CHAPTER XIII.

A RIVAL FOR EDITH.

Dick Rowan came home in the spring of '52 to begin a new life. In

the first place, he was to have a ship of his own. Mr. Williams had

a beautiful ship almost ready to launch, and he was to be the master

of it. He was to name it, too, that had been promised him; but what

name he meant to bestow was as yet a secret to all but himself. What

could it be but the _Edith Yorke_? He had other matters to settle,

too; he must become a Catholic. He had promised Edith that he would,

if, on reading, he found he could do so conscientiously. He had read

a good deal, more than he liked, indeed, and saw nothing to object

to. Besides, the fact that it was Edith's religion and the religion

of his father's boyhood was a strong argument in its favor. There

was one other affair to settle, the thought of which made the color

drop out of his cheeks, and his heart rise in excited throbs. He had

studied it over and over during this last voyage, and his mind was

made up. Edith was almost seventeen years old, and he meant to speak

to her. She must know now, if she ever would, whether she was willing

to be his wife.

Perhaps something said to him by Captain Cary had hastened his

decision. The captain had seen what his studies were, and been vexed

by them.

"You are going too far, Dick," he expostulated. "A man never should

change his religion for a girl's sake. She won't like you any the

better for it. Besides, Dick, I can't help saying it, you are making

a fool of yourself. She will marry Carl Yorke."

Dick stared, reddened, then grew pale. "I think not," he said

decidedly. "Don't say that again, captain."

The first thing to be attended to, then, was his religion. He must be

a Catholic when he met Edith. Besides, if religion gives strength, he

would feel better prepared to put his fortune to the test. He went,

therefore, to a clergyman immediately.

"I do not wish to read any more, sir," he said. "I do not like the

way in which learned men prove their arguments to be true. It is

too ingenious. It always seems to me that the other side could be

just as well proved, if one were clever enough. I am willing to

believe whatever is true. I cannot swear to any doctrine, except the

existence of a God and the divinity of Christ. Those two truths I

would stand by with my life. For the rest, I can only say that I

place my mind and heart passively in the hands of God, and ask him

to direct them. I can do no more, except to say that, if I do not

believe, neither do I disbelieve anything that has been proposed to

me. Perhaps my head isn't a very good one; I dare say it is not. I

certainly do not like subtleties. It seems to me that all necessary

truth may be known and believed by a very ordinary intellect with

very moderate study. What I want in religion is what I find in the

faces of some of the poor people whom I see here at Mass in the early

morning, and I don't believe they got that out of books, or got it

themselves in any way."

"You are right," the priest said. "What you saw in their faces was

faith, a pure gift of God. But you believe baptism to be necessary to

salvation?"

"I am inclined to think so, but not sure," was the reply. "If I were

sure, then I should already have faith, which is what I come to ask

for. If it is necessary, I wish for it."

The priest mused. This was not a very fervent penitent certainly; but

he was a sincere one, and in his fine, earnest face the father read a

latent fervor and power of strong conviction which would be all the

more precious when aroused.

Dick mistook the father's silence for hesitation, and his real

impatience broke out. "I am uneasy, sir," he said; "I wish to be one

thing or another."

The priest looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Dick paused a minute, resting his head on his hand, then raised his

bright, clear eyes.

"What I say to a priest goes no further?" he said interrogatively.

"Your confidence is safe with me."

"Edith said that I should tell you everything," Dick muttered,

half to himself, and for a moment his dreamy eyes seemed to

contemplate the picture his mind held of her saying so. A smile just

stirred his lips, and he went on. "I was born an outlaw, sir. The

conventionalities which keep many people straight had nothing to

do with me. Then I like adventure, and am hard to frighten. I have

been about, and seen all sorts of people believing all sorts of

things, and one sort was as good as another, as far as I could see.

The effect of this is, of course, to make one liberal; but such a

liberality, if a man has not a settled religious belief, unhinges the

principles. There have been times when I have thought that it wasn't

much matter what I did. I had half a mind to run away with Edith, and

turn privateer."

"Who is this Edith?"

"She is a little Catholic girl who was brought up with me, sir. I'm

going to ask her to marry me, and I think she will. She is the only

person in the world whom I depend on, or who has any influence over

me. I believe in her. She is as true as steel. And she believes in

me. I can't fail her, sir. That thought has kept me from harm so far."

"It is a poor reason for being a Catholic," the father said in a

dissatisfied tone. "It is a weak hold on virtue when your motive is

an affection like this."

The young man smiled with a sudden recollection.

"When we were at St. Michael's, last winter, there was a great

storm, and a vessel was wrecked close to the coast. We went down

to the shore to see, but nothing could be done. One man swam to or

was washed to a little rock not far from the shore. There he lay

clinging, with the waves breaking over him. He couldn't have held on

long, and we could not get to him any way. But Captain Cary brought

out a big bow and arrow of his that always reminded me of Ulysses',

for no one but the captain, I believe, could bend it, and, in a lull

of the wind, he shot a little cord over to the man, and the man drew

it out. Hope revived his strength, I suppose, and it seemed as if the

tempest waited for him. We tied a rope to the cord, and a larger rope

to that, and he drew it out, and tied it to the rock, and we saved

him."

The priest smiled. "Very true. We rise, we are saved sometimes by

degrees, and this little hold may be tied to a stronger. Go out into

the church, and make the prayer of the blind man, 'Lord, that I may

receive my sight.' To-morrow morning I will baptize you. I find you

sufficiently instructed."

That evening Dick made a request of the priest. "When men were to be

knighted, in olden times," he said, "they used to keep a vigil in the

church. Now, if by baptism I am to be made fit to enter heaven at

once, changed from a child of the devil to a child of God, why, it is

worth thinking about. It is a great thing to happen in a man's life,

and it happens but once. I would like to keep a vigil in the church.

I could think there better than anywhere else."

The priest hesitated. He hardly knew what to think of this mingled

coldness and fervor.

"Besides," the young man added, "you say that Christ is there

bodily. I would like to watch with him one night. It seems to me

wrong to leave him alone there now, when he is to do so much for me

to-morrow."

The priest consented. "But do not fancy that the Lord is alone,

though his earthly children forsake him," he said. "Doubtless the

place is crowded with angels and archangels."

Dick gazed steadfastly at the priest, and for a moment lost himself.

"Then, perhaps," he began hesitatingly, but broke off there. "No, if

he had preferred the company of angels, he would have remained in

heaven," he said. "It will be no intrusion. He comes here to be with

man."

Night came on, the church was locked, and all was dark save a small

golden flame that burned suspended in air. A watcher sat far back in

one of the seats, but after a while drew nearer, still sitting, not

kneeling. The whole place was full of silence and a sense of waiting.

In the shade, the stations hung unseen, but not unfelt. He had seen

them that day, and they spoke through the dark, "Here he fell! Here

he was struck! Here he was nailed to the cross!"

There was in this darkness and silence such a vacuum of the earthly,

that the heavenly seemed to break through the thin wall of sense and

flow around the soul.

When the priest came in at daybreak, he found his penitent prostrate

before the altar. After Mass was over, the baptism took place.

The father was struck by the countenance of his convert. It wore a

rapt and exalted expression, and he appeared to see nothing of what

was visibly before his eyes.

"God bless you!" he said to Dick on going out of the church. "Come to

see me. And for a while try to think of God entirely, and not of Miss

Edith Yorke."

"Sir," said Dick quietly, "I have thought of Edith Yorke but once

since I entered the church last night; and then it was as though the

Blessed Virgin put her aside and stood in her place."

TO BE CONTINUED.

A PAGE OF THE PAST AND A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE.

It is, perhaps, hardly to be believed, in this new country whose

mental geology grows and changes so quickly that one stratum of

thought and of circumstances is gone even before one has had time

to analyze it--it is, perhaps, hardly to be believed that the

shadow of the penal laws in the mother-country should still cloud

with lingering touches the reminiscences of a yet unfaded life.

Young people whose ideas and education belong to this century can

still remember one of those priests of old--one of those silent

champions--whom the English law made outcasts from their kind, and

fair game for their enemies.

Such a one was James Duckett, the pastor of a scattered flock that

covered the plain of Gresham, of historic memory, to the fort of

Edgehill, the last standpoint of the "lost cause" of the Stuarts.

The way in which his retreat was discovered, by a party of Catholics

from one of the large country-houses of Gloucestershire, was very

amusing as well as interesting.

They were returning from a picnic at a charming old Tudor

manor-house, one of the seats of the Marquis of Northampton, by name

Compton-Wyniatts, and where the family tradition asserts a portion

of the Royalist army to have lain hidden the eve of the terrible

battle of Edgehill. The house is full of holes and hiding-places,

sliding-panels, and trap-doors, great ghostly chambers, and funereal

beds, not to mention the vast cobwebbed garrets which the soldiers

are alleged to have occupied. It has a very deserted appearance, and,

indeed, its owner hardly ever lives there; but it is picturesque in

inverse ratio of its desolation. Just outside the front courtyard is

the lawn, shaded by chestnut-trees, and here the picnic took place.

Returning home, and passing through the hamlet of Brailes, two

miles from Compton-Wyniatts, the party observed some curious things

lying on the roadside hedges. Upon examination, they proved to be

ecclesiastical vestments, and evidently genuine Catholic property,

ritualism being as yet unknown in the country districts of England.

It turned out that they belonged to Mr. Duckett, and the whole party

repaired to Mr. Duckett's house. This was a cottage in a little

garden, with a hay-field between it and the old parish church,

Protestant now, but once the only home these costly vestments should

have known. There was the old man, the priest of the past, in the

homely peasant garb, now abandoned by the peasants themselves, in

coarse blue woollen stockings and a snuff-colored coat, and leather

garters at the knee. Huge-buckled shoes were on his feet, and a

thickly-folded neckcloth was wound stiffly round his throat. I saw

him myself, later on, when the existence of this living relic of the

penal days was better known among the county circle. The lower room

of his cottage, stone-flagged and bare, was a little school where

a few children were taught catechism and reading; the upper rooms

were reached by a steep wooden staircase _outside_ the house. Here

was a "large upper chamber, furnished," and this was the chapel. It

was as cold, and bare, and poor as it could well be; the roughest

workmanship was displayed in the altar, the rails, and the benches.

The raftered and thatched roof that was immediately above was broken

and untrustworthy, and the rain of the last thunder-shower had

discolored both it and the floor below. The small sacristy, off the

chapel, was in the same state of decay and dilapidation; hence the

damage done to the vestments that had been put out in the sun to dry.

Mr. Duckett had treasures here that many modern churches might, and

with reason, have envied. The vestments--especially a white cope and

a gold-embroidered chasuble--were very rich and beautiful, and such

as must have been, no doubt, a gift from some persecuted Catholic

family to the persecuted temple of God. But, better still, there was

a small leaden chalice, said to have been used by many of the martyrs

of Tyburn, by special permission given in consideration of the

difficulty of obtaining gold and silver vessels for sacred purposes,

and of the probable sacrilege and spoliation the known existence of

such vessels would provoke. And, among other things, there was also a

little bell, wide and round, like a low-crowned hat, and four little

clappers inside, making a sweet chime when the bell was shaken. This

was afterwards copied by the modern artificers of Birmingham, but

they could not transmit to their copy the mellow, time-harmonized

tone of the original.

In Mr. Duckett's sitting-room, a small, unpretending, and homely

nook, was the portrait of his revered and beloved patron, Bishop

Bishop, in Mr. Duckett's youth the only and supreme ecclesiastical

authority in England. The priest was an old man now, seventy-five or

thereabouts, but his heart was true yet to his friend and patron,

whose praises he was never tired of repeating. He told, also, how,

although parishes had been formed around him and churches had grown

up at his side, yet once his duties carried him on midnight rides and

to distances of forty or fifty miles, for a sick-call or a promised

and occasional Mass at some one of the many places that claimed his

care. Broadway, a village at the foot of the Coteswold Hills, just

at the edge of the fruitful plain or vale of Gresham, was one of

these stations, and now, as for many long years past, there stands

in its midst the Passionist Monastery of St. Saviour, the novitiate

house for the province of Great Britain. Two hundred Catholics and

a spacious church, model schools under government inspection, and

confraternities of many kinds, have turned the far-off hamlet, where

a few stray and hunted Catholics were hidden, into a very centre of

religion for twenty miles around. Wordnorton, the hunting-box of the

Duc d'Aumale, and Chipping-Campden, a thriving little mission on the

opposite ridge of the Coteswold, are both served from the monastery

at Broadway; and so great is the personal ascendency of the monks,

and so universal their popularity, that they need not fear the letter

of the law, and _do_ often contravene it by walking abroad in their

monastic habit.

Here is one of the changes that have occurred in the straggling field

of Mr. Duckett's early labors; and, while all this is happening

around him, the calm old man waits for his summons in the same homely

and unobtrusive dress he has sanctified by his daily work in the

vineyard of Christ.

It is said, and I believe with truth--at least, I _hope_ so--that

the monastic garb of all religious orders was originally modelled on

the coarse habiliments of the poorest and simplest of mankind--the

shepherds and husbandmen of the hard-working rural districts. If so,

it suggests a very beautiful and a very happy thought, and brings

before our eyes the many parables in which God's church is likened

to a field, a vineyard, an orchard, a garden. Tillers of the soil

and sowers of the grain, reapers of the harvest and fosterers of the

vine, are priests and deacons, bishops and monks; and all through

sacred history runs this touching parallel. Nowhere is religion

without her crown of nature's weaving: the blossoming rod and the

sceptre of Christ's jurisdiction are one.

And so, to return to our friend, the priest and pastor of a forgotten

and happily buried age of persecution, God's voice called _him_ in

time, and among the many who daily wait in the temple's outer court

he was chosen to blossom forth in a higher life, and to wear his robe

of glory in a nobler place than that where he had clothed himself

like the poor and the unnoticed, and only wore by stealth the sacred

garments of his priesthood.

He died in the year 1866, if I mistake not, and his place was filled

by a young man, newly ordained, as if to bear witness how suddenly

one state of things had died away and another had come in its stead,

but also, perchance, to point out to us--too secure in our present

safety--that as quickly as freedom had followed persecution, so we

should be ever ready to see persecution follow freedom.

And in these days, surely, we dare not think such a past as that of

English religious intolerance so far from us as that it should never

draw near us again, and renew itself in many shapes of tyranny and

horror. And this, not only in England, where religious persecution

may suddenly emerge from the apparent extreme of religious

indifference, and where it may be carried on, some day, on members of

all Christian communities, no longer in the name of a state church or

a general catechism, but in the name of rabid hatred to a Creator,

God, and senseless chafing against _any_ constituted authority--not

only, I say, may this happen in England, but in other lands, Eastern

and Western, old and new.

We see it to-day in red-handed France and Judas-tongued Italy; we

may see it elsewhere to-morrow. Persecution is an instinct of the

brute; what is not after its own kind, it has no desire to spare. The

prevailing systems of philosophy--if we may so degrade the word whose

first meaning is love of wisdom--tend to the apotheosis of the brute,

and the negation and indignant repudiation of anything in man above

the brute. When this task shall be completed, and man _educated_ into

the right usage of his newly-discovered nature, what are we to expect

but persecution in one form or another from the new lords of the

creation, the new monarchs of the system of materialistic supremacy?

There is a new and subtle alchemy running through the so-called moral

world, the Areopagus of modern thinkers. Of old, all things might be

resolved into component parts, of which _gold_ was infallibly one;

now, all men must be resolved into perishable parts, of which _each_

one is stamped with the brand of the brute.

It is a sad contrast, and no doubt it would be needless to define

which of the two is the more harmful theory. Let us pass now from

the life of the hidden pastor of an obscure village to an incident,

perhaps hardly better known, in the career of one of the apostles

of a great and glorious city, the same whose comeliness has been so

cruelly brought low, and whose desolation at this moment reminds

one too forcibly of the plaint of the prophet Jeremiah over doomed

Jerusalem.

The Père de Ravignan, whose name is a household word in France, and

whose influence over the young men of his day was something all but

miraculous, was summoned one night to attend a sick-call. A carriage

was in attendance; the two men who had come for him represented

the case as of the greatest urgency, but refused to take him with

them unless he suffered himself to be blindfolded. After briefly

hesitating, he complied with this strange request. The times were

dangerous, revolution was hovering like a storm over the state,

secret societies were in ever-watchful and almost infallibly secure

fermentation. He himself was a well-known man, a representative

man, one whose voice was ever raised uncompromisingly against

the foes of law and order--one whose life was every day exposed,

in consequence of his grand fearlessness of conscience, to the

machinations of hidden and treacherous enemies. A less suspicious man

might have feared a snare in this strange condition of blindfolding

a priest called to a death-bed, but the blood of the old race of

_gentilhommes_ that was fast disappearing, added to the courage of

the consecrated line of God's ministers that never disappears, made

the Jesuit strong in this hour of peril, and he forgot himself to

think only of the sinking soul to whose aid he was summoned. He took

the holy oils and the viaticum with him, and left the house in the

Rue de Sèvres in the carriage that was waiting at the door.

They drove off rapidly; his companions pulled down the blinds, and

effectually shut out any daylight that might straggle in. The motion

of the vehicle, however, and the many sudden jerks it gave, indicated

turnings and corners as being constantly doubled, and even suggested

the not unlikely idea that this was done on purpose, with the object

of confusing the priest's recollection. The two men preserved a dead

silence all the time. At last the carriage stopped; the door was

opened, the Père de Ravignan helped out, and conducted up a wide

staircase; doors were opened and shut, and then the bandage was taken

from his eyes, and he found himself in a large anteroom, handsomely

and massively furnished.

"In the end room of this suite of apartments, you will find the

person who requires your ministry," said one of his guides.

He passed room after room with the windows darkened, and rich

furniture giving a sumptuous air to the large and airy saloons, but

order reigned everywhere. He saw neither sign of confusion nor heard

any sound of sorrow, nothing to indicate the presence of death or

mortal sickness. He began to fear that in truth he had been snared by

secret enemies, and that it was his own death he had to expect as the

_dénouement_ of this solemn masquerade. The last door was reached;

a curtain hung across the entrance, and the chamber was darkened.

One lamp burned in the furthest recess. He looked in vain for signs

of sickness; there were none. The room was a drawing-room, and was

furnished much like the rest. But soon a form rose to meet him,

coming slowly from the luxurious lounge near the solitary lamp. It

was that of a young man, very handsome, and fashionably dressed. He

looked pale and anxious, and his hands trembled slightly as he moved.

Yet sick to death he certainly was not. Was this his executioner, or

some part of the ghastly pageant of his own coming doom? The priest

paused, and the young stranger said, in eager, hollow tones:

"_Mon père_, it is for _me_ that you are here. I am going to die. I

shall be dead within twenty-four hours, but I obtained this favor

that I might first make my peace with God."

"My son, what does this mean?" asked the priest. "You are not ill!"

"No; yet I shall not see to-morrow's sunset. I dare say no more. I

must make my confession."

An hour went by; the solemn mysteries that pass unseen and

undreamt-of by the careless world soothed and comforted the doomed

man. We know nothing further, nor can we ever know aught concerning

this dread interview on the very threshold of invisible death; but,

the priest's duty done, the young man craved his blessing and his

prayers, and took an agonizing farewell of the last human being who

was to show him mercy and promise him forgiveness.

Reluctantly, sorrowfully, the priest parted from the victim, and

wended his way through the splendid rooms, whose beauty now seemed so

baleful, as though it were but the refinement and gloss of cruelty,

the gay mask that hid the torture-chamber.

At the door of the anteroom, the same silent guides were watching

his return, and, again blindfolding him, led him out of the gates

that closed on such strange mysteries, and hid from view such

appalling possibilities of horror.

How many might there have been of these human holocausts, immolated

in silence, perchance without the gracious respite allowed this _one_

victim! How many might there have been, perhaps priests, beguiled by

a lure such as he had thought his own carrying-off to be, and never

allowed to go forth again, as _he_ was being providentially helped

to do! And what other crimes besides silent murder might have taken

place in that mysterious and seemingly demon-guarded house!

These and other thoughts not unlike them must have pressed painfully

on his overstrung mind, as with the same precautions, turnings,

doublings, and joltings the Père de Ravignan was driven back to the

house of his order, the sinister guides in whose hands his life had

helplessly and inevitably lain for several hours preserving yet that

impenetrable silence and seemingly respectful behavior, which in

themselves were enough to shake the courage of most men.

The house was all astir. Every one had been anxious for the safe

return of the superior from his mysterious and perilous errand; for

perilous they had intuitively felt it to be, and had indeed once

attempted at first to follow the carriage. This, however, had been

cleverly frustrated by the well-instructed driver.

Search was made next day by the secret police for any house answering

the only description the priest could imperfectly give; inquiries

were instituted concerning the disappearance of any person answering

the minute description given by the confessor of his young penitent;

but although the police swore that they knew every house, and could

put their finger upon every individual in Paris, yet not a single

trace could be discovered of anything unusual having taken place in

the city.

And there the mystery remained and was forgotten, and came to be

related only as a tale of dread and wonder, and was only known

to few. Even so the secret organization itself, for nothing but

vagueness surrounded its palpable though ever-invisible existence,

and some believed that the _parti prêtre_ invented stories of its

horrors, and others thought they exaggerated the importance of its

influence.

Then came '48, with its wild volcanic outburst all over Europe,

and under the name of freedom a modern _Vehmgericht_ convulsed

and tortured the civilized world. Those who had pooh-poohed its

existence or underrated its strength were the first to crouch before

its explosive power. Persecution began again, for we all know the

story of revolutions, and how the final court of appeal was always

death. What mattered it that the persecutors handled the axe, the

guillotine, or the rifle, instead of the scourges, the _fasces_,

the swords of the Roman lictors? Amphitheatres there were, and wild

beasts to tear the Christians in pieces, although the former were

called public squares, and streets, and gardens, and the wild beasts

were hideous human forms. One Archbishop of Paris in '48 was shot

down--perhaps by chance, but who can tell save only God?--on the

barricades, as he was trying to quiet the infuriate rabble; another

Archbishop of Paris followed him in '71, more foully murdered

in shear demoniac wantonness, because order and authority were

represented in his person, and because to be a child of God was a

burning reproach offered to the godless and soulless Commune.

Thus, two ages of persecution join hands within a short half-century,

and in one life, yet in its prime, two figures are prominently and

personally interwoven: the old peasant priest who almost dreaded to

have the sanctuary lamps lighted for fear of attracting unwelcome

notice, so imbued was he with the idea that before the law a Catholic

must need be a criminal; and the intrepid Jesuit, having secret

dangers in the fulfilment of his ministry, and knowing full well

that, before the self-styled law of lawless _liberty_, to be a priest

is to be nothing better than a dog.

Some talk lightly of these things that are passing as of mere

ebullitions that cannot fail to be quelled; but where is the power

to quell, the power to charm these serpents, to humanize these

savages? Gone from the kings of the earth, who have abjured the aid

of religion, who have expelled her from the schools and colleges,

and repudiated her offices in the most solemn and tender relations

of life. Gone from the philosophers of this century, who control the

thoughts of millions by pandering freely to their passions, and whose

first axiom is that everything that is _natural is right_. Gone from

the timid politicians, whose precarious object is, not the happy and

steady consolidation and progress of the state, but the maintenance

of themselves and their creatures in office, and the increase of

their hoarded fortunes. Gone, too, from the poets and artists, who

should clothe truth and religion in dignified and attractive forms,

but whose dearest aim is but to court popularity by encouraging vice.

Gone, in a word, from all whose mission it is to raise and guide the

people, simply because they find it more profitable to grovel with

and follow them.

And religion stands this day as our divine Lord stood centuries ago

in the Garden of Gethsemani, with lukewarm and timid disciples in

numbers, and with a Judas striving with honeyed words to betray her.

The sword she may not use, nor any earthly weapon; for, if God would

have it so, could he not send her twelve legions of angels? But no;

she stands as he stood, unarmed; and when she preached with the voice

of princes and commanded through the mouth of statesmen, no one

attacked her, even as the Jews did not apprehend Jesus when he taught

openly in the synagogue. But when worldly power was taken away, when

concordats were broken, when heresy rose up in her midst, the enemies

of the church fell upon her, and in their onslaught tore up kingdoms

by the root and trampled order in the dust. The crushed ones look

to her--"they shall look upon him they have pierced"--imploringly,

but _they_ had tied her hands, _they_ had crippled her in the days

of their triumph, and the deluge breaks over them and annihilates

them, while it tosses the church on its turbid waves, and at each

angry toss only lifts the Ark of the Covenant safer and higher toward

heaven.

We may be only at the beginning of a scathing trial: we may be almost

at its end. We have seen the blood of the martyrs flow once more; we

have seen '71 rival '93, and the Mazas Prison reflect the _Massacre

des Carmes_; elsewhere we see the spectre of blood not yet let loose,

but hiding impatiently behind the spirit of sacrilege and spoliation.

Perhaps this is the hour before the dawn; perhaps only the first

watch of the night. But let us not think that the nineteenth century

bears a charmed life, and that we dwellers in it have a prescriptive

right to a safe and easy-going existence. We must be _for_ the

church, _in_ her, _with_ her _of_ her; be hers in spirit and in

truth, "not merely pause and hesitate at the threshold, or linger

within the outer courts." This is the hour of conversions, for the

next may be the hour of martyrdom. And above all, it is the hour for

sound philosophy, that will lead us firmly by the hand into the haven

of faith, and show us that, to be a good citizen, one has need to be

a perfect Christian.

Truth is one; and just as water will rise to its own level, so all

particles of truth will lead to the fountain of truth. The church has

solved all problems, and fulfilled all yearnings, and realized all

ideals long ago; and while men are seeking what they severally want,

the church has offered it to thousands of their forefathers before

they themselves were ever born to seek it.

SANCTA DEI GENITRIX.

Mother of God! My Queen is simply this.

For this elected, the eternal Mind

Conceived her in its infinite abyss--

With the God-man co-type of human kind.

And she, when came the wondrous hour assigned,

Conceiving her Conceiver, girt him round,

And held in her Immaculate womb confined

That Essence whom the heavens cannot bound!

Then brought him forth, her little one, her own;

And fed her suckling at her maiden breast--

The only pillow of his earthly rest,

And still for evermore his dearest throne

O Lady! what the worship faith allows?

The Eternal calls thee Daughter, Mother, Spouse!

LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS.

On the nineteenth day of September, there will be gathered together

from five to eight thousand persons in the grand cathedral of Naples,

to witness again an occurrence which, though it has been witnessed

thousands of times already, never fails to fill the beholder with

astonishment and awe. Perhaps one-half of the crowd may be from the

city of Naples itself. A large portion comes from other parts of

Italy. Many are from Austria, Illyria, Hungary, Bavaria, and Prussia,

Russia, England, France, and Spain. Some are from the Western

hemisphere. And Moors, Egyptians, Arabs, and Turks, ever travelling

along the shores of the Mediterranean, are here, too, raising their

turbaned heads among these thousands in the cathedral, as intent and

as filled with emotion as any around them.

The greater part of that crowd believe that they are witnesses of a

deed done by the direct will and power of God--a miracle; and very

naturally their hearts are filled with awe and devotion. Others,

again, are in doubt what to believe on the point; but they have come

to see, and to see exactly for themselves what really does occur.

Others, again, are sure beforehand that it is all a trick. They will

spare no pains to detect the fraud.

What is it they are all assembled to see? The large cathedral in

which they stand fronts on a little square to the north. At the

southern extremity is placed the grand sanctuary and high altar, with

a large and rich basement chapel underneath. On either side of the

church above, there are, as is usual in Italian churches, small side

chapels and altars; but about the middle of the western side a large

archway gives admission to a very large chapel--to-day the centre

of attraction. We might call it a small church. The Neapolitans

name it the _Tesoro_. It is cruciform, and a well-proportioned dome

rises above the intersection of its nave and transept. Towards its

western extremity, and opposite the crowded archway or entrance

from the cathedral, stands its elevated high altar; six other

altars occupy the transept and sides. The main altar stands about

five feet forward, out from the solid stone wall of the building.

Behind that altar, in the massive masonry of the wall, is a double

closet, closed by strong metal doors, and secured by four locks. From

this closet, at nine A.M., is first taken out a metal life-sized

bust, held to contain what remains of the bones of the head of St.

Januarius, bishop and martyr, who was put to death in the year 305.

This bust is placed on the main altar, at the Gospel end. Next, an

old and tarnished silver case is brought out from the other side of

the same closet. All eyes scrutinize it. The front and the back of

it, or, rather, both faces of it, for they are alike, are of heavy

glass, securely fastened to the silver frame. Looking through these

plates of glass, the interior of the case is seen to contain two

antique Roman vials of glass, held securely in their places above

and below by rude masses of soldering, black with age. The vials are

of different patterns, both very common in the museums of Roman

antiquities. The smaller one is empty, save some patches of stain

or pellicle adhering to the interior of its sides. The other one,

which might hold a gill and a half, is seen to contain a dark-colored

solid substance, occupying about four-fifths of the space within the

vial. This substance is held to be a portion of the blood of the same

martyred saint, gathered by the Christians when he was decapitated,

and ever since carefully preserved. Ordinarily it is hard and solid,

as it well may be fifteen hundred and sixty-odd years after being

shed. The case, or _reliquary_, as it is properly called, is borne

to the main altar, and a priest holds it midway between the middle

of the altar and the bust, that is, about a foot from the latter.

Prayers are said; hymns, psalms, and litanies are recited by the

clergy kneeling near. Meanwhile, from time to time the priest moves

the reliquary from side to side, that he may see whether the expected

change of the substance within the vial has taken place or not; and

he presents it to the bystanders crowded around him on the steps

of the altar, that each one in succession may reverently kiss it

and closely scrutinize its condition. At length, after a greater or

smaller lapse of time, perhaps in a few minutes, perhaps only after

several hours, perhaps after many hours, the solid mass within the

vial becomes liquid--perhaps instantaneously, perhaps rapidly, at

times more slowly and gradually, several hours elapsing before the

change becomes complete. Sometimes only a portion of the mass becomes

liquid, the remaining portion floating as a still hard lump in the

liquid portion. This change is what is known as _the liquefaction of

the blood of St. Januarius_, and is what these thousands have crowded

the _Tesoro_ chapel and the cathedral to witness.

[Illustration: RELIQUARY CONTAINING THE VIALS OF THE BLOOD OF ST.

JANUARIUS AT NAPLES.

SCALE--_Nearly one-half natural size_.

A, A, Dark and rough masses of soldering holding the vials in place.

B, B, Stains or pellicles of the blood on the interior of the smaller

vial.]

It has occurred repeatedly each year for centuries back. It occurs in

public under the eyes of thousands. Accounts of it were written by

learned men and by travellers before the invention of printing. In

these latter centuries, accounts of it have been published in Latin,

in Italian, in Polish, in English, French, German, and Spanish--we

presume, in every language of Europe. Some are written by devout

believers in the miracle; some by candid but perplexed witnesses, who

examined for themselves and are afraid to come to a conclusion; while

others that we have seen are filled with such mistakes, both as to

persons and events and to established regulations, that we felt the

writers had themselves seen little or nothing. They had merely got a

hint from one and a suggestion from another, and had filled out the

remainder from the storehouse of their own imagination.

We are privileged to insert a full account, written by an American

eye-witness in 1864. We are unwilling to abbreviate it too much,

although the reader will find in it thoughts we have already

expressed or may hereafter have to dwell on:

I had for years determined that, if ever I had a

chance, I would go to Naples to see myself the

celebrated miracle. This year gave me the desired

opportunity, and I would not neglect it. Leaving

Rome by railway, on September 17, I reached Naples

that evening, and early the next morning went to the

cathedral to introduce myself, to say Mass, and to

take a preparatory look. The cathedral is an immense

semi-Gothic building, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin,

to St. Januarius, and to other patron saints of the

city. St. Januarius, a native of Naples, was Bishop

of Benevento (a city some thirty miles, inland),

and was apprehended in the days of persecution

under Diocletian, held in prison, exposed to the

wild beasts without harm, and finally beheaded near

Puzzuoli, about five miles from Naples, in the year

305. His head and body were taken by the Christians,

and transported--probably by night, certainly in

secrecy--across the bay to the southern shore, and were

entombed, between Mount Vesuvius and the sea, on the

farm of a Christian called Marcian. It was the custom

of the Christians to gather, as far as they possibly

could, the blood shed by their martyrs, and, placing

a portion of it in glass vials, to deposit such vials

in the tombs. In the catacombs at Rome such vials in

a niche are the surest sign that a martyr was there

deposited. You can still see some of them, or fragments

of them, in the opened vaults or niches of the

catacombs. The vials within have a thin, dark-reddish

crust, showing still where the blood reached in the

glass. A few years ago, a chemical analysis of a

portion of such crust or pellicle, made by direction

of his Holiness, fully confirmed this historical and

traditional statement of its origin. Such vials are

also to be seen in multitudes in the Vatican and

other Christian museums, and in the churches to which

the remains of the martyrs have been transferred. As

St. Januarius was a prominent Christian, and as his

martyrdom attracted the earnest attention of all, we

may and should naturally suppose that his case was no

exception, and that a portion of the blood was gathered

in his case, and, as usual, that the vials containing

it were deposited with the body in the tomb.

In the year 385, peace having been fully restored,

and Christian churches built, and things quieted, the

remains of St. Januarius were solemnly transferred from

their original resting-place to Naples, and were placed

in a church or chapel dedicated to him, and situated

just outside the city walls. _San Gennaro extra muros_

still stands, though, of course, the first building

has been replaced by a second, a third, I believe by a

fourth church. Here, henceforth, near their martyr and

patron saint, the Neapolitan Christians wished to be

buried. And when an oath was to be taken with the most

binding force and obligation, it was administered and

taken before the altar where lay enshrined the remains

of this great Neapolitan saint. In course of time--it

is not precisely known when, or by what archbishop--the

head of St. Januarius and the _ampullæ_ or vials

containing his blood were transferred into the city,

and placed in some church--probably in the cathedral,

where we know that, eight hundred years ago, they were

carefully and reverently preserved in the cathedral,

_Tesoro_ or treasury, as they called the strong,

vaulted chamber of stone in which the relics of the

saints were safely kept. The body of the saint was left

in the church _extra muros_. It was afterwards taken

to Benevento, thence to Monte Vergine, and in 1497 was

transferred to Naples, and now lies under the principal

altar of the subterranean crypt or basement chapel,

beneath the sanctuary of the cathedral.

The cathedral itself is, as I said, a large semi-Gothic

building, over three hundred feet long and one hundred

and twenty wide, lofty, well-proportioned, and filled

with columns, frescoes, marbles, statuary, paintings,

and gilding, very bright and very clean. It fronts on

a small square to the north. The sanctuary is at the

southern end. In the west side of the building is a

large, open archway, about thirty feet broad and forty

feet high, with a lofty open-work railing of bronzed

metal, and of very artistic design. A folding-door

in this railing, of the same material, opens twelve

feet wide to usher you into another good-sized church

or chapel, called the new _Tesoro_ or chapel of St.

Januarius, commenced in 1608, by the city, in special

honor of the saint, and in fulfilment of a vow, and

consecrated in 1646. It is nearly in the form of a

Greek cross, over a hundred feet from east to west, and

about eighty from north to south. The arms are about

forty feet wide, and at their intersection a cupola

rises to over a hundred feet above the level of the

floor. It is said this chapel cost half a million of

dollars. If so, the city fathers got the full worth

of their money in rich marbles, in mosaics, frescoes,

bronze and marble statues, and in every sort of finest

decorations. There is a complete service for this

chapel, entirely distinct from and independent of that

of the cathedral proper--a dean, twelve chaplains,

other minor assistants as needed, and a thoroughly

supplied sacristy. In this _Tesoro_ chapel are no less

than seven altars; the main one, to the west, opposite

the entrance from the church, another grand one, and

two subsidiary ones on either side of the chapel. There

is also a fine organ. The main altar stands about

five feet forward from the rear wall of the building,

leaving thus a commodious passage-way between them.

In the massive stone wall itself, to the rear of the

main altar, are two armories, adjoining each other. In

one of them, that to the south, the relic of the head

of St. Januarius is kept; in the other, to the north,

are preserved the vials containing his blood. These

armories, which I might call a double armory, are in

the solid masonry, and are closed by strong gilt metal

doors, about thirty inches broad and fifty inches high,

each secured by an upper and a lower lock.

So much I saw at this visit in the cathedral and in the

chapel. The afternoon I devoted to a visit to Puzzuoli,

and the scene of the martyrdom of St. Januarius and

his six companions. On the way, we stopped to look at

and enter the reputed tomb of Virgil, and we passed

through the grotto of Posilippo. As the carriage rolled

on over the smooth macadamized road, the Bay of Naples

stretched away on our left in all its beauty, smiling

and rippling in the September breeze, just as it did

on the day they were beheaded. Before us was Puzzuoli,

once the beautiful summer resort and watering-place for

the richest nobles of ancient Rome, often graced by

the presence of the emperor himself, and still a place

of pretension. On our right, hills and vineyards and

olive groves stood now as they stood then. The palaces

and houses which the saint looked on are all gone; but

their solid stone foundation walls have not perished,

and other houses of more modern aspect rise on them.

The mineral springs at the foot of the hills are still

the same, and in the same repute; and hundreds are

still going to them, or meet us returning after their

baths. Here and there, alongside our smooth modern

road, we see patches of the old Roman pavement, large,

irregularly-shaped slabs of hard stone, lying now much

less evenly than they did when senators, and consuls,

and prefects, and Roman nobles loved to walk along this

road, to enjoy the beautiful scene, and to drink in the

healthful evening breezes that came to them over the

Mediterranean.

We reached Puzzuoli, and its narrow, crooked streets

soon led us to the summit of a knoll or spur of the

hills, now a little back of the modern city. Here the

ancients had placed their amphitheatre. Its remains

are still well preserved. The galleries for the

dignitaries, the seats for the spectators--it could

hold 15,000 at least--the arena, where the gladiators

fought and fell, and where wild beasts tore each other

or destroyed their human victims, are all still to

be easily recognized. We entered a cellar or masonry

chamber under the lofty seats. Here the victims were

kept until the hour came for thrusting them forth into

the arena in the centre. It is now a chapel, with

a single plain altar, at which Mass is celebrated

from time to time. A votive lamp hangs down from the

arched masonry above The walls are plain and void

of ornament. The place needs little decoration. Who

can kneel there, and not feel his heart swell as he

remembers St. Januarius and his companions kneeling and

praying, and awaiting their summons? It came, and they

were led forth. We went, too, to the arena. Here they

stood, sustained by the constancy of faith. There is

the seat aloft of the prefect and his attendants and

officers, who condemned these Christians to death by

the wild beasts, and have come to look on the bloody

drama. There, all around, rising backwards, row above

row, are the seats, filled then by thousands hoarsely

screaming, "_The Christians to the lions!_" To their

voices answered the angry growls and roars of lions and

panthers, shut in their dens beneath--those recesses in

the masonry below the lowest, the front rank of seats.

For one or two days past the beasts have been deprived

of their food, that they might be more furious and

eager for the tragedy. Excited by the clamor, maddened

by hunger, frenzied, too, perhaps by the sight of the

victims, whom they could see through the bars of their

doors--for perhaps they had already had experience of

such feasts--the beasts walked impatiently from end to

end of their small prisons, glared and growled through

the bars, or impatiently strove to tear them down. The

prefect gives the signal: the multitude is hushed in

silent expectation. The servitors hurry forward to the

edge of the seats above, and with cords and pulleys

are lifting upwards the heavy doors in their grooves.

The iron grates against the stone as it mounts. Soon

out from below into the arena leap the ravenous wild

beasts. They rush on, each one intent on seizing a

victim. They crouch, as is their nature, for a final

spring, fastening their glaring eyes on the martyrs;

but they spring not. The eye loses its glare; the

stiffened mane and bristling hair become smooth, and,

with moans almost of affection, they draw themselves

gently over the sand up to the martyrs, and fawn on

them and lick their feet. There will be no bloody

tragedy here to-day. God vouchsafes to the prefect

Timotheus and to these multitudes another proof of the

saintly character and heavenly authority of these men

whom they would slay. Some, we may hope, were awed,

and believed, and returned to their homes with hearts

yielding to the grace of God; but not so the prefect,

nor the majority of that crowd. "Sorcery! Witchcraft!

Chaldean superstition!" they cried. "Away with the

dangerous magicians! If they can do this, what can they

not do? Who is safe? Slay them at once!" The prefect

ordered them to be led out to the top of a neighboring

hill, and to be beheaded on its summit in the sight of

all and as a warning to all. We followed the steep and

narrow old Roman road up which they must have walked.

The rains have not yet washed away all of the old

Roman pavement. Vines and olive-trees and flowers of

richest hues shade it and beautify it now, and were not

wanting to it in those days of imperial luxury. To our

martyrs it was the road to heaven. No earthly beauty

could cheer them as they were cheered by Christian

faith and the firm hopes of quickly reaching a blessed

immortality. We reached the spot of execution, the

level top of a knoll, overlooking some part of the

city, the beautiful bay, Puzzuoli, and much of the

neighboring country. A little church stands here now,

served by a small community of Capuchins, who hold

the faith of the martyrs, and try to imitate their

virtues; who seek first the kingdom of heaven and its

righteousness, and hope that, like the martyrs they

honor, they may pass from this consecrated spot to the

abode of bliss. Here the saint and his six companions

were beheaded. The Capuchins showed us in the church

a stone, now inserted in the wall and carefully

preserved, said to have been stained by his blood, and

still to show the stains. They said, too, that, when

the blood of St. Januarius liquefies in Naples, these

stains grow moist and assume a brighter reddish color.

This I had no opportunity of verifying. Here, too, we

might almost guess the route down the precipitous sides

of the hill to the waters of the bay, almost under our

feet, by which that night the Christians bore the body

of the saint to their boat. Across the bay, five or

six miles off, we could see the houses of Torre dell'

Annunziata, near where they landed with it. A little

back lay the farm of the Christian where they entombed

it. A Benedictine monastery from the sixth century

marked the spot....

As you may well suppose, night overtook us before we

got back to Naples. The next morning, I went to the

cathedral again. It was the 19th of September, the

festival proper of the saint--the day of his martyrdom

and entrance into heaven. The exposition of his

relics, during which the liquefaction usually occurs,

commences at nine A.M. I was at the door of the chapel

at half-past eight. I found the chapel already crammed

and jammed. Still, way was made for me somehow. I went

to the sacristy, and was then conducted back to the

chapel, and into the space behind the main altar, in

front of the armories, to await the hour appointed. Of

course, the crowd could not yet enter the sanctuary of

the main altar, much less pass behind the altar. Only

five or six privileged persons were there. Mass was

being celebrated at the altar itself. That over, we sat

and waited, and I asked questions on the all-absorbing

subject.

Since the building and opening of this new _Tesoro_

chapel--that is, since A.D. 1646--the relics are in

the keeping of the Archbishop of Naples and the city

authorities conjointly. Everything is regulated by

the long and minute agreement then entered into by

all parties. I said each door of the armories has two

locks. The archbishop keeps the key of one, the city

authorities the key of the other. The armories cannot

be approached except through the open chapel, and

cannot be opened, save by violence, unless both parties

are present with their keys.

I was patiently waiting for nine o'clock to strike. Our

number was increasing. At last there joined us behind

the altar a tall, thin, gentlemanly man, all in black,

about forty-five years of age. He was introduced to me

as Count C----, the delegate to-day on the part of the

city. He bore a large red velvet purse or bag, with

gold cords and braiding, very rich in its workmanship.

Opening its mouth, he drew forth two good-sized,

long-handled antique keys with complicated wards. They

were connected by a steel chain, strong and light,

about fifteen inches in length. The cardinal, Riario

Sforza, is absent in Rome, driven into exile by Victor

Emmanuel's government; but before leaving he gave his

keys in charge to one of the chief ecclesiastics of

the city in his stead. Accordingly, a canon of the

cathedral soon appeared, bearing another red velvet

bag, something like the first, but not so rich, and,

moreover, somewhat faded. He, too, took out of his bag

two good-sized, long-handled keys, equally antique

in their look and complicated in their wards, and

similarly connected by a steel chain. Count C----

inserted one of his keys in the lower lock of the

armory to the south, and turned it. We heard the bolt

shoot back. The pious-looking canon was short, and

the upper lock was rather high, so they placed some

portable steps in position. He ascended them, and

inserted one of his keys in the upper lock. That bolt

shot back, too; and he swung the heavy metal door open.

We looked into the interior of the armory, about two

feet wide, three and a-half or four feet high, and

sixteen or twenty inches deep, in the masonry of the

wall. It was lined with slabs of white marble, and a

scarlet silk curtain hung down towards the front. A

thick metal partition divided it from the other armory.

One of the chaplains of the _Tesoro_ then mounted the

steps, and took out from the armory a life-sized bust

of St. Januarius, of silver gilt. A mitre on the head

of it, and a short cope which had been put on the

shoulders, designated his episcopal character. In the

head of this bust are contained the relics of the head

of the saint.

We know precisely when this bust was made; for in the

spring of 1306 an entry was made in the account-books

of Charles of Anjou, then sovereign of Naples, stating

how much silver and how much gold from the king's

treasury had been given to a certain artificer as

materials, and how much money was paid to him for

his workmanship, in making this very bust. In making

it, he modelled the features after a very ancient

bust of the saint, still existing in Puzzuoli. In the

archiepiscopal diary, relative to St. Januarius, under

the date 13th September, 1660, there is a long account

stating that, it being perceived that the relics inside

this bust had become somehow displaced--as well they

might after 355 years--the cardinal archbishop, on that

day, in the presence of all requisite witnesses, had

the bust opened by a goldsmith; himself reverently took

out the relics, and held them in his hands until the

goldsmith had repaired the damage; that his eminence

then reverently replaced the relics, properly sealed,

and had the bust closed as before, and in all this

carefully observed the prescriptions of canon law.

Since then, everything has been untouched.

Four other chaplains, with torches, attended the

chaplain whom I saw take out this bust, and it was

borne in procession round to the front of the altar,

and deposited on the altar itself, just where the

missal would stand when the Gospel is read. They then

returned to the armory.

Count C---- with his second key unlocked the lower lock

of the other--the northern armory. The little canon

again mounted the steps, unlocked the upper one, and

swung back the metal door. We looked into the armory:

it was just the fellow of the first--size, marble

lining, red silk curtain, and all. The same chaplain

then, as before, took out the reliquary containing the

_ampullæ_ or vials of the blood. I will describe it.

Conceive a bar or thick plate of silver, about two and

a-half inches wide and about sixteen inches long, to

be bent until it forms a ring or circle of about five

inches diameter. Let a circular plate of glass of the

requisite diameter be inserted and firmly fastened to

the edge of the silver ring on one side, and a similar

plate of glass be also inserted and firmly fastened to

the other edge. You will thus have, as it were, the

centre-piece of an ostensory, five inches across and

two and one-half inches through, with a silver rim, and

glass plates forming the front and rear. On the top,

let there be a little ornamental scroll-work, cherubs

and their wings, and a central stem rising upward, and

bearing an oval crown three inches by two inches, and

above that a small elegantly-worked silver crucifix.

Below the circular rim, attach a round, hollow bar of

silver, about one inch in diameter and three inches

long. It will serve as a stem to hold the reliquary by,

or as a foot which may be inserted into an opening

fitted to receive it. The reliquary may thus be kept

upright, whether it be placed on a stand on the altar

or put away in its armory. This reliquary is strong

and plain, with very little ornamentation on the

silver, but that, they say, in very good style. Inside

this frame, or case, or reliquary, between the front

and rear glass, and perfectly visible through them,

stand two _ampullæ_ or vials of glass, both fastened

to the silver rim at top and at bottom by rough,

irregular masses of dark soldering. They are held to

be the identical glass vials in which a portion of the

blood of St. Januarius was poured at the time of his

martyrdom, which were laid in his tomb, and, in 385,

were brought with his body to Naples, and which have

ever since been carefully and reverently preserved.

They are of the old Roman patterns and material. One

may see hundreds of just such vials in the museums of

Naples and Rome. One of them is long and narrow, like a

modern vial, yet not so even and symmetrical. The neck,

too, does not narrow in the manner of modern vials. A

fillet runs three or four times round it just below

the neck. Perhaps it was an ornament; more probably

it was intended by the maker to prevent the little

vial from slipping when held between the fingers. The

other _ampulla_ or vial is of a different pattern. Its

height is the same; the neck is a little higher up,

and is encircled by a single fillet of an undulating

curvature. The lower portion swells out until it is two

inches in diameter, and the vial would hold, I judge,

about a gill and a-half. In the interior of the first

_ampulla_, I saw two patches resembling the pellicle

which I had seen, at Rome, left on the inner surface

of the glass vases after the martyrs' blood originally

contained in them had entirely evaporated or passed

away. The other vial, THE AMPULLA, contains a substance

ordinarily hard, dark, with a reddish or purple hue,

and filling ordinarily three-fourths of the space

within the vial, perhaps a little more. This substance

is held to be a portion of the blood of St. Januarius,

still retained in this vial, in which it was originally

placed on September 19, A.D. 305.

In this description of the reliquary and the _ampullæ_,

I have, of course, summed up the result of all the

careful and scrutinizing observations which I had the

opportunity of making. I have not been able to learn

when this silver reliquary or case was made. No entry

is found settling the point, as in the case of the

bust. The style of ornamentation on the silver case

and on the crown would indicate about the same epoch

of art. But I am inclined to think it the earlier made

of the two. Charles of Anjou showed himself to be too

liberal in the matter of the bust to be suspected of

being a niggard in preparing the reliquary, and those

coming after him would have felt bound to be guided by

the example of his liberality. It was probably made

some time before the year 1300, possibly even by Roger,

King of Sicily, who visited Naples about A.D. 1140.

But to go back. As the chaplain took the reliquary out

from the armory, he examined it, and said, "_E duro e

pieno_"--"_It is hard and full._" In fact, the larger

vial, as he showed the reliquary round to each one

of the eight or ten persons behind the altar, and as

I most clearly saw it, was filled to the very top, I

could not be mistaken in that; but whether the contents

were liquid or solid, I really could not tell. For the

very fulness prevented any change being visible, at

least to my eyes, in that uniformly dark mass, even

if the contents were liquid, although the reliquary

was moved freely from side to side, held horizontally,

or even reversed. After we had each one venerated and

fully examined the reliquary, the canon, with his

attendants bearing torches, bore it in procession to

the front of the altar, and showed it aloft to the

people. I followed immediately behind, and ascended the

steps of the altar with them. On the platform in front

of the altar, we were four: 1. The chaplain, holding

the reliquary in his hands by the stem I have spoken

of. He stood facing the altar, or leaning over it,

between the middle and the Gospel end, where now stood

the bust. 2. In front of the bust, and close to the

first chaplain, on his left, stood a second chaplain,

bearing a lighted taper in a silver hand candlestick.

He would sometimes hold this in such a position, eight

or ten inches off from the reliquary and behind it,

that the light from it would shine on the interior,

so that the observer would not be troubled by the

reflection of the ordinary light from the surface

of the plate of glass next to him. 3. Count C----,

the city delegate, stood at the right of the first

chaplain, and, therefore, in front of the middle of the

altar. It is his sworn duty not to lose sight of the

precious reliquary from the moment the doors of the

armory are opened at nine A.M., until it is replaced

there, and duly locked up, about half an hour after

sunset. He cannot retire from his post at any time,

unless his place is supplied by an alternate delegate,

who has been chosen, and who, I was told, had promised

to come by 11 A.M. 4. Next to Count C----, I stood, or

rather knelt, until the people crowded so on me that I

positively had not room to continue in that position.

The people, now that the Mass had been over for twenty

minutes or so, had entered the sanctuary, or had been

introduced into it. They completely filled the space

within the rails; they stood crowded on the steps; they

even invaded the platform itself, not a very large one,

forcing the attendant chaplains, who had borne the

torches in the procession, and who now remained to join

with the two chaplains at the altar in the prayers, to

retire somewhat, and kneel in a group, off at the end

of the altar; forced the count and myself of necessity

to stand; and just left a little room for the two

chaplains to turn in, barely sufficient.

As I stood up, I could see the crowd. The chapel

was filled; there are, you know, no pews or seats

in Italian churches; all were standing as closely

as possible together. The sanctuaries of the side

chapels were equally crowded; men stood on the steps

and platforms of their altars; the very bases of the

columns were turned to account to afford a lofty

standing room. And such a crowd! Earnest, intensest

curiosity was marked on every face. The way it mingled

with awe and devotion was at times rather ludicrous.

Hands were clasped in prayer, and heads were bowed,

and the lips were reciting something most devoutly;

when up the head would be almost jerked, eye-glasses,

spectacles, and, a little further off, opera-glasses

and lorgnettes would be levelled at the reliquary for

a minute or two; and then down with them, and again at

the prayers. There were Frenchmen, Germans, Englishmen,

Spaniards, and Americans; strangers of every nation.

And these had made their way, of course, closest to the

altar; at least they predominated in my vicinity. In

the body of the chapel, the Neapolitans and Italians

stood. The crowd reached to the railing under the grand

archway, and beyond that filled the west aisle of the

cathedral church, and stretched across the nave and

the east aisle to the chapels opposite. The last stood

nearly eighty yards off.

These Neapolitans, too full of faith and brimful

of devotion on this day, and always exceedingly

demonstrative in their manner, gave full way to their

feelings, and were praying aloud or nearly so. The

common people of Naples have a habit of modulating

their voices while speaking, running up and down the

gamut in a way quite novel to us. You heard those

tones, not inharmonious, from the thousands who were

praying in various pitches. Some were in groups,

chanting or half-singing the litanies; some groups

were reciting the rosary devoutly; others united in

the acts of faith, hope, and charity; and still others

in prayers and hymns appropriate for this occasion,

and in their own Neapolitan dialect. To me it seemed a

perfect Babel. But no one could for an instant look on

them, and doubt the earnestness of their faith and the

intensity of their devotion.

My attention was soon drawn to one group, or rather

line, of a score of elderly women, from 50 to 80 years

of age, strung along outside the sanctuary railing,

from the centre door of it to the Gospel end. They

all joined in one chorus. They all spoke so loudly,

their tones were so earnest and modulated, and their

position made them so prominent, that I asked who

they were. I was told they were the ancient matrons

of certain families in Naples who have ever claimed

to be the blood-relatives of the saint; and, by right

of prescription and usage, they occupy that position

along the altar-rails on occasions of the exposition

of the relics. They were evidently poor, very poor. It

touched me to see here a dignity of descent claimed and

recognized far beyond that based on wealth or worldly

position--a dignity which nobles might crave in vain,

and yet from which their poverty and daily drudgery do

not debar these simple souls. I said they were old.

Among them and close to them stood younger women and

girls, other members, I presume, of their families, who

at present prayed in lower tones, inaudible, or, at

least, not noticeable, in the crowd of subdued voices

When they become grandmothers, I presume they will take

more prominent positions, and feel privileged to pitch

their voices in shriller tones. I thought at first

there was one exception. I heard a clear, bell-like,

treble voice, which generally led their chorus of

litanies or prayers, and which never seemed to tire.

But I was mistaken in the supposition. I at last traced

the voice. It was that of an elderly woman who will

scarcely see sixty again. She stood in the line, tall,

thin, emaciated. Her brow was lofty; her eyes clear,

and blazing with animation; her cheeks sunken in,

not a tooth left; and, as she spoke, her broad chin

seemed to work up and down a full inch. She wore a

clean, old, faded calico gown, without any starch in

it; and around her head was wound, like a turban, a

bright, stiffened, red and yellow bandanna, reminding

me somewhat of the respectable colored _maumas_ I had

seen in the South. Her voice was clear and sweet, and

she made free use of it. Others might tire, or rest, or

suspend their clamorous prayers for a while; but she,

no, she never tired, and her voice was ever heard among

the rest, like a clear trumpet stop in a full organ.

It was delightful, at last, to watch her occasionally,

as she kept her eyes fixed on the bust of the saint on

the altar, and every feature of her countenance kept

changing to express the sense of her words. Were she

not in church, her hands and arms and whole body, I am

sure, would have joined in the movements. As it was,

she confined herself to bowing her head, or turning it

slowly from side to side, yet always keeping her eyes

fixed on the altar. I had seen, many times, earnest,

silent, tearful prayer. Here I witnessed equally

earnest, _noisy_ prayer. I might come to like it, but

only after some time and after many trials.

While this universal hubbub of prayer was filling the

church, the chaplain, still holding the reliquary

in his hands by the stem beneath, bent over the

altar, and, with the other chaplains and those of the

bystanders who joined in, recited the _Miserere_ and

other psalms, and the Athanasian Creed, and various

prayers. His face glowed with the intensity of his

feelings. He kept his eyes earnestly fixed on the

reliquary, from time to time moving it over from side

to side, and examining it. Sometimes he rubbed the

glass face, front or rear, as necessary, with his white

pocket-handkerchief, that he might see more clearly

the interior. Sometimes the other chaplain held the

candle in a proper position to aid his inspection.

In about five minutes, he turned round with the

reliquary to the people, and held it up, with the

candle behind it, that all might see. He let those

near look as scrutinizingly as they wished, reached

it to each one of the ten or fifteen on the platform

and upper steps to kiss it, and, if they chose, as, of

course, they did, to examine it, at six or ten inches

distance. He then turned to the altar as before, and

the litany of the saints was recited, with some other

prayers. In about five minutes more, he again turned

towards the people, and gave the immediate bystanders

another opportunity to examine the reliquary closely

as before. Then again to the altar for other psalms,

hymns, and prayers. This alternation of prayers at

the altar, holding the reliquary near the bust, and

of presentations of it to the bystanders and the

crowd, every five minutes or so, continued for over

half an hour. But no change was visible. Once he left

the altar, and making his way--I could not imagine

how--into the crowd outside the sanctuary in the body

of the chapel, gave to those to the right and left of

his route a similar opportunity. On another occasion,

he went down again; but this time he turned to the

right, and went along the line of "relatives." How

their fervor increased, how their demonstrations became

more energetic, their words more rapid, their chorus

fuller, their voices louder and shriller! He came back;

but still no change. The alternations continued as

before.

At last, a little after ten o'clock, I saw a change.

I think I was the very first to perceive it. On all

the previous times and up to this, the _ampulla_ or

vial was perfectly full, as I had seen it when first

taken out of the armory. I now noticed a faint streak

of light between the substance in the vial and the

top, or, rather, the mass of solder into which the top

of the vial entered. I was sure it had not been there

before. I could scarcely see it now. This time, as

on several other occasions, the chaplain came twice

or thrice around the ring of immediate bystanders,

those at first in front courteously giving way that

others might in turn come forward. But I, of course,

retained my place. As he came round the second time,

and approached me again--I was within the line or

semi-circle--I saw that the streak of light was now

clear and unmistakable. It caught the eye of an earnest

little Frenchman who, for the last half-hour, had been

pressing against me, at times rather inconveniently.

He burst right out: "Don't you see the light in it? It

is changing! It is liquefying!" The chaplain now looked

at it attentively, moved it from side to side a little,

rubbed the glasses with his white handkerchief, looked

again, but went round the circle of bystanders a third

time. Again he examined it. By this time the streak

of light had become half an inch broad. He moved the

reliquary from side to side slowly. We saw the vacancy

now left above yield and follow his motions, just as

the air-bubble does in a spirit-level, clearly showing

the contents of the vial to be _now perfectly liquid_.

Some looked on in silent awe; some shed tears; some

cried out, "_Miracolo! miracolo!_" The chaplain waved

his white handkerchief in signal that it really was so.

Rose-leaves in quantities were thrown up from the crowd

outside the sanctuary, and rained down on us. A dozen

little birds that had been held captive in the baskets

with the roses were liberated, and rose circling

upwards to the windows of the dome. The grand organ

burst out in the _Te Deum_. The vast crowd with one

voice took up the hymn, almost drowning the full tones

of the instrument. The bells of the cathedral tower,

in full chimes, sent the announcement over the city,

and the hills and valleys around, and over the quiet

waters of the beautiful bay. All the bells of the other

churches of Naples chimed in, and quickly the cannons

of the Castle of Sant' Elmo joined in the chorus with a

grand national salute.

Meanwhile, hundreds were approaching the altar to see

with their own eyes that the blood was liquid, and to

venerate the relics. Another chaplain now relieved the

first, and continued to present the reliquary to those

who were crowding up. I still retained my position. The

blood continued to diminish in volume, until it sank so

as to be a full half-inch below the neck of the vial.

It was perfectly liquid, and, when the reliquary was

turned or inclined, it ran off the up-raised sides of

the _ampulla_ at once leaving no more trace behind than

would so much water.

After half an hour or so, the bust and the reliquary

were carried in procession out from the chapel into

the cathedral. The procession moved down the western

aisle towards the doors of the church, turned into the

grand nave, and advanced up to the sanctuary. The bust

was placed on the high altar, and the canons of the

cathedral replaced the chaplains of the _Tesoro_ chapel

in the duty of presenting the reliquary to the people,

as they approached in undiminished numbers to venerate

and inspect it.

At eleven, I said Mass at the altar where I had

witnessed the liquefaction. After the Mass, I went

into the church, and spent another half-hour there.

Thousands pouring in from the streets were still

flowing in a constant stream towards the high altar. A

little after twelve, I left....

Next morning, I said Mass again on the same altar at

eight A.M., and before nine o'clock was again at the

doors of the armories. Count C---- came punctually with

his bag of keys. So did the little canon on the part

of the archbishop. I was told that the sacred relics

had remained exposed all day, after I left, on the high

altar of the cathedral, the blood remaining liquid all

the time; and that, about dark, they had, according to

rule, been brought back to the _Tesoro_ chapel, and

had been locked up, as usual, for the night, in the

armories. This morning, they were to be again brought

out. Count C---- and the canon used their keys just

as yesterday. The bust was taken out, and carried in

procession to the front of the altar, as before. Then

the other armory was opened, and the reliquary was

taken out by the chaplain. "It is hard, and at its

ordinary level," he said, and showed it to us. The

blood now stood in the _ampulla_, not, as yesterday,

filling it, but reaching only to about an inch below

the neck, leaving about one-fourth of the space within

unoccupied. It was certainly solid and hard; for he

turned the reliquary to one side and the other without

its moving at all. He even held the reliquary upside

down, and the blood remained a firm and unmoved mass,

attached to the bottom of the now up-turned _ampulla_.

It was carried to the altar. We stationed ourselves

just as yesterday. The sanctuary was filled with

visitors, but not so crowded as on the former occasion.

The chapel, too, was not so densely jammed. None were

forced to stand out in the church for want of room.

The "relatives" were at their post, and prayed just as

before; but the miracle having occurred on the feast

itself, they were satisfied that it would occur, as a

matter of course, each day of the exposition throughout

the octave. At least, so I read their countenances,

which were less nervously anxious than yesterday.

The chaplain commenced the _Miserere_, the _Deus tuorum

militum_, and sundry prayers, the clergy joining

in. Every five minutes or so, he turned to show the

reliquary to the people, especially, of course, to

those immediately around the altar.

In just sixteen minutes after we had reached the

altar, the first symptom of the coming change showed

itself. As the chaplain held the reliquary for a moment

completely reversed, and steady in that position,

I noticed that the surface of the blood within the

_ampulla_, now, as he held it, underneath, showed a

tendency to sag downwards, as if it were softening.

Soon again, I saw that around the edge, where it

touched the glass, it had changed color, and was of

a brighter red than in the middle, and seemed very

soft, almost liquid. In fact, as he would incline the

reliquary to one side or another, the entire mass

within began soon gradually to slide down and occupy

the lowest position. Still, though soft, it was thick,

and could scarcely be called liquid. Then, in two or

three minutes more, it became still softer, until it

was quite liquid, with a lump, nevertheless, which

seemed to remain hard and to float in the liquid

portion. To-day, as the glass was moved, the liquid

would run off, of course. But, whereas yesterday it

left the glass quite clear and clean, as water would

do, now, on the contrary, it left a reddish thick tinge

behind, which only slowly sank down into the general

mass. After a while, too, the blood seemed to froth, or

show bubbles on its surface--_to boil_, as the Italians

say. I remained over half an hour more to see it, and

I noticed that at the end of that time the lump had

disappeared, and all was quite liquid. The frothing

continued.

After this, I was invited to go into the sacristy,

where they showed me the superb ecclesiastical

vestments belonging to the chapel--the mitres,

necklaces, chalices, ciboriums, ostensories, and other

rich jewelry--in great part, the gifts of emperors,

kings, and other nobles and wealthy ones, who, for

centuries past, have given them as offerings to this

sanctuary on occasion of their visits. Finally, I had

to tear myself away. Returning for a few moments to the

chapel, I found the crowds still approaching the altar

to examine and to venerate the relics.

Reluctantly I left the cathedral, and in a few hours

a railway-train was bearing me fast and far away from

Naples.

I have thus, my dear S----, set forth minutely and at

length what I saw. They say that in the liquid blood

one may still sometimes see a small fragment of straw

floating about. If so, it must have been taken up with

the blood when it was gathered at the execution of

the saint, and must have glided unperceived into the

_ampulla_ when the blood was poured into it that day.

A young friend with me thought he caught a glimpse of

it. His eyesight is keen, which, you know, mine is

not. Anyhow, I did not see it. I need not tell you of

various other little points of which the Neapolitans

speak, as I had no opportunity of testing them or

verifying them myself. I have told you, simply and

straightforwardly, what fell under my own experience.

Our readers will not regret the length of this account of the

liquefaction, so full and minute in the details. The letter from

which we extract it was written immediately after the visit of

the writer to Naples, from notes made at the time, and while the

impressions left on his memory were still fresh.

It was not necessary, in a letter like that we have made use of,

to enter on the discussion of mooted points of archæology. The

writer simply sets forth the opinions which, after more or less of

examination, he felt inclined to adopt. We say here that there is

a difference among writers as to the year in which the body of St.

Januarius was transferred from the original sepulchre to the church

of San Gennaro _extra muros_, and there is still a graver difference

as to the precise place of the original tomb. Some have held that

the execution took place on a more elevated spot on the same hill

which the letter mentions--about a quarter of a mile distant from

the church of the Capuchins--and that this church marks not the

site of the execution, as the letter holds with the Neapolitan

archæologists, but the site of the first temporary interment, from

which the body was borne to Naples, twelve or fifteen years later

than the year assigned above. These are minor points, on which we may

let antiquaries argue at pleasure.

In another article, we purpose to examine the character of the fact

of the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius, according to exact

records of its history for several centuries back.

For the present, we close with the latest account of its occurrence

which has fallen under our eye. The _Pall Mall Budget_, of May 26

last, has the following: "The blood of St. Januarius seems to have

been lately in a more perturbed state, if possible, than ever. The

_Libertà Cattolica_ of Naples gives an account of some unusual

appearances presented by this relic, on the 6th inst., one of the

annual occasions on which the holy martyr is honored in the cathedral

of Naples. On the day in question, Saturday, May 6, at a quarter-past

four P.M., the reliquary being brought out of its tabernacle, where

it had remained since the 16th of last December--the feast of the

patronage--it was found partly liquid, as when laid up. It continued

in the same state during the procession (from the cathedral to

the church of St. Clara), and, after thirteen minutes of prayers,

the sign of the miracle was given, the portion which had remained

hard being perceptibly still more dissolved, so as to show that

the miracle had taken place. Gradually, during the kissing of the

reliquary by the congregation at St. Clara, it became entirely

dissolved. On its return to the cathedral, contrary to what had

taken place during the last few years, it was found to be completely

hardened. When carried into the chapel of the _Tesoro_, it dissolved

anew, and now entirely, yet remaining thick and glutinous; and in

that state was laid up, about ten P.M."

TO BE CONTINUED.

LUCAS GARCIA.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FERNAN CABALLERO.

"In an age when all impressions are effaced by the

double hammer of civilization and incredulity, it is

touching and beautiful to see a people preserve a

stable character and immutable beliefs."

I.

Eastward from Jerez, in the direction of the Sierra de Ronda, which

rises in a succession of terraces, as if to form a suitable pedestal

for the rightly named San Cristóbal, lie the extensive Llanos de

Caulina. A bare and uniform road drags itself for two leagues through

the palmettoes, and makes a halt at the foot of the first elevation,

where a lazy rivulet widens in the sun, and, stagnating in summer,

changes its waters into mire.

On the right is seen the castle of Malgarejo, one of the few Moorish

edifices that time and his faithful auxiliary in the work of

destruction, ignorance, have left standing. Time makes ruins, groups

them, crowns them with garlands, and adorns them with verdure, as if

he desired to have them for places of recreation and rest; but the

barbarian ignorance gives no quarter--his only delight is in dust;

his place of repose, the desert waste; his end, nothingness.

The angles of the castle are flanked by four large towers. These,

as well as the walls of the whole enclosure, are surmounted by

well-formed turrets, perfect still, and without notch or break in

their beautiful uniformity. The castle took its name of Malgarejo

from a knight of Jerez, by whom its reduction was accomplished in a

manner so curious, that we cannot resist the inclination to relate

it, for the benefit of those who are unacquainted with the tales of

partisan exploits that abound in the annals of Jerez.

In the beginning of the thirteenth century, a hundred and fifty

Moors, with their families, occupied the castle. They went clothed

in white, according to the custom of their nation, and mounted gray

horses. Shut up as they were, they procured their subsistence by

foraging the country at night, and carrying to their stronghold

whatever booty they could seize.

Malgarejo resolved to get possession of this formidable place. It

was surrounded, at that time, by a wide moat. This moat--opened by

the Moors for their protection, and afterward serving them for a

sepulchre--no longer exists.

The Christian cavalier had a slave that was a most accomplished

horseman, and to him he promised liberty if he would swear to devote

himself to the proposed undertaking. The slave, agreeing, was

entrusted by his master with a mare of singular agility, and was

directed to train her to leap a ditch, which was to be enlarged, by

degrees, to the width of the one that surrounded the Saracen castle.

This being accomplished, Malgarejo called together his followers,

disguised them as Moors, caused them to cover their horses with white

cloths, and, one night, when the garrison had sallied out upon a

raid, approached the fortress. Those within, taking his host for the

one they were expecting, viewed its approach without suspicion. When

the Christians came nearer, they saw their mistake, and would have

raised the bridge, but the slave of Malgarejo had already leaped the

moat, and cut the cords, so that it could not be lifted; and the

_Jerezanos_ made themselves masters of the castle.

The sight of this stronghold, over which the destroyer Time has

passed leaving as little trace as would the footstep of a bird,

transports the beholder to the past with such vividness of illusion,

that he is surprised not to see the pennon of the half-moon

fluttering above its towers, and misses a snowy turban from behind

every one of its turrets. No fitter place could be found for the

representation of a fight or of a tournament between Moors and

Christians.

The road to Arcos leaves on its left the sleeping stream and the dead

fortress, within whose precinct, like ants in a skeleton, laborers

plying the tools of peaceful husbandry are moving.

Ascending this first step of the mountain, the traveller crosses

other plains, covered as far as the eye can see with rich harvests,

and, finding no nearer inn or stopping-place, takes his siesta at

the grange of La Peñuela, formerly the property of the Carthusian

fathers--an order so pious, so severe, so worthy and respected, that

the country folk still ask each other, "And was there indeed a power

that could, and a hand that would dare to touch such men and such

things?"

As the country rises, it covers itself with olive groves, as if it

would shelter white and ancient Arcos in the pride with which she

preserves her title of city, her venerable privileges, and her state

parchments, in spite of decline, or, better said, in spite of her

still life, in the midst of the progress that waits upon the march of

time--a progress at once gentle, deliberate, and spontaneous.

True to the guerilla traits of her Moorish founders, Arcos appears

to the traveller, wearied with the ascent, alternately advancing

and retiring, until, passing between two high rocks, he enters

unexpectedly into a city so beautiful for situation as to astonish

and delight even those who are rarely moved by the charms of nature

or the enchantments of the picturesque.

One afternoon, in the year 1840 or thereabout, a crowd of people

might have been seen entering a poor-looking house in the barrier of

San Francisco. From this house they had carried, on the previous day,

the body of one who had been its mistress, and the neighbors were

now uniting for the _condolement_ required by the rigorous etiquette

which is observed by the people, and which manifests the instinctive

courtesy and dignity that distinguish them. For all etiquette

and all ceremonial are founded upon these bases, and are not the

ridiculous and superficial things, either in public or private

life, that the revolutionary spirit of the age, and the anxiety to

escape from every rein, material and moral, would make us believe.

Ceremonial and etiquette, in the right acceptation of the words, are

external conduct, disposed so as to give worship to things divine,

consideration and respect to things human.

On entering the house, the women assembled in the parlor of the

mourner's _habitation_.[160] Opposite this room was another, which

had been lent by a neighbor for the accommodation of the men.

Upon a mat in the middle of the apartment first mentioned was

extended a handkerchief, into which each person, as he entered,

threw one or two copper coins, destined for the stipend of the Mass

of San Bernardino. This custom is observed not only among the poor,

but also among those who are well-to-do, for this Mass must be owed

to charity. Let sceptics and rationalists explain this as best suits

them. We look upon it as an act of humility, joined to the desire of

uniting many suffrages. And although we may be more impressed with

terrestrial honors, such as a splendid funeral, a showy catafalque,

and a proud mausoleum, the fervent petition of the heart, the coin

given in charity, the prayers of the church, are better suffrages for

heaven. In a corner of the room, upon a low chair, was the principal

mourner, a little girl of eight years. Wearied with weeping for her

mother, and with remaining so long in one position, she had leaned

her head against the back of the chair, and fallen asleep--for sleep

is a lover of children, and hastens to their relief whenever they

suffer in body or spirit.

"Poor Lucia," said one of the mourners, a kinswoman of the deceased,

glancing at the child, "how she will miss her mother!"

"This was the thorn that poor Ana carried to the grave fastened in

her heart," observed a neighbor.

"But," asked another, "of what did she die?"

"Only the ground that covers her knows what ailed her," answered the

relative, "for Ana did not complain. If she had not been so thin, you

might have drunk her; as yellow as a waxen flower, and so weak that a

shadow could have knocked her down, no one would have thought that

she was on her way to Holyfield."

"She died of a broken heart!" exclaimed an energetic-looking young

matron; "all the world knows it; and because we have an alcalde that

is afraid to strap his breeches to the work and cast out of town with

the devil's sling these trulls of strangers who come among us to set

up drinking-houses, and chouse married men, to their perdition and

the ruins of their families!"

"Yes, yes, the alcaldes have eyes of fishes for all these things,"

said the relative of the deceased, "just as they have owls' eyes

for some others. But they'll get their pay, woman; for though God

consents, 'tis not for ever!"

"Yes," answered the first--"consents to the death of the good, and

lets the bad live, and crow on. God reserves the justice of heaven

for himself. The rod of earthly justice he puts into the hands of

men; and a fine account they'll have to give of the way they use it!

I'd like to break the one our alcalde carries upon his shoulders!"

"Neighbor," said an old woman, "you are more hasty than a spark from

the forge; you attack like the bulls, with eyes shut. Think whom you

are speaking of; and bear in mind that 'evil wounds heal, but evil

fame kills.' Poor Ana was never well after her last confinement.

Death does not come without a pretext: the summer pulled her down,

and September finished her; for 'from friar to friar,[161] God be our

guard!'"

"Of course, Aunt Maria," retorted the young woman, "it's quite proper

for you, because you are aunt to Juan Garcia, and cousin to the

alcalde, to say so; for 'with reason or without it, aid us God and

our kin.' But I tell you that my José is not to set his foot inside

of _La Leona's_[162] gin-shop; and I'll see that he don't! A man may

be as honest as Job, but in 'the house of the soap-maker he that

doesn't fall slips.' And say what you please, you who are a widow,

with the coolness of age in your veins, I shall not go back of what

I have said. 'He that jumps straight, falls on his feet,' and I say,

and resay it: they ought to flay alive the good-for-nothing calamary

of a she-sergeant, with her sentry-box figure, and face darker than

an oil-skin, so full of pock-marks that it looks as if she had fallen

into a bed of chick-peas, and more hair on her lip than a grenadier!

Remember the proverb, 'Salute the bearded woman at a distance!'"

"And her children," said the mourner--"little imps that she keeps so

greasy and neglected! They look like a nest of calamaries."

"But she thinks them little suns," added another.

"Ya!" exclaimed the first who had spoken; "said the black beetle to

her young ones, 'Come hither, my flowers!' and the owl calls hers

'drops of gold.' Who ever saw such a thing, sirs," she continued,

growing excited--"who ever saw anything so wicked as to dupe a

married man, the father of children, ruin him, pull down his house,

and murder his wife by inches! And this is known and permitted! I

tell you, such a thing sinks deep!"

"Yes, it is worse than stabbing with a knife," exclaimed one woman.

"It cries to God!" added another.

"It is a scandal of the monstrous kind," proceeded the first.

"Poor Ana, though I did not see much of her, I loved her well.

Almond-paste is not milder than she was, and as meek and free from

malice as a sheep in the hands of the butcher. O men! men! There is a

curse on them that pull their clothes on over their feet; and that is

the reason our dear Lord would not wear breeches, but always dressed

in a tunic."

"Come, daughter," said Aunt Maria, "nothing is mended by malediction,

nor by spitting out the quinine. Let us pray for the soul of the

departed, for that is what will really benefit her."

These words were the signal for complete silence. Aunt Maria took her

rosary, the rest following her example, and, after saying the act

of contrition and a solemn credo, proceeded to recite the rosary of

souls, repeating three times after the Paternoster, and instead of

the Hail Mary,

"O Lord, by thy infinite mercy,"

the others answering in chorus,

"Grant to the souls of the faithful departed peace and glory."

Nothing was now heard in the mourning room of the women but the grave

murmur of the prayers and suppressed sighs of pity and sorrow.

The other parlor presented a very different spectacle. The widower,

serene as a glass of water, and cool as a fresh lettuce, now that

the day of the burial had passed, considered himself dispensed from

the attitude of mourning, and smoked, listening and talking to all,

just as usual, as if death had entered his house and departed without

leaving either trace or impression of his awful presence.

The indifferent ones followed his example, so that, had not all worn

cloaks, no one would have supposed that this was a condolement,

a tribute of love and respect to a life that had ended, and of

sympathy with an overwhelming sorrow. The only figure that appeared

to be in harmony with the object of the reunion was that of a boy

thirteen years old, the son of the deceased, who sat near his father

with his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his

hands, weeping inconsolably.

"What kind of day has it been?" asked the widower.

"Unhealthy," answered one.

"And the sky?"

"Patched; I think the rain is not far off. There was fog this

morning, and 'fog is the rain's sponsor and the sun's neighbor.'"

"The wind will soon sweep the cobwebs from the sky," said a third,

"for it blows from sunset side. The rain is shyer than sixpences."

"No matter," answered the first, "last year it did not rain till All

Saints; and a better year, or another of the same piece, hasn't been

seen since the creation. Laborers, farmers, and tenants all got tired

of gathering, and had more than enough--the barley, in particular,

grew so thick that you couldn't set a spade between the blades."

"The month of January is the key of the year. If the sky does not

open in January, there will be no harvest."

"Hola! Uncle Bartolo!" all exclaimed, as a small, vigorous old man

entered the apartment. "Where do you hail from? where have you been

ever since we missed you from here?"

Uncle Bartolo, after offering to the mourner the usual condolences,

seated himself, and, turning toward his interrogators, replied:

"Where do I come from? The district of Doñana, without varying from

the most direct line. Since the French war ended, and I took the

road, I have been water-carrier[163] to the _You Sirs_.[164] They

have them there in Doñana of all complexions--legitimate, grafted,

cross-breed, and supposititious, even English. _Caballeros!_ Deliver

us; but those Swiss of the French are the ones! Stout fellows;

very white; very ruddy; very fair-haired, and very puffy. But as

to spirit, they have no more than they drink; and grace, they have

not any. They carry their arms like the sleeves of a capote, and

set their feet down like pestles. Whenever I saw those feet that

resembled _jabeques_,[165] I used to say to myself,

'A good foot and good ear

Signs of a good beast are.'

For talking, they make use of a kind of jargon that, in my opinion,

they themselves don't understand. These parleys that I don't

comprehend displease me, for I never know whether I am being bought

or sold.

"There was one--the size of a tunny-fish--they called Don 'Turo.[166]

He fell to me. To see him blowing and sweating over those sands made

one pity him, for a league finishes them; the sun offends them; the

heat makes them weak, and dissolves them entirely. That platter face

would persist in doing everything contrariwise, as they do it in his

country. Once he took it into his head to use my clasp-knife to eat

with, and cut himself. With that he got out a medicine-chest as big

as a surgeon's. 'Go along!' said I to myself, 'a spider bit me, and

I bound the wound up in a sheet.' He was as hard-headed as a corner.

Another time he made up his mind that he ought to shoot a partridge,

and, though I told him it was against the law to shoot partridges at

that season, he fired, and would have fired if his father had stood

before the mouth of his gun. He fired and killed an urraca.[167]

'Sir,' said I, 'what has your honor done?' Says he to me, 'Killed

the partridge.' 'Why, sir, it isn't a partridge, it's an urraca.'

'It's all right,' said the big bungler, quite composedly. 'But it

is not right,' answered I; 'the killing of urracas is prohibited.'

'And who prohibits it?' he asked, putting on his face of a lion. 'I

have my license, that cost me three thousand reals.' 'But, sir, that

is for large game--you understand? The urracas mustn't be killed.

You comprehend?' Says he to me, 'In this country of _Santísima

María_'--for, as I have told you already, he said everything

reversed, as they do in his--'in this country there's no end of

privileges, and do the very urracas have them?'

"That question was so foolish, or else meant to be ironical, that

I didn't care to set him right; so I told him, 'Yes, privileges

that were granted to them in very ancient times, by _Doña Urraca_

herself.' He took out a blank-book and wrote that down. 'Let the ball

roll,' said I in my jacket, 'it isn't my business to stop it.'"

"But, Uncle Bartolo, why may they not kill urracas in the district?"

asked a young man.

"Because they are the ones that planted the pine woods," answered

Uncle Bartolo.

"Oh! none of that! you are not talking to platter-face," replied the

youth.

"So I perceive, since his swallow for novelties was too big; and

you--for a blockhead of those who believe only what they see--haven't

any. Nevertheless, sir, that the urracas do plant the pines is a

truth as evident as a house. They open the ripe cones, and pick out

the seeds for food. Being very saving birds, they bury those that

they can't eat; and, being very brainless ones, they forget all

about it and never go back to look for them; and the seeds sprout.

If it were not true, why would the dukes prohibit the killing of

urracas, when they are thicker in the district than sparrows on a

threshing-floor? Therefore, Alonso, no one may say, 'This camel can't

enter the eye of my needle'; for, of two silly birds, the one that

always keeps his bill shut is more silly than the one that has his

always open. But you were a dunce from the beginning; and, as you

grow older, you are gaining upon Blas, that ate horse-beans."

"And at night, uncle, what did those people do with themselves there

in the province?" asked the listeners.

"The Englishmen ate and drank, for their honors are made hollow,

in order that they may always be putting things into their mouths.

That is the reason they are so fat and big. Platter-face told me one

day--with an air as if God had just revealed it to him--that I was

able to go so long without getting tired because I was lean; and that

he would give a thousand dollars, or some such sum, to be as lean as

I. I answered--shouting to make him understand better--'Your worship

has only to eat _gazpacho_[168] to dry up your flesh, and raw onions

and garlic to sharpen your senses."

"And the Spaniards--how did they pass the evenings, Uncle Bartolo?"

"The Spaniards? Talking through the very stitches of their garments;

bawling till you would have thought they were echoes: and quarrelling

about things of the government. For, nowadays, everybody wants to

know everything himself, and to command: the very beetles set up

their tails and complain of a cough. I tell you, sirs, there are no

more such Spaniards as there were in the time of the French war. We

were as one man then, and all of one mind. Now there are moderates

and _extremists_. I, who am an _extremist_ only when it concerns my

gun, my wife, and my children, could wish the devil would fly away

with so much gab. It made me want to say to them: 'Gentlemen, where

there is less tongue, count on more judgment,' and 'so much grass

chokes the wheat.'"

"One night, one of the _You Sirs_ called me, and wanted to know if

I was in the war against Napoleon. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, 'I was a

guerilla.' 'Well, then,' said he, 'you just come here, for I am going

to read you the will he made.'"

"What! did that man make a will, Uncle Bartolo?" asked some of the

oldest of the listeners.

"Yes, and before he died, it is supposed.

"'But, your worship,' I asked, 'what had that kingdom-thief to give

away? Did they not then make him throw up everything he had taken?'

"The _You Sir_ had an open book, and began to read. Gentlemen, that

_soccarron_,[169] in his will, went on distributing everything, his

goods, his arms, his body, and his heart. I was perplexed. 'Well,

what do you think of it, uncle?' said his honor, when he had ended.

'Sir,' I answered, 'from what I can see, that unbeliever thought of

everything; but neither in his life nor in his death did he remember

his soul.'"

"Why did you join the guerillas, Uncle Bartolo?" asked one of the

company.

"What a question!" exclaimed the guerilla, looking at the one who

had asked it, and weaving himself backwards and forwards with much

composure.

"'He that asks does not err,' Uncle Bartolo."

"Yes, but this is a case of 'He that asks does not err, and I ask if

they bury the dead with the deceased?'"

"What I mean is, when did you leave your house, and how did you

happen to fall in with the _partida_?"[170]

"Ya! those are other questions, Lopez. Some French horsemen came

here--they call them _colaseros_ (cuirassiers)--my wife was more

afraid of them than of a contagion, and every time she heard the

clarionets, she would say to me, in a fright, 'They are sounding

the charge.' 'No, wife,' I would tell her, 'they are sounding

the _premonition_.' One day the cornet--they used to call him

_Trompi_--came in tipsy, and insulted my wife. I, who was not

afraid of any three that might come, and never stopped to think of

consequences, said to him, 'Out of here, little soul of a pitcher,

and Barabbas cut a slice from you!' With that he drew his sword,

and would have cut me, but I snatched my knife, and finished him at

once; and then, catching up mantle and blanket, took the wind for the

mountains. I stopped in Benamahoma with the Padre Lovillo--and there

you have it all."

"The Padre Lovillo was the captain of the partida?" questioned a

youth.

"Yes, the Padre Lovillo. _Candela!_ That was a man you could call

a man! No talker--not he; but the words he used were few and good.

If any one wanted to brag of his doings, he would say, 'Let them be

seen, not heard. You understand, cackler? Stabs with steel, not with

the tongue; balls of lead, not of wind.' Sirs, that man was ready for

everything, as you would have declared with two tongues if you had

had them. When we were going to attack the French, he used to say,

'Listen, sons, our fathers died for their country, and we are not to

be less than they.' Then, drawing his sword, he would shout, '_Now_

let us see who has pluck!' and charge like another Santiago,[171] and

we after him, as if he had led us to Paris in France. We felt neither

hunger nor weariness; it was a fight without drum or trumpet, but

it made the Frenchmen shiver. They named us the '_Briganes_[172] of

the Black Mountain,' and were more afraid of us than of the trained

soldiery.

"Don 'Turo, who knew that I had been a _brigan_, called me into the

parlor one evening, and, when he had squeezed himself into a chair,

told me to sit down. I began to wonder where all these Masses were

going to end.[173] Surely, I thought, he cannot want me to clean his

gun! But I waited for the mountain to bring forth, and presently he

asked me to explain the _trafica_[174] of guerilla fighting. When I

saw him come out with that ladder, I got angry, and told him, 'No;'

that my pronouncing was very bad, and his understanding worse. But

all the others insisted, and, not to seem disobliging, I repeated a

very good and well-versed poem, that was going the rounds then."

"And what was it about, Uncle Bartolo?"

"It relates a conversation between Malapart[175] and that Indian,

_Munrá_, Duke of _Ver_."[176]

"Go on, uncle, say it," exclaimed all present.

The following romance, which the old guerilla recited, was very

popular at that time among the people. It owes its humor to the fact

that neither its unlettered composer, nor those who recited it, had

any suspicion that they were giving a caricature. They considered

it a simple and probable account of what would take place between

Napoleon and Murat when they saw their last troops vanquished. Even

the conclusion is in no way inconsistent with their ideas of the

antecedents and characters of the personages:

_Nap._ How is this, friend _Munrá_!

Why are you here again?

Why have you left your capital?

What sent you out of Spain?

Speak on, and don't delay;

We have no time to spare;

Tell me, in terms exact,

What has happened there.

_Mur._ Easy, sir, if you please;

Sire, do not press me so;

Only let me get breath,

I'll tell you what I know.

But, first, send for a chair,

That some rest we may take

While I tell you the tale,

For, indeed, my legs ache.

_Nap._ Right, for you have grown fat,

And glad am I to see

Proof that the airs of Spain

So well with you agree.

_Mur._ Sire, you are mistaken;

But let the matter go,

For things of more account

Your majesty should know.

And, come to what must come,

Without any more ado--

For, believe me or not, sire,

All I tell you is true.

_Nap._ Why, what has happened now?

Good Heavens, man, speak out!

What have you seen in Spain

To put you so about?

_Mur._ Great Emperor of France,

Your force has been in vain;

Nor did flatteries avail--

You cannot conquer Spain.

No notice will they take

Of your promises of pay,

And peace, and rank to all,

And bull-fights every day.

_Nap._ But, my soldiers, do not they

In the mountains still remain?

_Mur._ Yes, captives they remain

With their general, _Dupon_,

And the eagles of France;

And every sword and gun

Might as well be a distaff,

For Castaños and his men

Have settled their account.

_Nap._ _Peste!_ Because you tell it,

The tale I must believe;

From another I would not

A word of it receive.

No doubt, in Zaragoza

Our cause has better speed,

In humbling them at last

We surely must succeed.

_Mur._ All your force is useless;

The knaves will not submit.

If you wish to lose France,

And make an end of it,

Send it to Zaragoza,

It will find a bloody tomb,

And remain there, buried,

Until the Day of Doom.

_Nap._ Can nothing, then, be done

With those troops of Arragon?

_Mur._ We have none that on them

Will venture to advance.

_Nap._ But Moncey's triumphant

In the kingdom of Valence?

_Mur._ Sire, he has dropped his ears,

And slunk away, ashamed;

Those Valencians have a way

Their enemies to tame.

They mount on swiftest steeds,

And, running a swift career,

Unhorse the astonished foe

Before he is aware.

_Nap._ It seems, then, that maxims,

And lying, and caution

Have failed in that country;

But who had a notion

That Spain would be equal

To France in a contest?

We now can do nothing

But send for Funest.[177]

_Mur._ And how can he get here,

When the Portuguese men,

With the Spaniards united,

Have him closely shut in,

With sentinels stationed?

No help can avail him,

For surrender he must,

When eatables fail him.

The best thing to do, is

To yield to their clamor,

And give back the king

That Spaniards all honor.

Perhaps, sire, if--with him

Appeased and delighted--

They will let our troops go,

Your throne may be righted;

For upset it they will

At the rate they are making,

And cut off your head,

And from me be taking

My fine dukedom of _Ver_;

Or, if we escape, sire,

The fate I am dreading.

We'll have to sweep chimneys

Again for a living.

I've forgotten the trade,

And lost my dexterity;

But you, who were master,

Would mount with celerity.

_Nap._ Only a pitiful knave

Such memories would renew.