trees rose against

the glare of the yellow sky, tinged with blue from the fathomless azure

above. The white spray of fountains flashed high over the heads of the

people in the four corners of the square, and long lance-like gleams of

light shot from behind the cypresses and the white houses, refracting a

thousand colours in the flashing water. A murmur of gay talk filled the

air, and a constant change of varied form perplexed the eye.

Inglesant alighted from his chair, and, directing his servants to

proceed at once to the Cardinal's, crossed the square on foot.

Following so closely on his previous dreamy thoughts, he was intensely

interested and touched by this living pantomime. Human life had never

before seemed to him so worthy of regard, whether looked at as a whole,

inspiring noble and serious reflections, or viewed in detail when each

separate atom appears pitiful and often ludicrous. The infinite

distance between these two poles, between the aspirations and the

exhortations of conscience, which have to do with humanity as a whole,

and the actual circumstances and capacities of the individual, with

which satirists and humourists have ever made free to jest,--this

contrast, running through every individual life as well as through the

mass of existence, seemed to him to be the true field of humour, and the

real science of those "Humanities" which the schools pedantically

professed to teach.

Nothing moved in the motley crowd before him but what illustrated this

science,--the monk, the lover, the soldier, the improvisatore, the

matron, the young girl; here the childish hand brandishing its toy,

there the artisan, and the shop girl, and the maid-servant, seeking such

enjoyment as their confined life afforded; the young boyish companions

with interlaced arms, the benignant priest, every now and then the

stately carriage slowly passing by to its place on the corso, or to the

palace or garden to which its inmates were bound.

Wandering amid this brilliant fantasia of life, Inglesant's heart smote

him for the luxurious sense of pleasure which he found himself taking in

the present movement and aspect of things. Doubtless this human

philosophy, if we may so call it, into which he was drifting, has a

tendency, at least, very different from much of the teaching which is

the same in every school of religious thought. Love of mankind is

inculcated as a sense of duty by every such school; but by this is

certainly not intended love of and acquiescence in mankind as it is.

This study of human life, however, this love of human existence, is

unconnected with any desire for the improvement either of the individual

or of the race. It is man as he is, not man as he might be, or as he

should be, which is a delightful subject of contemplation to this

tolerant philosophy which human frailty finds so attractive. Man's

failings, his self-inflicted miseries, his humours, the effect of his

very crimes and vices, if not even those vices themselves, form a chief

part in the changing drama upon which the student's eyes are so eagerly

set, and without these it would lose its interest and attraction. A

world of perfect beings would be to such a man of all things the most

stale and unprofitable. Humour and pathos, the grotesque contrast

between a man's aspirations and his actual condition, his dreams and his

mean realities, would be altogether wanting in such a world.

Indignation, sorrow, satire, doubt, and restlessness, allegory, the very

soul and vital salt of life, would be wanting in such a world. But if a

man does not desire a perfect world, what part can he have in the

Christian warfare? It is true that an intimate study of a world of sin

and of misfortune throws up the sinless character of the Saviour into

strong relief; but the student accepts this Saviour's character and

mission as part of the phenomena of existence, not as an irreconcilable

crusade and battle-cry against the powers of the world on every hand.

The study of life is indeed equally possible to both schools; but the

pleased acquiescence in life as it is, with all its follies and

fantastic pleasures, is surely incompatible with following the footsteps

of the Divine Ascetic who trod the wine-press of the wrath of God. With

all their errors, they who rejected the world and all its allurements,

and taught the narrow life of painful self-denial, must be more nearly

right than this.

Nevertheless, even before this last thought was completely formed in his

mind, the sight of the moving people, and of the streets of the

wonderful city opening out on every side, full of palaces and glittering

shops and stalls, and crowded with life and gaiety, turned his halting

choice back again in the opposite direction, and he thought something

like this:--

"How useless and even pitiful is the continued complaint of moralists

and divines, to whom none lend an ear, whilst they endeavour, age after

age, to check youth and pleasure, and turn the current of life and

nature backward on its course. For how many ages in this old Rome, as in

every other city, since Terence gossipped of the city life, has this

frail faulty humanity for a few hours sunned itself on warm afternoons

in sheltered walks and streets, and comforted itself into life and

pleasure, amid all its cares and toils and sins. Out of this shifting

phantasmagoria comes the sound of music, always pathetic and sometimes

gay; amid the roofs and belfries peer the foliage of the public walks,

the stage upon which, in every city, life may be studied and taken to

heart; not far from these walks is, in every city, the mimic stage, the

glass in which, in every age and climate, human life has seen itself

reflected, and has delighted, beyond all other pleasures, in pitying its

own sorrows, in learning its own story, in watching its own fantastic

developments, in foreshadowing its own fate, in smiling sadly for an

hour over the still more fleeting representation of its own fleeting

joys. For ever, without any change, the stream flows on, spite of

moralist and divine, the same as when Phaedria and Thais loved each

other in old Rome. We look back on these countless ages of city life,

cooped in narrow streets and alleys and paved walks, breathing itself in

fountained courts and shaded arcades, where youth and manhood and old

age have sought their daily sustenance not only of bread but of

happiness, and have with difficulty and toil enough found the one and

caught fleeting glimpses of the other, between the dark thunder clouds,

and under the weird, wintry sky of many a life. Within such a little

space how much life is crowded, what high hopes, how much pain! From

those high windows behind the flower-pots young girls have looked out

upon life, which their instincts told them was made for pleasure, but

which year after year convinced them was, somehow or other, given over

to pain. How can we read this endless story of humanity with any thought

of blame? How can we watch this restless quivering human life, this

ceaseless effort of a finite creature to attain to those things which

are agreeable to its created nature, alike in all countries, under all

climates and skies, and whatever change of garb or semblance the long

course of years may bring, with any other thought than that of tolerance

and pity--tolerance of every sort of city existence, pity for every kind

of toil and evil, year after year repeated, in every one of earth's

cities, full of human life and handicraft, and thought and love and

pleasure, as in the streets of that old Jerusalem over which the Saviour

wept."

* * * * *

The conversation that evening at the Cardinal's villa turned upon the

antiquities of Rome. The chief delight of the Fathers of the Oratory

was in music, but the Cardinal preferred conversation, especially upon

Pagan literature and art. He was an enthusiast upon every subject

connected with the Greeks,--art, poetry, philosophy, religion; upon all

these he founded theories and deductions which showed not only an

intimate acquaintance with Greek literature, but also a deep familiarity

with the human heart. A lively imagination and eloquent and polished

utterance enabled him to extract from the baldest and most obscure myths

and fragments of antiquity much that was fascinating, and, being founded

on a true insight into human nature, convincing also.

Inglesant especially sympathized with and understood the tone of thought

and the line of reasoning with which the Cardinal regarded Pagan

antiquity; and this appreciation pleased the Cardinal, and caused him to

address much of his conversation directly to him.

The villa was full of objects by which thought and conversation were

attracted to such channels. The garden was entered by a portico or

door-case adorned with ancient statues, the volto or roof of which was

painted with classic subjects, and the lofty doors themselves were

covered with similar ones in relief. The walls of the house, towards

the garden, were cased with bas-reliefs,--"antique incrustations of

history" the Cardinal called them,--representing the Rape of Europa, of

Leda, and other similar scenes. These antique stones and carvings were

fitted into the walls between the rich pilasters and cornicing which

adorned the front of the villa, and the whole was crossed with tendrils

of citron and other flowering shrubs, trained with the utmost art and

nicety, so as to soften and ornament without concealing the sculpture.

The gardens were traversed by high hedges of myrtle, lemon, orange, and

juniper, interspersed with mulberry trees and oleanders, and were

planted with wide beds of brilliant flowers, according to the season,

now full of anemones, ranunculuses, and crocuses. The whole was formed

upon terraces, fringed with balustrades of marble, over which creeping

plants were trained with the utmost skill, only leaving sufficient

stone-work visible to relieve the foliage. The walks were full of

statues and pieces of carving in relief. The rooms were ornamented in

the same taste, and the chimney of the one in which the supper was laid

was enriched with sculpture of wonderful grace and delicacy.

One of the Fathers of the Oratory asked Inglesant whether he had seen

the Venus of the Medicean palace, and what he thought of it compared

with the Venus of the Farnese; and when he had replied, the other turned

to the Cardinal and inquired whether, in his opinion, the Greeks had any

higher meaning or thought in these beautiful delineations of human form

than mere admiration and pleasure.

"The higher minds among them assuredly," said the Cardinal; "but in

another and more important sense every one of them, even the most

unlettered peasant who gazed upon the work, and the most worldly artist

buried in the mere outward conceptions of his art, were consciously or

unconsciously following, and even worshipping, a divinity and a truth

than which nothing can be higher or more universal. For the truth was

too powerful for them, and so universal that they could not escape.

Human life, in all the phases of its beauty and its deformity, is so

instinct with the divine nature, that, in merely following its variety,

you are learning the highest lessons, and teaching them to others."

"What may you understand by being instinct with the divine nature?" said

the Priest, not unnaturally.

"I mean that general consensus and aggregate of truth in which human

nature and all that is related to it is contained. That divine idea,

indeed, in which all the facts of human life and experience are drawn

together, and exalted to their utmost perfection and refinement, and are

seen and felt to form a whole of surpassing beauty and nobleness, in

which the divine image and plastic power in man is clearly discerned and

intellectually received and appropriated."

The Priest did not seem altogether to understand this, and remained

silent.

"But," said Inglesant, "much of this pursuit of the beautiful must have

been associated, in the ideas of the majority of the people, with

thoughts and actions the most unlovely and undesirable according to the

intellectual reason, however delightful to the senses."

"Even in these orgies," replied the Cardinal, "in the most profligate

and wild excesses of license, I see traces of this all-pervading truth;

for the renouncing of all bound and limit is in itself a truth, when any

particular good, though only sensual, is freed and perfected. This is,

no doubt, what the higher natures saw, and it was this that reconciled

them to the license of the people and of the unilluminated. In all

these aberrations they saw ever fresh varieties and forms of that truth

which, when it was intellectually conceived, it was their greatest

enjoyment to contemplate, and which, no doubt, formed the material of

the instructions which the initiated into the mysteries received. It is

impossible that this could be otherwise, for there can be no philosophy

if there be no human life from which to derive it. The intellectual

existence and discourses of Socrates cannot be understood, except when

viewed in connection with the sensual and common existence and carnal

wisdom of Aristophanes, any more than the death of the one can be

understood without we also understand the popular thought and feeling

delineated to us by the other. And why should we be so ungrateful as to

turn round on this 'beast within the man,' if you so choose to call

it,--the human body and human delight to which we owe not only our own

existence and all that makes life desirable, but also that very

loftiness and refinement of soul, that elevated and sublime philosophy,

which could not exist but for the contrast and antithesis which popular

life presents? Surely it is more philosophical to take in the whole of

life, in every possible form, than to shut yourself up in one doctrine,

which, while you fondly dream you have created it, and that it is

capable of self-existence, is dependent for its very being on that human

life from which you have fled, and which you despise. This is the whole

secret of the pagan doctrine, and the key to those profound views of

life which were evolved in their religion. This is the worship of

Priapus, of human life, in which nothing comes amiss or is to be

staggered at, however voluptuous or sensual, for all things are but

varied manifestations of life; of life, ruddy, delicious, full of

fruits, basking in sunshine and plenty, dyed with the juice of grapes;

of life in valleys cooled by snowy peaks, amid vineyards and shady

fountains, among which however, 'Saepe Faunorum voces exauditae, saepe

visae formae Deorum.'"

"This, Signore Inglesant," said the Priest, passing the wine across the

table, with a smile, "is somewhat even beyond the teaching of your

friends of the society of the Gesu; and would make their doctrine even,

excellently as it already suits that purpose, still more propitious

towards the frailty of men."

Inglesant filled his glass, and drank it off before he replied. The wine

was of the finest growth of the delicious Alban vineyards; and as the

nectar coursed through his veins, a luxurious sense of acquiescence

stole over him. The warm air, laden with perfume from the shaded

windows, lulled his sense; a stray sunbeam lighted the piles of fruit

and the deeply embossed gold of the service on the table before him, and

the mellow paintings and decorated ceiling of the room. As he slowly

drank his wine the memory of Serenus de Cressy, and of his doctrine of

human life, rose before his mind, and his eyes were fixed upon the

deep-coloured wine before him, as though he saw there, as in a magic

goblet, the opposing powers that divide the world. It seemed to him

that he had renounced his right to join in the conflict, and that he

must remain as ever a mere spectator of the result; nevertheless he

said,--

"Your doctrine is delightful to the philosopher and to the man of

culture, who has his nature under the curb, and his glance firmly fixed

upon the goal; but to the vulgar it is death; and indeed it was death

until the voice of another God was heard, and the form of another God

was seen, not in vineyards and rosy bowers, but in deserts and stony

places, in dens and caves of the earth, and in prisons and on crosses of

wood."

"It is treason to the idea of cultured life," said the Cardinal, "to

evoke such gloomy images. My theory is at least free from such faults

of taste."

"Do not fear me," said Inglesant; "I have no right to preach such a

lofty religion. An asceticism I never practised it would ill-become me

to advocate."

"You spoke of the death of Socrates," said the Priest; "does this event

fall within the all-embracing tolerance of your theory?"

"The death of Socrates," said the Cardinal, "appears to have been

necessary to preserve the framework of ordinary every-day society from

falling to pieces. At any rate men of good judgment in that day thought

so, and they must have known best. You must remember that it was

Socrates that was put to death, not Plato, and we must not judge by what

the latter has left us of what the former taught. The doctrine of

Socrates was purely negative, and undermined the principle of belief not

only in the Gods but in everything else. His dialectic was excellent

and noble, his purpose pure and exalted, the clearing of men's mind's of

false impressions; but to the common fabric of society his method was

destruction. So he was put to death, unjustly of course, and contrary

to the highest law, but according to the lower law of expediency,

justly; for society must preserve itself even at the expense of its

noblest thinkers. But," added the Cardinal with a smile, "we have only

to look a little way for a parallel. It is not, however, a perfect one;

for while the Athenians condemned Socrates to a death painless and

dignified, the moderns have burnt Servetus, whose doctrine contained

nothing dangerous to society, but turned on a mere point of the schools,

at the stake."

"Why do they not burn you, Cardinal?" said one of the Oratorians, who

had not yet spoken, a very intimate friend of the master of the house.

"They do not know whom to begin with in Rome," he replied; "if they once

commenced to burn, the holocaust would be enormous before the sacrifice

was complete."

"I would they would burn Donna Olympia," said the same Priest; "is it

true that she has returned?"

"Have patience," said the Cardinal; "from what I hear you will not have

long to wait."

"I am glad you believe in purgatory," said the Priest who had spoken

first. "I did not know that your Eminence was so orthodox."

"You mistake. I do not look so far. I am satisfied with the purgatory

of this life. I merely meant that I fear we shall not long have his

Holiness among us."

"The moderns have burnt others besides Servetus," said one of the

guests--"Vaninus, for instance."

"I did not instance Vaninus," said the Cardinal, "because his punishment

was more justifiable, and nearer to that of Socrates. Vaninus taught

atheism, which is dangerous to society, and he courted his death. I

suppose, Mr. Inglesant, that your bishops would burn Mr. Hobbes if they

dared."

"I know little of the Anglican bishops, Eminence," replied Inglesant;

"but from that little I should imagine that it is not impossible."

"What does Mr. Hobbes teach?" said one of the party.

The Cardinal looked at Inglesant, who shook his head.

"What he teaches would require more skill than I possess to explain.

What they would say that they burnt him for would be for teaching

atheism and the universality of matter. I fancy that it is at least

doubtful whether even Vaninus meant to deny the existence of God. I

have been told that he was merely an enthusiastic naturalist, who could

see nothing but nature, which was his god. But as for Mr. Hobbes's

opinions, he seems to me to have proclaimed a third authority in

addition to the two which already claimed the allegiance of the world.

We had first the authority of a Church, then of a book, now Mr. Hobbes

asserts the authority of reason; and the supporters of the book, even

more fiercely than those of the Church, raise a clamour against him.

His doctrines are very insidiously and cautiously expressed, and it

proves the acuteness of the Anglican divines that they have detected,

under the plausible reasoning of Mr. Hobbes, the basis of a logical

argument which would, if unconfuted, destroy the authority of Holy

Scripture."

The Cardinal looked at Inglesant curiously, as though uncertain whether

he was speaking in good faith or not, but the subject did not seem to

possess great interest to the company at table, and the conversation

took another turn.

*CHAPTER VI.*

Some few days after the conversation at the Cardinal's villa, Inglesant

received his first commission as an agent of the Society of the Gesu.

He was invited to sup with the Superior of the English Jesuits, Father

Stafford, at the college called St. Thomasso degli Inglesi. After the

meal, over which nothing was spared to render it delicious, and during

the course of which the Superior exerted himself to please, the latter

said,--

"I am instructed to offer you a commission, which, if I mistake not,

will both prove very interesting to you, and will also be of advantage

to your interests. You are probably acquainted with the story of the

old Duke of Umbria. You have heard that, wearied with age, and tired of

the world, he resigned the dukedom to his son, his only child, the

object of all his hopes and the fruit of careful training and

instruction. This son, far from realizing the brilliant hopes of his

father, indulged in every kind of riot and debauchery, and finally died

young, worn out before his time. The old Duke, broken-hearted by this

blow, has virtually made over the succession to the Holy Father, and

lives now, alone and silent in his magnificent palace, caring for no

worldly thing, and devoting all his thoughts to religion and to his

approaching end. He is unhappy in the prospect of his dissolution, and

the only persons who are admitted to his presence are those who promise

him any comfort in the anticipation, or any clearness in the vision, of

the future life. Quacks and impostors of every kind, priests and monks

and fanatics, are admitted freely, and trouble this miserable old man,

and drive him into intolerable despair. To give to this old man, whose

life of probity, of honour, of devotion to his people, of conscientious

rectitude, is thus miserably rewarded--to give some comfort to this

miserable victim of a jealousy which the superstitious miscall that of

heaven, is a mission which the ethereal chivalry of the soul will

eagerly embrace. It is one, I may say without flattery, for which I

hold you singularly fitted. A passionate religious fervour, such as

yours, combined in the most singular manner with the freest speculative

opinions, and commended by a courteous grace, will at once soothe and

strengthen this old man's shattered intellect, distracted and tormented

and rapidly sinking into imbecility and dotage."

Father Stafford paused and filled his glass; then passing the wine to

Inglesant, he continued, half carelessly,--

"I said that the Duke had virtually made over the succession of his

State to the Papal See; but this has not been formally ratified, and

there has arisen some hesitation and difficulty respecting it. Some of

the unsuitable advisers to whom the Duke in his mental weakness has

unfortunately lent an ear, have endeavoured to persuade him that the

interests of his people will be imperilled by their country being placed

under the mild and beneficent rule of the Holy Father. We hear

something of a Lutheran, who, by some unexplained means, has obtained

considerable influence with this unhappy old man; and we are informed

that there is great danger of the Duke's hesitating so long before he

completes the act of succession, that his death may occur before it is

complete. You will of course exert the influence which I hope and

expect that you will soon gain at the ducal Court, to hasten this

consummation, so desirable for the interests of the people, of the

Papacy, and of the Duke himself."

Inglesant had listened to this communication with great interest. The

prospect which the earlier part of it had opened before him was in many

respects an attractive one, and the flattering words of the Superior

were uttered in a tone of sincerity which made them very pleasant to

hear. The description of the Duke's condition offered to him

opportunities of mental study of absorbing interest, and the characters

of those by whom he was surrounded would no doubt present combinations

and varieties of singular and unusual curiosity. It must not be denied,

moreover, that there entered into his estimate of the proposal made to

him somewhat of the prospect of luxurious and courtly life--of that soft

clothing, both of body and spirit, which they who live in kings' houses

wear. It is difficult indeed for one who has been long accustomed to

refined and dainty living, where every sense is trained and strengthened

by the fruition it enjoys, to regard the future altogether with

indifference in respect to these things. The palace of the Duke was

notorious throughout all Italy for the treasures of art which it

contained, though its master in his old age was become indifferent to

such delights. But though these thoughts passed through his mind as the

Superior was speaking, Inglesant was too well versed in the ways of

Courts and Ecclesiastics not to know that there was something more to

come, and to attend carefully for its development. The latter part of

the Superior's speech produced something even of a pleasurable

amusement, as the skilfully executed tactics of an opponent are pleasing

to a good player either at cards or chess. The part which he was now

expected to play, the side which he was about to espouse, taken in

connection with the difficulties and impressions which had perplexed him

since he had arrived in Italy, and which had not been removed by what he

had seen in Rome itself, corresponded so exactly with the scheme which,

to his excited imagination, was being spiritually developed for his

destruction--a morbid idea, possibly, which the lofty beneficence of

Molinos's doctrine had only partially removed--that its appearance and

recognition actually provoked a smile. But the smile, which the

Superior noticed and entirely misunderstood, was succeeded by uneasiness

and depression. There was, however, little hesitation and no apparent

delay in Inglesant's manner of acceptance. The old habit of implicit

obedience was far from obliterated or even weakened, and though Father

St. Clare was not present the supreme motive of his influence was not

unfelt. He had chosen his part when in Paris he had turned his back

upon De Cressy, and accepted the Jesuit's offer of the mission to Rome.

He had lived in Rome, had been received and countenanced and entertained

as one who had accepted the service of those who had so courteously and

hospitably treated him, and it was far too late now, when the first

return was expected of him, to draw back or to refuse. To obey was not

only a recognized duty, it was an instinct which not only long training

but experience even served to strengthen. He assured the Superior that

he was perfectly ready to set out. He assured himself indeed that it was

not necessary to come to a decision at that moment, and that he should

be much better able to decide upon his course of conduct when he had

seen the Duke himself, and received more full instructions from Rome.

The Superior informed Inglesant that he would be expected to visit

Umbria as a gentleman of station, and offered to provide the necessary

means. Inglesant contented himself with declining this offer for the

present. Since his arrival at Rome he had received considerable sums of

money from England, the result of Lady Cardiff's bounty, and the

Cardinal's purse was open to him in several indirect ways. He provided

himself with the necessary number of servants, horses, and other

conveniences, and some time, as would appear, after Easter, he arrived

at Umbria.

On his journey, as he rode along in the wonderful clear morning light,

in his "osteria" in the middle of the day, and when he resumed his

journey in the cool of the evening, his thoughts had been very busy. He

remembered his conversation with the Count Vespiriani, and was unable to

reconcile his present mission with the pledge he had given to the Count.

He was more than once inclined to turn back and refuse to undertake the

duty demanded of him. Thoughts of Lauretta, and of the strange fate

that had separated him from her, also occupied his mind; and with these

conflicting emotions still unreconciled, he saw at last the white facade

of the palace towering above the orange groves, and the houses and

pinnacles of the city.

The ducal palace at Umbria is a magnificent example of the Renaissance

style. It is impossible to dwell in or near this wonderful house

without the life becoming affected, and even diverted from its previous

course, by its imperious influence. The cold and mysterious power of the

classic architecture is wedded to the rich and libertine fancy of the

Renaissance, treading unrestrained and unabashed the maze of nature and

of phantasy, and covering the classic purity of outline with its

exquisite tracery of fairy life. Over door and window and pilaster

throng and cling the arabesque carvings of foliage and fruit, of

graceful figures in fantastic forms and positions,--all of infinite

variety; all full of originality, of life, of motion, and of character;

all of exquisite beauty both of design and workmanship. The effect of

the whole is lightness and joy, while the eye is charmed and the sense

filled with a luxurious satisfaction at the abounding wealth of beauty

and lavish imagination. But together with this delight to eye and sense

there is present to the mind a feeling, not altogether painless, of

oppressive luxury, and of the mating of incongruous forms, arousing as

it were an uneasy conscience, and affecting the soul somewhat as the

overpowering perfume of tropical vegetation affects the senses. To

dwell in this palace was to breathe an enchanted air; and as the

wandering prince of story loses his valour and strength in the magic

castles into which he strays, so here the indweller, whose intellect was

mastered by the genius of the architecture, found his simplicity

impaired, his taste becoming more sensuous and less severely chaste, and

his senses lulled and charmed by the insidious and enervating spirit

that pervaded the place.

At his first presentation Inglesant found the Duke seated in a small

room fitted as an oratory or closet, and opening by a private door into

the ducal pew in the Chapel. His person was bowed and withered by age

and grief, but his eye was clear and piercing, and his intellect

apparently unimpaired. He regarded his visitor with an intense and

scrutinizing gaze, which lasted for several minutes, and seemed to

indicate some suspicion. There was, however, about Inglesant's

appearance and manner something so winning and attractive, that the old

man's eyes gradually softened, and the expression of distrust that made

his look almost that of a wild and hunted creature, changed to one of

comparative satisfaction and repose. It is true that he regarded with

pleasure and hope every new-comer, from whom he expected to derive

consolation and advice.

Inglesant expected that he would inquire of the news of Rome, of the

Pope's health, and such-like matters; but he seemed to have no curiosity

concerning such things. After waiting for some time in silence he

said,--

"Anthony Guevera tells us that we ought to address men who are under

thirty with 'You are welcome,' or 'You come in a good hour,' because at

that time of life they seem to be coming into the world; from thirty to

fifty we ought to greet them with 'God keep you,' or 'Stand in a good

hour;' and from fifty onwards, with 'God speed you,' or 'Go in a good

hour,' for from thence they go taking their leave of the world. The

first is easy to say, and the wish not unlikely to be fulfilled, but the

last who shall ensure? You come in a good hour, graceful as an Apollo,

to comfort a miserable old man; can you assure me that, when I pass out

of this world, I shall depart likewise at a propitious time? I am an

old man, and that unseen world which should be so familiar and near to

me seems so far off and yet so terrible. A young man steps into life as

into a dance, confident of his welcome, pleased himself and pleasing

others; the stage to which he comes is bright with flowers, soft music

sounds on every side. So ought the old man to enter into the new life,

confident of his welcome, pleasing to his Maker and his God, the

heavenly minstrelsy in his ears. But it is far otherwise with me. I

may lay me down in the 'Angelica Vestis,' the monkish garment that

ensures the prayers of holy men for the departing soul; but who will

secure me the wedding garment that ensures admission to the banquet

above?"

"Do you find no comfort in the Blessed Sacrament, Altezza?" said

Inglesant.

"Sometimes I may fancy so; but I cannot see the figure of the Christ for

the hell that lies between."

"Ah! Altezza," said Inglesant, his eyes full of pity, not only for the

old Duke, but for himself and all mankind, "it is always thus.

Something stands between us and the heavenly life. My temptation is

other than yours. Communion after communion I find Christ, and He is

gracious to me--gracious as the love of God Himself; but month after

month and year after year I find not how to follow Him, and when the

road is opened to me I am deaf, and refuse to answer to the heavenly

call. You, Altezza, are in more hopeful case than I; for it seems to me

that your Highness has but to throw off that blasphemous superstition

which is found in all Christian creeds alike, which has not feared to

blacken even the shining gates of heaven with the smoke of hell."

"All creeds are alike," said the Duke with a shudder, "but mostly your

northern religions, harsh and bitter as your skies. I have heard from a

Lutheran a system of religion that made my blood run cold, the more as

it commends itself to my calmer reason."

"And that is, Altezza?" said Inglesant.

"This, that so far from the Sacrament of Absolution upon earth, or at

the hour of death, availing anything, God Himself has no power to change

the state of those who die without being entirely purified from every

trace of earthly and sensual passion; to such as these, though otherwise

sincere Christians, nothing awaits but a long course of suffering in the

desolate regions of Hades, as the Lutheran calls it, until, if so may

be, the earthly idea is annihilated and totally obliterated from the

heart."

"This seems little different from the doctrine of the Church," said

Inglesant.

"It is different in this most important part," replied the Duke, "that

Holy Church purifies and pardons her penitent, though he feels the

passions of earth strong within him till the last; but by this system

you must eradicate these yourself. You must purify your heart, you must

feel every carnal lust, every vindictive thought, every lofty and

contemptuous notion, utterly dead within you before you can enjoy a

moment's expectation of future peace. He that goes out of this world

with an uncharitable thought against his neighbour does so with the

chances against him that he is lost for ever, for his face is turned

from the light, and he enters at once upon the devious and downward

walks of the future life; and what ground has he to expect that he who

could not keep his steps in this life will find any to turn him back, or

will have power to turn himself back, from every growing evil in the

world to come?"

As the Duke spoke it seemed to Inglesant that these words were addressed

to him alone, and that he saw before him the snare of the Devil, bated

with the murderer of his brother, stretched before his heedless feet for

his eternal destruction.