CHAPTER VII.

Upon a sultry evening which did follow an exceeding hot day, with no

clouds in the sky, and a great store of dust on the road, we entered

London, that great fair of the whole world, as some have titled it.

When for many years we do think of a place we have not seen, a picture

forms itself in the mind as distinct as if the eye had taken

cognizance thereof, and a singular curiosity attends the actual vision

of what the imagination hath so oft portrayed. On this occasion my

eyes were slow servants to my desires, which longed to embrace in the

compass of one glance the various objects they craved to behold.

Albeit the sky was cloudless above our heads, I feared it would rain

in London, by reason of a dark vapor which did hang over it; but

Mistress Ward informed me that this appearance was owing to the smoke

of sea-coal, of which so great a store is used in the houses that the

air is filled with it. "And do those in London always live in that

smoke?" I inquired, not greatly contented to think it should be so;

but she said Mr. Congleton's house was not in the city, but in a very

pleasant suburb outside of it, close unto Holborn Hill and Ely Place,

the bishop's palace, in whose garden the roses were so plentiful that

in June the air is perfumed with their odor. I troubled her not with

further questions at that time, being soon wholly taken up with the

new sights which then did meet us at every step. So great a number of

gay horsemen, and litters carried by footmen with fine liveries, and

coaches drawn by horses richly caparisoned and men running alongside

of them, and withal so many carts, that I was constrained to give over

the guiding of mine own horse by reason of the confusion which the

noise of wheels and men's cries and the rapid motion of so many

vehicles did cause in me, who had never rode before in so great a

crowd.

At about six o'clock of the afternoon we did reach Ely Place, and

passing by the bishop's palace stopped at the gate of Mr. Congleton's

house, which doth stand somewhat retired from the high-road, and the

first sight of which did greatly content me. It is built of fair and

strong stone, not affecting fineness, but honorably representing a

firm stateliness, for it was handsome without curiosity, and homely

without negligence. At the front of it was a well-arranged ground

cunningly set with trees, through which we rode to the foot of the

stairs, where we were met by a gentleman dressed in a coat of black

satin and a quilted waistcoat, with a white beaver in his hand, whom I

guessed to be my good uncle. He shook Mistress Ward by the hand,

saluted me on both cheeks, and vowed I was the precise counterpart of

my mother, who at my age, he said, was the prettiest Lancashire witch

that ever he had looked upon. He seemed to me not so old as I did

suppose him to be, lean of body and something low of stature, with a

long visage and a little sharp beard upon the chin of a brown color; a

countenance not very grave, and, for his age, wanting the authority of

gray hairs. He conducted me to mine aunt's chamber, who was seated in

an easy-chair near unto the window, with a cat upon her knees and

{359} a tambour-frame before her. She oped her arms and kissed me with

great affection, and I, sliding down, knelt at her feet and prayed her

to be a good mother to me, which was what my father had charged me to

do when I should come into her presence. She raised me with her hand

and made me sit on a stool beside her, and stroking my face gently,

gazed upon it, and said it put her in mind of both of my parents, for

that I had my father's brow and eyes, and my mother's mouth and

dimpling smiles.

"Mr. Congleton," she cried, "you do hear what this wench saith. I pray

you to bear it in mind, and how near in blood she is to me, so that

you may show her favor when I am gone, which may be sooner than you

think for."

I looked up into her face greatly concerned that she was like so soon

to die. Methought she had the semblance of one in good health and a

reasonable good color in her cheeks, and I perceived Mr. Congleton did

smile as he answered:

"I will show favor to thy pretty niece, good Moll, I promise thee, be

thou alive or be thou dead; but if the leeches are to be credited, who

do affirm thou hast the best strength and stomach of the twain, thou

art more like to bury me than I thee."

Upon which the good lady did sigh deeply and cast up her eyes and

lifted up her hands as one grievously injured, and he cried:

"Prithee, sweetheart, take it not amiss, for beshrew me if I be not

willing to grant thee to be as diseased as will pleasure thee, so that

thou wilt continue to eat and sleep as well as thou dost at the

present and so keep thyself from dying."

Upon which she said that she did admire how a man could have so much

cruelty as to jest and jeer at her ill-health, but that she would

spend no more of her breath upon him; and turning toward me she asked

a store of questions anent my father, whom for many years she had not

seen, and touching the manner of my mother's death, at the mention of

which my tears flowed afresh, which caused her also to weep; and

calling for her women she bade one of them bring her some hartshorn,

for that sorrow, she said, would occasion the vapors to rise in her

head, and the other she sent for to fetch her case of trinkets, for

that she would wear the ring her brother had presented her with some

years back, in which was a stone which doth cure melancholy. When the

case was brought she displayed before my eyes its rich contents, and

gifted me with a brooch set with turquoises, the wearing of which, she

said, doth often keep persons from falling into divers sorts of peril.

Then presently kissing me she said she felt fatigued, and would send

for her daughters to take charge of me; who, when they came, embraced

me with exceeding great affection, and carried me to what had been

their schoolroom and was now Mrs. Ward's chamber, who no longer was

their governess, they said, but as a friend abode in the house for to

go abroad with them, their mother being of so delicate a constitution

that she seldom left her room. Next to this chamber was a closet,

wherein Kate said I should lie, and as it is one I inhabited for a

long space of time, and the remembrance of which doth connect itself

with very many events which, as they did take place, I therein mused

on, and prayed or wept, or sometimes laughed over in solitude, I will

here set down what it was like when first I saw it.

The bed was in an alcove, closed in the day by fair curtains of

taffety; and the walls, which were in wood, had carvings above the

door and over the chimney of very dainty workmanship. The floor was

strewn with dried neatly-cut rushes, and in the projecting space where

the window was, a table was set, and two chairs with backs and seats

cunningly furnished with tapestry. In another recess betwixt the

alcove and the chimney stood a praying stool and a desk with a cushion

for a book to lie on. Ah, me! how often has my head {360} rested on

that cushion and my knees on that stool when my heart has been too

full to utter other prayers than a "God ha' mercy on me!" which at

such times broke as a cry from an overcharged breast. But, oh! what a

vain pleasure I did take on that first day in the bravery of this

little chamber, which Kate said was to be mine own! With what great

contentment I viewed each part of it, and looked out of the window on

the beds of flowers which did form a mosaical floor in the garden

around the house, in the midst of which was a fair pond whose shaking

crystal mirrored the shrubs which grew about it, and a thicket beyond,

which did appear to me a place for pleasantness and not unfit to

flatter solitariness, albeit so close unto the city. Beyond were the

bishop's grounds, and I could smell the scent of roses coming thence

as the wind blew. I could have stood there many hours gazing on this

new scene, but that my cousins brought me down to sup with them in the

garden, which was not fairer in natural ornaments than in artificial

inventions. The table was set in a small banqueting-house among

certain pleasant trees near to a pretty water-work; and now I had

leisure to scan my cousins' faces and compare what I did notice in

them with what Mistress Ward had said the first night of our journey.

Kate, the eldest of the three, was in sooth a very fair creature,

proportioned without any fault, and by nature endowed with the most

delightful colors; but there was a made countenance about her mouth,

between simpering and smiling, and somewhat in her bowed-down head

which seemed to languish with over-much idleness, and an inviting look

in her eyes as if they would over-persuade those she spoke to, which

betokened a lack of those nobler powers of the mind which are the

highest gifts of womanhood. Polly's face fault-finding wits might

scoff at as too little for the rest of the body, her features as not

so well proportioned as Kate's, and her skin somewhat browner than

doth consist with beauty; but in her eyes there was a cheerfulness as

if nature smiled in them, in her mouth so pretty a demureness, and in

her countenance such a spark of wit that, if it struck not with

admiration, filled with delight. No indifferent soul there was which,

if it resisted making her its princess, would not long to have such a

playfellow. Muriel, the youngest of these sisters, was deformed in

shape, sallow in hue, in speech, as Mistress Ward had said, slow; but

withal in her eyes, which were deep-set, there was lacking neither the

fire which betokens intelligence, nor the sweetness which commands

affection, and somewhat in her plain face which, though it may not be

called beauty, had some of its qualities. Methought it savored more of

heaven than earth. The ill-shaped body seemed but a case for a soul

the fairness of which did shine through the foul lineaments which

enclosed it. Albeit her lips opened but seldom that evening, only

twice or thrice, and they were common words she uttered and fraught

with hesitation, my heart did more incline toward her than to the

pretty Kate or the lively Polly.

An hour before we retired to rest, Mr. Congleton came into the garden,

and brought with him Mr. Swithin Wells and Mr. Bryan Lacy, two

gentlemen who lived also in Holborn; the latter of which, Polly

whispered in mine ear, was her sister Kate's suitor. Talk was

ministered among them touching the queen's marriage with Monsieur;

which, as Mr. Rookwood had said, was broken off; but that day they had

heard that M. de la Motte had proposed to her majesty the Due

d'Alencon, who would be more complying, he promised, touching religion

than his brother. She inquired of the prince's age, and of his height;

to the which he did answer, "About your majesty's own height." But her

highness would not be so put off, and willed the ambassador to write

for the precise measurement of the prince's stature.

"She will never marry," quoth Mr. Wells, "but only amuse the French

{361} court and her council with further negotiations touching this

new suitor, as heretofore anent the archduke and Monsieur. But I would

to God her majesty were well married, and to a Catholic prince; which

would do us more good than anything else which can be thought of."

"What news did you hear, sir, of Mr. Felton?" Mistress Ward asked.

Upon which their countenances fell; and one of them answered that that

gentleman had been racked the day before, but steadily refused, though

in the extremity of torture, to name his accomplices; and would give

her majesty no title but that of the Pretender; which they said was

greatly to be regretted, and what no other Catholic had done. But when

his sentence was read to him, for that he was to die on Friday, he

drew from his finger a ring, which had diamonds in it, and was worth

four hundred pounds, and requested the Earl of Sussex to give it to

the queen, in token that he bore her no ill-will or malice, but rather

the contrary.

Mr. Wells said he was a gentleman of very great heart and noble

disposition, but for his part he would as lief this ring had been

sold, and the money bestowed on the poorer sort of prisoners in

Newgate, than see it grace her majesty's finger; who would thus play

the hangman's part, who inherits the spoils of such as he doth put to

death. But the others affirmed it was done in a Christian manner, and

so greatly to be commended; and that Mr. Felton, albeit he was

somewhat rash in his actions, and by some titled Don Magnifico, by

reason of a certain bravery in his style of dress and fashion of

speaking, which smacked of Monsieur Traveller, was a right worthy

gentleman, and his death a blow to his friends, amongst whom there

were some, nevertheless, to be found who did blame him for the act

which had brought him into trouble. Mistress Ward cried, that such as

fell into trouble, be the cause ever so good, did always find those

who would blame them. Mr. Lacy said, one should not cast himself into

danger wilfully, but when occasion offered take it with patience.

Polly replied, that some were so prudent, occasions never came to

them. And then those two fell to disputing, in a merry but withal

sharp fashion. As he did pick his words, and used new-fangled terms,

and she spoke roundly and to the point, methinks she was the nimblest

in this encounter of wit.

Meanwhile Mr. Wells asked Mr. Congleton if he had had news from the

north, where much blood was spilt since the rising; and he apprehended

that his kinsmen in Richmondshire should suffer under the last orders

sent to Sir George Bowes by my Lord Sussex. But Mr. Congleton did

minister to him this comfort, that if they were noted wealthy, and had

freeholds, it was the queen's special commandment they should not be

executed, but two hundred of the commoner sort to lose their lives in

each town; which was about one to each five.

"But none of note?" quoth Mr. Wells.

"None which can pay the worth of their heads," Mr. Congleton replied.

"And who, then, doth price them?" asked Kate, in a languishing voice.

"Nay, sister," quoth Polly, "I warrant thee they do price themselves;

for he that will not pay well for his head must needs opine he hath a

worthless one."

Upon which Mr. Lacy said to Kate, "One hundred angels would not pay

for thine, sweet Kate."

"Then she must needs be an archangel, sir," quoth Polly, "if she be of

greater worth than one hundred angels."

"Ah, me!" cried Kate, very earnestly, "I would I had but half one

hundred gold-pieces to buy me a gown with!"

"Hast thou not gowns enough, wench?" asked her father. "Methought thou

wert indifferently well provided in that respect."

"Ah, but I would have, sir, such a {362} velvet suit as I did see some

weeks back at the Italian house in Cheapside, where the ladies of the

court do buy their vestures. It had a border the daintiest I ever

beheld, all powdered with gold and pearls. Ruffiano said it was the

rarest suit he had ever made; and he is the Queen of France's tailor,

which Sir Nicholas Throgmorton did secretly entice away, by the

queen's desire, from that court to her own."

"And what fair nymph owns this rare suit, sweetest Kate?" Mr. Lacy

asked. "I'll warrant none so fair that it should become her, or rather

that she should become it, more than her who doth covet it."

"I know not if she be fair or foul," quoth Kate, "but she is the Lady

Mary Howard, one of the maids of honor of her majesty, and so may wear

what pleaseth her."

"By that token of the gold and pearls," cried Mr. Wells, "I doubt not

but 'tis the very suit anent which the court have been wagging their

tongues for the last week; and if it be so, indeed, Mistress Kate, you

have no need to envy the poor lady that doth own it."

Kate protested she had not envied her, and taxed Mr. Wells with

unkindness that he did charge her with it; and for all he could say

would not be pacified, but kept casting up her eyes, and the tears

streaming down her lovely cheeks. Upon which Mr. Lacy cried:

"Sweet one, thou hast indeed no cause to envy her or any one else,

howsoever rare or dainty their suits may be; for thy teeth are more

beauteous than pearls, and thine hair more bright than the purest

gold, and thine eyes more black and soft than the finest velvet, which

nature so made that we might bear their wonderful shining, which else

had dazzled us:" and so went on till her weeping was stayed, and then

Mr. Wells said:

"The lady who owned that rich suit, which I did falsely and

feloniously advance Mistress Kate did envy, had not great or long

comfort in its possession; for it is very well known at court, and

hence bruited in the city, what passed at Richmond last week

concerning this rare vesture. It pleased not the queen, who thought it

did exceed her own. And one day her majesty did send privately for it,

and put it on herself, and came forth into the chamber among the

ladies. The kirtle and border was far too short for her majesty's

height, and she asked every one how they liked her new fancied suit.

At length she asked the owner herself if it was not made too short and

ill-becoming; which the poor lady did presently consent to. Upon which

her highness cried: 'Why, then, if it become me not as being too

short, I am minded it shall never become thee as being too fine, so it

fitteth neither well.' This sharp rebuke so abashed the poor lady that

she never adorned her herewith any more."

"Ah," cried Mr. Congleton, laughing, "her majesty's bishops do come by

reproofs as well as her maids. Have you heard how one Sunday, last

April, my Lord of London preached to the queen's majesty, and seemed

to touch on the vanity of decking the body too finely. Her grace told

the ladies after the sermon, that if the bishop held more discourse on

such matters she would fit him for heaven, but he should walk thither

without a staff and leave his mantle behind him."

"Nay," quoth Mr. Wells, "but if she makes such as be Catholics taste

of the sharpness of the rack, and the edge of the axe, she doth then

treat those of her own way of thinking with the edge of her wit and

the sharpness of her tongue. 'Tis reported, Mr. Congleton, I know not

with what truth, that a near neighbor of yours has been served with a

letter, by which a new sheep is let into his pastures."

"What," cried Polly, "is Pecora Campi to roam amidst the roses, and go

in and out at his pleasure through the bishop's gate? The 'sweet lids'

have then danced away a large slice of the Church's acres. But what, I

pray you, sir, did her majesty write?"

"Even this," quoth her father, "I {363} had it from Sir Robert

Arundell: 'Proud Prelate! you know what you were before I made you,

and what you are now. If you do not immediately comply with my

request, I will unfrock you, by God!--ELIZABETH R.'"

"Our good neighbor," saith Polly, "must show a like patience with Job,

and cry out touching his bishopric, 'The queen did give it; the queen

doth take it away; the will of the queen be done.'"

"He is like to be encroached upon yet further by yon cunning Sir

Christopher," Mr. Wells said; "I'll warrant Ely Place will soon be

Hatton Garden."

"Well, for a neighbor," answered Polly, "I'd as soon have the queen's

lids as her hedge-bishop, and her sheep as her shepherd. 'Tis not all

for love of her sweet dancer her majesty doth despoil him. She never,

'tis said, hath forgiven him that he did remonstrate with her for

keeping a crucifix and lighted tapers in her own chapel, and that her

fool, set on by such as were of the same mind with him, did one day

put them out."

In suchlike talk the time was spent; and when the gentlemen had taken

leave, we retired to rest; and being greatly tired, I slept heavily,

and had many quaint dreams, in which past scenes and present objects

were curiously blended with the tales I had read on the journey, and

the discourse I had heard that evening. When I awoke in the morning,

my thoughts first flew to my father, of whom I had a very passionate

desire to receive tidings. When my waiting-woman entered, with a

letter in her hand, I foolishly did fancy it came from him, which

could scarcely be, so soon after our coming to town; but I quickly

discerned, by the rose-colored string which it was bounden with, and

then the handwriting, that it was not from him, but from her whom,

next to him, I most desired to hear from, to wit, the Countess of

Surrey. That sweet lady wrote that she had an exceeding great desire

to see me, and would be more beholden to my aunt than she could well

express, if she would confer on her so great a benefit as to permit me

to spend the day with her at the Charter House, and she would send her

coach for to convey me there, which should never have done her so much

good pleasure before as in that service. And more to that effect, with

many kind and gracious words touching our previous meeting and

correspondence.

When I was dressed, I took her ladyship's letter to Mrs. Ward, who was

pleased to say she would herself ask permission for me to wait upon

that noble lady; but that her ladyship might not be at the charge of

sending for me, she would herself, if my aunt gave her license, carry

me to the Charter House, for that she was to spend some hours that day

with friends in the city, and "it would greatly content her," she

added, "to further the expressed wish of the young countess, whose

grandmother, Lady Mounteagle, and so many of her kinsfolk, were

Catholics, or at the least, good friends to such as were so." My aunt

did give leave for me to go, as she mostly did to whatsoever Mrs. Ward

proposed, whom she trusted entirely, with a singular great affection,

only bidding her to pray that she might not die in her absence, for

that she feared some peaches she had eaten the day before had

disordered her, and that she had heard of one who had died of the

plague some weeks before in the Tower. Mrs. Ward exhorted her to be of

good cheer, and to comfort herself both ways, for that the air of

Holborn was so good, the plague was not likely to come into it, and

that the kernels of peaches being medicinal, would rather prove an

antidote to pestilence than an occasion to it; and left her better

satisfied, insomuch that she sent for another dish of peaches for to

secure the benefit. Before I left, Kate bade me note the fashion of

the suit my Lady Surrey did wear, and if she had on her own hair, and

if she dyed it, and if she covered her bosom, or wore plaits, and if

her stomacher was straight {364} and broad, or formed a long waist,

extending downward, and many more points touching her attire, which I

cannot now call to mind. As I went through the hall to the steps where

Mistress Ward was already standing, Muriel came hurrying toward me,

with a faint color coming and going in her sallow cheek, and twice she

tried to speak and failed. But when I kissed her she put her lips

close to my ear and whispered,

"Sweet little cousin, there be in London prisoners in a very bad

plight, in filthy dungeons, because of their religion. The noble young

Lady Surrey hath a tender heart toward such if she do but hear of

them. Prithee, sweet coz, move her to send them relief in food, money,

or clothing."

Then Mistress Ward called to me to hasten, and I ran away, but Muriel

stood at the window, and as we passed she kissed her hand, in which

was a gold angel, which my father had gifted me with at parting.

"Mrs. Ward," I said, as we went along, "my cousin Muriel is not fair,

and yet her face doth commend itself to my fancy more than many fair

ones I have seen; it is so kindly."

"I have even from her infancy loved her," she answered, "and thus much

I will say of her, that many have been titled saints who had not,

methinks, more virtue than I have noticed in Muriel."

"Doth she herself visit the prisoners she spoke of?"

"She and I do visit them and carry them relief when we can by any

means prevail with the gaolers from compassion or through bribing of

them to admit us. But it is not always convenient to let this be

known, not even at home, but I ween, Constance, as thou wilt have me

to call thee so, that Muriel saw in thee--for she has a wonderful

penetrative spirit--that thou dost know when to speak and when to keep

silence."

"And may I go with you to the prisons?" I asked with a hot feeling in

my heart, which I had not felt since I had left home.

"Thou art far too young," she answered. "But I will tell thee what

thou canst do. Thou mayst work and beg for these good men, and not be

ashamed of so doing. None may visit them who have not made up their

minds to die, if they should be denounced for their charity."

"But Muriel is young," I answered. "Hath she so resolved?"

"Muriel is young," was the reply; "but she is one in whom wisdom and

holiness have forestalled age. For two years that she hath been my

companion on such occasions, she has each day prepared for martyrdom

by such devout exercises as strengthen the soul at the approach of

death."

"And Kate and Polly," I asked, "are they privy to the dangers that you

do run, and have they no like ambition?"

"Rather the contrary," she answered; "but neither they nor any one

else in the house is fully acquainted with these secret errands save

Mr. Congleton, and he did for a long time refuse his daughter license

to go with me, until at last, by prayers and tears, she won him over

to suffer it. But he will never permit thee to do the like, for that

thy father hath intrusted thee to his care for greater safety in these

troublesome times."

"Pish!" I cried pettishly, "safety has a dull mean sound in it which I

mislike. I would I were mine own mistress."

"Wish no such thing, Constance Sherwood," was her grave answer.

"Wilfulness was never nurse to virtue, but rather her foe; nor ever

did a rebellious spirit prove the herald of true greatness. And now,

mark my words. Almighty God hath given thee a friend far above thee in

rank, and I doubt not in merit also, but whose faith, if report saith

true, doth run great dangers, and with few to advise her in these evil

days in which we live. Peradventure he hath appointed thee a work in a

palace as weighty as that of {365} others in a dungeon. Set thyself to

it with thy whole heart, and such prayers as draw down blessings from

above. There be great need in these times to bear in remembrance what

the Lord says, that he will be ashamed in heaven before his angels of

such as be ashamed of him on earth. And many there are, I greatly

fear, who though they be Catholics, do assist the heretics by their

cowardice to suppress the true religion in this land; and I pray to

God this may never be our case. Yet I would not have thee to be rash

in speech, using harsh words, or needlessly rebuking others, which

would not become thy age, or be fitting and modest in one of inferior

rank, but only where faith and conscience be in question not to be

afraid to speak. And now God bless thee, who should be an Esther in

this house, wherein so many true confessors of Christ some years ago

surrendered their lives in great misery and torments, rather than

yield up their faith."

This she said as we stopped at the gate of the Charter House, where

one of the serving-men of the Countess of Surrey was waiting to

conduct me to her lodgings, having had orders to that effect. She left

me in his charge, and I followed him across the square, and through

the cloisters and passages which led to the gallery, where my lady's

chamber was situated. My heart fluttered like a frightened caged bird

during that walk, for there was a solemnity about the place such as I

had not been used to, and which filled me with apprehension lest I

should be wanting in due respect where so much state was carried on.

But when the door was opened at one end of the gallery, and my sweet

lady ran out to meet me with a cry of joy, the silly heart, like a

caught bird, nestled in her embrace, and my lips joined themselves to

hers in a fond manner, as if not willing to part again, but by fervent

kisses supplying the place of words, which were lacking, to express

the great mutual joy of that meeting, until at last my lady raised her

head, and still holding my hands, cried out as she gazed on my face:

"You are more welcome, sweet one, than my poor words can say. I pray

you, doff your hat and mantle, and come and sit by me, for 'tis a

weary while since we have met, and those are gone from us who loved us

then, and for their sakes we must needs love one another dearly, if

our hearts did not of themselves move us unto it, which indeed they

do, if I may judge of yours, Mistress Constance, by mine own."

Then we kissed again, and she passed her arm around my neck with so

many graceful endearments, in which were blended girlish simplicity

and a youthful yet matronly dignity, that I felt that day the love

which, methinks, up to that time had had its seat mostly in the fancy,

take such root in mine heart, that it never lost its hold on it.

At the first our tongues were somewhat tied by joy and lack of

knowledge how to begin to converse on the many subjects whereon both

desired to hear the other speak, and the disuse of such intercourse as

maketh it easy to discourse on what the heart is full of. Howsoever,

Lady Surrey questioned me touching my father, and what had befallen us

since my mother's death. I told her that he had left his home, and

sent me to London by reason of the present troubles; but without

mention of what I did apprehend to be his further intent. And she then

said that the concern she was in anent her good father the Duke of

Norfolk did cause her to pity those who were also in trouble.

"But his grace," I answered, "is, I hope, in safety at present, and in

his own house?"

"In this house, indeed," she did reply, "but a strait prisoner in Sir

Henry Neville's custody, and not suffered to see his friends without

her majesty's especial permission. He did send for his son and me last

evening, having obtained leave for to see us, which he had not done

since the day my lord and I were married again, by {366} his order,

from the Tower, out of fear lest our first marriage, being made before

Phil was quite twelve years old, it should have been annulled by order

of the queen, or by some other means. It grieved me much to notice how

gray his hair had grown, and that his eyes lacked their wonted fire.

When we entered he was sitting in a chair, leaning backward, with his

head almost over the back of it, looking at a candle which burnt

before him, and a letter in his hand. He smiled when he saw us, and

said the greatest comfort he had in the world was that we were now so

joined together that nothing could ever part us. You see, Mistress

Constance," she said, with a pretty blush and smile, "I now do wear my

wedding-ring below the middle joint."

"And do you live alone with my lord now in these grand chambers?" I

said, looking round at the walls, which were hung with rare tapestry

and fine pictures.

"Bess is with me," she answered, "and so will remain I hope until she

is fourteen, when she will be married to my Lord William, my lord's

brother. Our Moll is likewise here, and was to have wedded my Lord

Thomas when she did grow up; but she is not like to live, the

physicians do say."

The sweet lady's eyes filled with tears, but, as if unwilling to

entertain me with her griefs, she quickly changed discourse, and spoke

of my coming unto London, and inquired if my aunt's house were a

pleasant one, and if she was like to prove a good kinswoman to me. I

told her how comfortable had been the manner of my reception, and of

my cousins' goodness to me; at the which she did express great

contentment, and would not be satisfied until I had described each of

them in turn, and what good looks or what good qualities they had;

which I could the more easily do that the first could be discerned

even at first sight, and touching the last, I had warrant from Mrs.

Ward's commendations, which had more weight than my own speerings,

even if I had been a year and not solely a day in their company. She

was vastly taken with what I related to her of Muriel, and that she

did visit and relieve poor persons and prisoners, and wished she had

liberty to do the like; and with a lovely blush and a modest

confusion, as of one who doth not willingly disclose her good deeds,

she told me all the time she could spare she did employ in making

clothes for such as she could hear of, and also salves and cordials

(such as she had learnt to compound from her dear grandmother), and

privately sent them by her waiting-maid, who was a young gentlewoman

of good family, who had lost her parents, and was most excellently

endowed with virtue and piety.

"Come to my closet, Miss Constance," she said, "and I doubt not but we

shall find Milicent at work, if so be she has not gone abroad to-day

on some such errand of charity." Upon which she led the way through a

second chamber, still more richly fitted up than the first, into a

smaller one, wherein, when she opened the door, I saw a pretty living

picture of two girls at a table, busily engaged with a store of

bottles and herbs and ointments, which were strewn upon it in great

abundance. One of them was a young maid, who was measuring drops into

a phial, with a look so attentive upon it as if that little bottle had

been the circle of her thoughts. She was very fair and slim, and had a

delicate appearance, which minded me of a snow-drop; and indeed, by

what my lady said, she was a floweret which had blossomed amidst the

frosts and cold winds of adversity. By her side was the most gleesome

wench, of not more than eight years, I ever did set eyes on; of a

fatness that at her age was comely, and a face so full of waggery and

saucy mirth, that but to look upon it drove away melancholy. She was

compounding in a cup a store of various liquids, which she said did

cure shrewishness, and said she would pour some into her nurse's

night-draught, to mend her of that disorder.

{367}

"Ah, Nan," she cried, as we entered, "I'll help thee to a taste of

this rare medicine, for methinks thou art somewhat shrewish also and

not so conformable to thy husband's will, my lady, as a good wife

should be. By that same token that my lord willed to take me behind

him on his horse a gay ride round the square, and, forsooth, because I

had not learnt my lesson, thou didst shut me up to die of melancholy.

Ah, me! My mother had a maid called Barbara--

'Sing willow, willow, willow.'

That is one of Phil's favorite songs. Milicent, methinks I will call

thee Barbara, and thou shalt sing with me--

'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,--

Sing all a green willow;

Her hand on her bosom,'--

There, put thy hand in that fashion--

'her head on her knee,'--

Nay, prithee, thou must bend thy head lower--

'Sing willow, willow, willow.'"

"My lady," said the gentlewoman, smiling, "I promise you I dare not

take upon me to fulfil my tasks with credit to myself or your

ladyship, if Mistress Bess hath the run of this room, and doth prepare

cordials after her fashion from your ladyship's stores."

"Ah, Bess!" quoth my lady, shaking her finger at the saucy one; "I'll

deliver thee up to Mrs. Fawcett, who will give thee a taste of the

place of correction; and Phil is not here to-day to beg thee off. And

now, good Milicent, prithee make a bundle of such clothes as we have

in hand, and such comforts as be suitable to such as are sick and in

prison, for this sweet young lady hath need of them for some who be in

that sad plight."

"And, my lady," quoth the gentlewoman, "I would fain learn how to

dress wounds when the flesh is galled; for I do sometimes meet with

poor men who do suffer in that way, and would relieve them if I

could."

"I know," I cried, "of a rare ointment my mother used to make for that

sort of hurt; and if my Lady Surrey gives me license, I will remember

you, mistress, with the receipt of it."

My lady, with a kindly smile and expressed thanks, assented; and when

we left the closet, I greatly commending the young gentlewoman's

beauty, she said that beauty in her was the worst half of her merit.

"But, Mistress Constance," she said, when we had returned to the

saloon, "I may not send her to such poor men, and above all, priests,

who be in prison for their faith, as I hear, to my great sorrow, there

be so many at this time, and who suffer great hardships, more than can

be easily believed, for she is Protestant, and not through conforming

to the times, but so settled in her way of thinking, and earnest

therein, having been brought up to it, that she would not so much as

open a Catholic book or listen to a word in defence of papists."

"But how, then, doth she serve a Catholic lady?" I asked, with a

beating heart; and oh, with what a sad one did hear her answer, for it

was as follows:

"Dear Constance, I must needs obey those who have a right to command

me, such as his grace my good father and my husband; and they are both

very urgent and resolved that by all means I shall conform to the

times. So I do go to Protestant service; but I use at home my prayers,

as my grandmother did teach me; and Phil says them too, when I can get

him to say any."

"Then you do not hear mass," I said, sorrowfully, "or confess your

sins to a priest?"

"No," she answered, in a sad manner; "I once asked my Lady Lumley, who

is a good Catholic, if she could procure I should see a priest with

that intent at Arundel House; but she turned pale as a sheet, and said

that to get any one to be reconciled who had {368} once conformed to

the Protestant religion, was to run danger of death; and albeit for

her own part she would not refuse to die for so good a cause, she

dared not bring her father's gray hairs to the block."

As we were holding this discourse--and she so intent in speaking, and

I in listening, that we had not heard the door open--Lord Surrey

suddenly stood before us. His height made him more than a boy, and his

face would not allow him a man; for the rest, he was

well-proportioned, and did all things with so notable a grace, that

nature had stamped him with the mark of true nobility. He made a

slight obeisance to me, and I noticed that his cheek was flushed, and

that he grasped the handle of his sword with an anger which took not

away the sweetness of his countenance, but gave it an amiable sort of

fierceness. Then, as if unable to restrain himself, he burst forth,

"Nan, an order is come for his grace to be forthwith removed to the

Tower, and I'll warrant that was the cause he was suffered to see us

yesterday. God send it prove not a final parting!"

"Is his grace gone?" cried the countess, starting to her feet, and

clasping her hands with a sorrowful gesture.

"He goes even now," answered the earl; and both went to the window,

whence they could see the coach in which the duke was for the third

time carried from his home to the last lodging he was to have on this

earth. Oh, what a sorrowful sight it was for those young eyes which

gazed on the sad removal of the sole parent both had left! How her

tears did flow silently like a stream from a deep fount, and his with

wild bursts of grief, like the gushings of a torrent over rocks! His

head fell on her shoulder, and as she threw her arms round him, her

tears wetted his hair. Methought then that in the pensive tenderness

of her downcast face there was somewhat of motherly as well as of

wifely affection. She put her arm in his, and led him from the room;

and I remained alone for a short time entertaining myself with sad

thoughts anent these two young noble creatures, who at so early an age

had become acquainted with so much sorrow, and hoping that the

darkness which did beset the morning of their lives might prove but as

the clouds which at times deface the sky before a brilliant sunshine

doth take possession of it, and dislodge these deceitful harbingers,

which do but heighten in the end by contrast the resplendency they did

threaten to obscure.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

{369}

From Temple Bar.

FRENCH COCHIN CHINA.

Between India and the Chinese empire lies the peninsula of Indo-China,

jutting out far into the Indian Ocean. The south-eastern portion of

this peninsula is occupied by the empire of Anam, of which the chief

maritime province is known to Europeans as Cochin China, but to the

natives as Dang-trong, or the outer kingdom. It is in lower Cochin

China that the French have succeeded in recently establishing a

military settlement. In extent these new territorial acquisitions of

our somewhat ambitious neighbors may be compared to Brittany, though

in no other respect can any resemblance be detected. The country is,

in fact, a strictly alluvial formation. Not only is it watered by the

Dong-nai and Saigon rivers, but it also embraces the delta of the

Mekong, at the mouth of which noble stream the Portuguese poet Camoens

was ship-wrecked in the year 1556, swimming to the shore with his left

hand, while in his right he held above the waters his manuscript copy

of the _Lusiad_. It is almost needless to add that a level plain

spreads far and wide, except quite in the north, and that fevers and

dysentery prevail throughout the greater part of the year. The climate

is certainly not a healthy one for Europeans. The rainy season lasts

from April to December, during which the inhabitants live in a

vapor-bath. The consequence is, that the French soldiers die off with

such frightful rapidity that it has been urgently recommended that

every regiment should be relieved after two years' service. The

authorities, however, have lost no time in improving the sanitary

condition of the new settlement. By means of native labor large tracts

of marsh-land have been drained, and good roads made in lieu of the

shallow tidal canals which previously constituted the sole channels of

traffic and mutual intercourse. Formerly every villager owned a small

boat, in which he moved about from place to place, taking with him his

small merchandise, or conveying home to his family the proceeds of his

marketing. The town of Saigon itself is estimated to contain one

hundred thousand inhabitants. The houses are exceedingly mean, being

constructed either of wood or of palm-leaves fastened together. Though

situated seventy miles inland, Ghia-din, as it is called by the

natives, is a very flourishing port, and exhibits a very active

movement at all seasons of the year. It is frequented by a large

number of Chinese vessels, and is now rising into importance as the

head of the French possessions in the East. So far back, indeed, as

the ninth century Saigon was noted for its muslin manufactures, the

fineness of which was such that an entire dress could be drawn through

the circumference of a signet-ring. Owing to the comparative absence

of noxious insects it is regarded by Europeans as a not altogether

unpleasant residence.

The population of the empire of Anam has been estimated at thirty

millions; but on this point there are not sufficient data to form a

very accurate opinion. But whatever may be their exact number, the

inhabitants are derived from three sources. The Anamites proper--that

is, the Cochin Chinese and the Tonkinese--are of a Chinese origin;

while the people of Camboge are descended from Hindoo ancestors; and

those in the interior--such as the Lao, Moi, and others--claim to be

the sons of the soil, with Malay blood flowing in their veins. Of the

early history of the Anamites few authentic details have reached us,

nor {370} are these of a nature to interest the general reader.

Although from an early date European missionaries appear to have

labored in their self-denying task of converting these disciples of

Buddhism to the purer tenets of Christianity, it was not until the

latter part of the eighteenth century that their influence was

sensibly appreciated. Even then they were indebted to an accident for

the increased importance they have since continued to possess. Fleeing

from a formidable and partially successful insurrection, the only

survivor of the royal family and heir to the throne--afterward the

celebrated Ghia-loung--took refuge in the house of Father Pigneau, a

French missionary of unblemished life and reputation. That worthy man

bravely afforded shelter not only to the fugitive, but also to his

wife, his sister, and his son, and even encouraged him to make a

strenuous effort to recover his rights. Foiled, however, for a time by

the superior forces of the rebels, the prince and his faithful

counsellor were compelled to flee for their lives to a small island in

the Gulf of Siam. Yielding to the advice of the missionary, Ghia-loung

now resolved to despatch an embassy to France, in the hope of

obtaining sufficient assistance to place himself on the throne of his

ancestors. Accordingly, in the year 1787, Father Pigneau, accompanied

by the youthful son of the unfortunate prince, proceeded to

Versailles, and actually prevailed upon Louis XVI. to conclude an

alliance, offensive and defensive, with his royal client. The terms of

this treaty are so far curious that they illustrate the practical and

realistic notion of an "idea" which characterized the old French

monarchy quite as much as it does the second Napoleonic empire.

Convinced of the justice of the Anamite prince's claim to the crown,

and moved by a desire to afford him a signal mark of his friendship,

as well as of his love of justice, his most Christian majesty agreed

to despatch immediately to the coasts of Cochin China a squadron

consisting of four frigates, conveying a land force of 1,200

foot-soldiers, 200 artillerymen, and 250 Caffres, thoroughly equipped

for service, and supported by an efficient field-battery. In return

for--or rather in expectation of receiving--this succor, the king of

Cochin China surrendered the absolute ownership and sovereignty of the

islands of Hoi-nan and Pulo Condor, together with a half-share in the

port of Touron, where the French were authorized to establish whatever

works and factories they might deem requisite for their safety and

commercial advantage. They were further to enjoy the exclusive

privilege of trading with the Cochin Chinese, and of introducing their

merchandise free of all charges and imposts. Neither was any trading

vessel or ship of war to be permitted to enter any port on the Cochin

China coast save only under the French flag. And in the event of his

most Christian majesty becoming involved in hostilities with any other

power, whether Asiatic or European, his faithful ally undertook to fit

out at his own expense both naval and land forces to co-operate with

the French troops anywhere in the Indian seas, but not beyond the

Moluccas or the Straits of Malacca. In consideration of his services

in negotiating this treaty, the ratifications of which were to be

exchanged within twelve months at the latest, Father Pigneau was

raised to the dignity of Bishop of Adran, and appointed ambassador

extraordinary from the court of Versailles to that of Cochin China.

The next step was to select a commander for the projected expedition;

and on the new prelate's urgent solicitation the king consented,

though with marked reluctance, to confer that distinction upon the

Count de Conway, at that time governor of the French establishments in

India. The selection proved an unfortunate one. Bishop Pigneau had

omitted one very important element from his calculation. He had made

no allowance for the disturbing influences of an improper {371}

connection with a "lovely woman." He may even have been ignorant of M.

de Conway's misplaced devotion to Mdme. de Vienne. Be this as it may,

on his arrival at Pondicherry he refused to wait upon that all-potent

lady, and offered her such slights that she became his avowed and

bitter enemy. It was through her, indeed, that the expedition was

never organized, and that the king of Cochin China was left to his own

resources to bring about his restoration. This he at length

accomplished, and in some small degree by the aid of a handful of

volunteers whom the Bishop of Adran had induced to accompany him to

Saigon. A sincere friendship appears to have existed between the

French prelate and the Anamite prince, which terminated only with the

death of the former in the last year of the eighteenth century. But

though Ghia-loung was fully sensible of the advantages to be derived

from maintaining a friendly intercourse with European nations, he was

not blind to the inconveniences likely to arise from allowing the

subjects of a foreign power to form independent settlements within his

dominions. Feeling that his end was at hand, the aged monarch

emphatically warned his son not to allow the French to possess a

single inch of land in his territories; but at the same time advised

him to cultivate amicable relations with that people. His successor

obeyed the paternal counsels only in part. He took care, indeed, to

prevent the French from settling permanently in his country; but he

went very much further, for he actively persecuted the Christian

converts, and exerted himself to the utmost to oppose the introduction

of western ideas and civilization. In the year 1825 Min-mang--for so

was this emperor called--refused even to receive a letter and presents

forwarded by Louis XVIII., and expressed his determination to keep

aloof from all intercourse with European powers.

As Captain de Bougainville was provided neither with instructions how

to act under such circumstances, nor "with a sufficient force to

compel the acceptance of what was declined to be taken with a good

grace"--we quote from M. Leon de Rosny's _Tableau de Cochinchine_, to

which we are indebted for the matter of this article he formed the

wise resolution of withdrawing from those inhospitable shores. But

before he did so, he succeeded in landing Father Regereau, a French

priest who had devoted himself to the work of making Christians of the

Anamites, whether they would or not. No sooner did this unwelcome news

reach the ears of the monarch, than it caused an edict to appear

enjoining the mandarins to exercise the utmost vigilance in preventing

the ingress of the teachers of "the perverse religion of the

Europeans," which is described as prejudicial to the rectitude and

right-mindedness of mankind. The doctrine of the missionaries was

further represented, in a petition said to have been inspired by the

emperor himself, as of a nature to corrupt and seduce the common

people by abusing their credulity. They employ, it was said, the fear

of hell and eternal punishment to terrify the timid; while, to attract

individuals of a different temperament, they promise the enjoyment of

heavenly bliss as the reward of virtue. By degrees the ill-feeling

entertained by the emperor toward the missionaries grew in intensity,

until they became the object of his bitter aversion; and as his

subordinates, according to custom, were anxious to recommend

themselves to favor by their demonstrative zeal, it was not long

before "the church of Cochin China was enriched by the crown of

numerous martyrs." The first of these martyrs was the Abbe Gagelin,

who was strangled on the 17th October, 1833; but then his offence was

twofold, for he had not only preached the forbidden doctrines, but, in

contravention of the king's commands, had quitted the town of Dong-nai

to do so. A very naive letter from a missionary named Jacquard

conveyed to the abbe the tidings of his forthcoming martyrdom. "Your

sentence," {372} he wrote, "has been irrevocably pronounced. As soon

as you have undergone the punishment of the cord, your head will be

cut off and sent into the provinces in which you have preached

Christianity. Behold you, then, a martyr! How fortunate you are!" To

this pious effusion the abbe replied in a similar strain: "The news

you announce of my being irrevocably condemned to death penetrates my

very heart's core with joy. No; I do not hesitate to avow it, never

did any news give me so much pleasure."

In the following year another missionary was tortured to death, not

merely as a teacher of the new religion, but because he was found in

the company of some rebels who had seized upon a fort. No other

martyrdom occurred after this until 1837, in which year the Abbe

Cornay was beheaded and quartered, after being imprisoned for three

months; and, in 1838, M. Jacquard himself escaped by strangulation

from the insults and outrages to which he had been for some time

subjected. Nor was it the missionaries alone who shared the fate and

emulated the calm heroism of the early apostles. The native neophytes

were not a whit less zealous to suffer in their Master's cause, and to

bear witness to the truth, in death as in life. The common people

eagerly flocked to behold their execution, not indeed to taunt and

revile the patient victims, but to secure some relic, however trifling

or otherwise disgusting, and to dip their garments in the

still-flowing blood. Pagans and Christians alike yielded to this

superstition or veneration, while the soldiers on duty drove a

lucrative trade in selling to the scrambling crowd fragments of the

dress and person of the yet-quivering martyr. Even the executioners

are reported to have affirmed that at the moment the head was severed

from the body a certain perfume exhaled from the gushing blood, as if

anticipating glorification in heaven. M. de Rosny, however, frankly

admits that Min-mang was chiefly moved by political considerations to

persecute the followers of the new religion, whom he believed to be in

league with his worst enemies, especially after the capture of a

missionary in one of the rebel forts. His policy, whatever may have

been its real springs, was adopted by his son Thieou-tri, one of whose

first public acts was to command the governors of provinces to track

out the Christians to their most secret asylums. These orders were

only too faithfully obeyed. The French missionaries were ferreted out

of their lurking-places, thrown into prison, and otherwise

ill-treated, throughout this reign, which did not terminate before the

end of 1847.

The new monarch, commonly known as Tu-Duk, walked in the footsteps of

his father. An edict was issued almost immediately after his accession

to the throne, commanding that every European missionary found in Anam

should be thrown into the sea with a rope round his neck. And when the

mandarins hesitated to execute such sanguinary orders, a second edict

appeared enjoining that whosoever concealed in his house a propagator

of the Christian faith should be cut in two and thrown into the river.

The fiendish work then began in earnest. The sword of the executioner

was again called into request, and several most estimable men suffered

death on the scaffold. At last even a bishop, Monseigneur Diaz,

experienced the fate of his humbler brethren, on the 20th July, 1857;

and as this prelate happened to be a Spaniard, his death was avenged

by an allied Franco-Spanish expedition, which resulted in the conquest

of Lower Cochin China, and the cession of the provinces of Saigon,

Bien-hoa, and Myt-ho to the French. Let us now see what manner of men

were these Anamites whom the French, failing to convert, were

compelled, by their sense of spiritual duty, to conquer and subjugate.

M. de Rosny shall continue to be our guide.

The people of Anam Proper are evidently of Mongol extraction. Their

complexion is of a dark sallow hue, varying from a dirty white to a

yellowish {373} olive color. In stature they are short, but thickset,

and remarkably active. Their features are by no means beautiful

according to the European idea of beauty. They have short square

noses, prominent cheek-bones, thin lips, an small black eyes--the

eyeball being rather yellow than white. Their teeth, which are

naturally of a pure white, are stained almost black and otherwise

disfigured by the excessive use of betel-nut. Their countenances are

chiefly marked by the breadth and height of the cheek-bones, and are

nearly of the shape of a lozenge. The women are better-looking, and

decidedly more graceful, than the men, even in the lower classes, but

both sexes are particularly cheerful and vivacious. The upper classes,

however, affect the solemn air and grave deportment of the Chinese,

and are consequently much less agreeable to strangers than are the

less-dignified orders. Corpulence is considered a great beauty--a fat

face and a protuberant stomach constituting the ideal of an Adonis.

Both men and women wear their hair long, but gathered up at the back

of the head in a knot. It is never cut save in early youth, when it is

all shaved off with the exception of a small tuft on the top of the

crown. A close-cropped head of hair, indeed, is looked upon as a badge

of infamy, and is one of the distinguishing marks of a convicted

criminal. The beard is allowed to grow naturally, but consists of

little more than a few scattered hairs at the end of the chin; the

upper lip being as scantily furnished. The nails should be very long,

thin, and sharp-pointed, and by the women are usually stained of a red

color.

The Anamites dress themselves in silk or cotton according to their

means; but whatever the material, the form of their garb is always the

same. In addition to wide trousers fastened round the waist by a

silken girdle, they wear a robe descending to the knees, and

occasionally a shorter one over that; both equally opening on the

right side, but closed by five or six buttons. The men's sleeves are

very wide, and so long that they descend considerably lower than the

ends of the fingers. The women, however, who in other respects dress

precisely as do the men, have their sleeves somewhat shorter, in order

to display their metal or pearl bracelets. The under-garment is

generally made of country cotton, but the upper one, as worn by the

higher classes, is invariably of silk or flowered muslin, of Chinese

manufacture. Cotton trousers are often dyed brown, but even the

laboring population make use of silk as much as possible. For mourning

garments cotton alone is employed, white being the funereal color.

Out of doors men and women alike wear varnished straw hats, upward of

two feet in diameter, fastened under the chin, and very useful as a

protection against sun and rain, though somewhat grotesque in

appearance. Within doors the women go bareheaded, not unfrequently

allowing their fine black tresses to hang loose down their backs

almost to the ground. Ear-rings, bracelets, and rings on their fingers

are favorite objects of female vanity; but a modest demeanor is a

thing unknown; a bold, dashing manner being most admired by the men.

They are certainly not good-looking; but their natural gaiety and

liveliness amply compensate for the absence of personal charms.

Old men and persons of distinction alone wear sandals, the people

generally preferring to go barefooted. A pair of silken purses, or

bags, to carry betel, money, and tobacco, may be seen in the hand, or

hanging over the shoulder, of every man and woman not actually

employed in hard labor. They are, for the most part, of blue satin,

and sometimes richly embroidered. Like their neighbors the Chinese,

the Anamites are scrupulous observers of the distinctive insignia of

rank, but pay no regard to personal cleanliness. Notwithstanding their

frequent ablutions, their clothes, their hair, their fingers and

nails, are disgustingly filthy. Even wealthy persons wear dirty cotton

dresses within doors, over which {374} they throw their smart silken

robes when they go out.

Taste is proverbially a matter beyond dispute; but it would be very

hard for any European to agree with an Anamite as to what constituted

a delicacy and what an abomination. A Cochin Chinese epicure delights,

for instance, in rotten eggs, and is especially fond of them after

they have been under a hen for ten or twelve days. From stale fish,

again, he extracts his choicest sauce, and feasts greedily upon meat

in a state of putrefaction. Vermin of all sorts is highly appreciated.

Crocodile's flesh is also greatly prized; though boiled rice and a

little fish fresh,--smoked, or salted--are the ordinary food of the

poor. Among delicacies may be mentioned silk-worms fried in fat, ants

and ants' eggs, bees, insects, swallows'-nests, and a large white worm

found in decayed wood; but no dainty is more dearly relished than a

still-born calf served up whole in its skin and almost raw. In the way

of pastry the women greatly affect _beignets_ made of herbs, sugar,

and clay. Among the rich the dishes are placed on low tables a foot or

two in height, round which the diners seat themselves on the ground in

the attitude of tailors. Forks and spoons are equally unknown, but

chop-sticks are used after the Chinese fashion. The dinner usually

begins, instead of ending, with fruit and pastry. During the meal

nothing liquid is taken, but before sitting down it is customary to

take a gulp or two of strong spirits distilled from fermented rice,

and after dinner several small cups of tea are drunk by those who can

afford to do so. Cold or unadulterated water is thought unwholesome,

and is therefore never taken by itself. Betel-nut mixed with quicklime

is constantly chewed by both men and women, and of late years the use

of opium has partially crept in.

The houses of the Anamites are only one story high, and very low in

the roof. They are, in fact, mere halls, the roof of which is usually

supported on bamboo pillars, on which are pasted strips of

many-colored paper inscribed with Chinese proverbs. The roof slopes

rather sharply, and consists of reed or straw. Neither windows nor

chimneys are seen. The smoke escapes and the light enters by the door.

The walls are made of palm leaves, though rich people often employ

wood for that purpose. In either case they are filthily dirty and

swarm with insects. At the further end of the house is a raised

platform, which serves as a bed for the entire family. The floor is of

earth, not unfrequently traversed by channels hollowed out by the rain

which descends through the roof. In every household one member remains

awake all night, to give the alarm in case of thieves attempting to

come in.

It is usual for the men to marry as soon as they have the means to

purchase a wife. The price of such an article varies, according to

circumstances, from two to ten shillings, though rich people will give

as much as twice or three times that sum for anything out of the

common run. Polygamy is permitted by the laws; but practically it is a

luxury confined to the wealthy, and even with them the first wife

reigns supreme over the household. The privilege of divorce is

reserved exclusively for the husbands, who can put away a disagreeable

partner by breaking in twain a copper coin or a piece of wood, in the

presence of a witness. Parents cannot dispose of their daughters in

marriage without their free consent. Previous to marriage the Cochin

Chinese are perfectly unrestrained; but as chastity is nothing thought

of, this is not a matter of much moment. Infanticide is punished as a

crime, but not so abortion. Adultery is a capital offense. The guilty

woman is trampled to death under the feet of an elephant, while her

lover is strangled or beheaded; but these sentences are frequently

commuted into exile. Wives are not locked up as in Mohammedan

countries, but with that exception they are quite as badly treated,

being altogether at the mercy of their husbands. They are, in truth,

little better than slaves or {375} beasts of burden. It is they who

build the houses, who cultivate the ground, who manufacture the

clothes, who prepare the food, who, in short, do everything. They have

nine lives, say their ungrateful husbands, and can afford to lose one

without being the worse for it. They are described as being less timid

than the men, more intelligent, more gay, and quite ready to adapt

themselves to the manners and customs of their French rulers. The men,

though by no means destitute of strength and courage, are lazy,

indolent, and averse to bodily exercise, and chiefly at home in the

petty intrigues of an almost retail commerce.

Great importance is attached to the funeral ceremonies. The dead are

interred--not burnt, according to the custom of neighboring nations--

and much taste is displayed in their burial-places. There is no more

acceptable present than a coffin, and thus it usually happens that one

is provided years before it can be turned to a proper account. The

deceased is clothed in his choicest apparel, and in his coffin is

placed an abundant supply of whatever he is likely to want in the new

life upon which he has entered through the portals of death. The

obsequies are generally deferred for six months, or for even a whole

year, in order to give more time for the necessary preparations. On

such occasions friends and relatives flock from afar to the "funeral

baked meats;" for a handsome banquet forms an essential part of the

otherwise melancholy details. From twenty to thirty bearers convey the

corpse to its last abode, amid the deafening discord of drums,

cymbals, and tom-toms. The procession moves with slow and measured

step, and on the coffin is placed a shell filled with water, which

enables the master of the ceremonies to ascertain that the coffin is

borne with becoming steadiness. Mourning is worn for twenty-seven

months for a father, mother, or husband; but only twelve months for a

wife. During this period it is forbidden to be present at any

spectacle, to attend any meeting, or to marry. At various intervals

after the interment, offerings of eatables are presented to the dead,

but which are scrupulously consumed by the offerers themselves.

Respect, bordering on reverence, is shown to old age; but then old

people are a rarity, few individuals attaining to half a century.

Sickness of all kinds is rife, including "the whole cohort of fevers."

The want of cleanliness is undoubtedly at the bottom of most of the

complaints from which the natives suffer. The system of medicine most

in vogue is borrowed from the Chinese. Every well-to-do family

maintains its own physician, who physics all its members to their

heart's content. Doctors, however, agree no more in Cochin China than

in any other region of the globe. There are two schools of

medicine--the one employing nothing but stimulants, the other adhering

solely to refrigerants, and both citing in favor of their respective

systems the most astounding and well-nigh miraculous cures.

The rules of politeness and etiquette are distinctly drawn and rigidly

observed. An inferior meeting a superior prostrates himself at full

length upon the ground, and repeats the act again and again according

to the amount of deference he wishes to exhibit. To address one by the

title of great-grand-father is to show the highest possible respect,

while grandfather, father, uncle, and elder brother mark the downward

gradations from that supreme point. There is, in truth, somewhat too

much of veneering visible in all that pertains to the private life and

character of the Anamites. Their moral code, based on the precepts of

Confucius, is irreproachable, but they seldom pause to regulate their

conduct after its wholesome doctrines. Pleasure, indeed, is more

thought of than morality, and gambling is a raging passion with all

classes. Cock-fighting, and even the combats of red-fishes, fill them

with especial delight; and when thoroughly excited they will stake on

any chance their wives and children, and even {376} themselves. Music,

dancing, and theatrical exhibitions are likewise much to their taste,

though the dancers are invariably women hired for the purpose.

The laws and police regulations are for the most part wise and

sensible, but are more frequently neglected than observed. Here, as in

other Asiatic countries, a gift in the hand perverteth the wisdom of

the wise, and thus only the poor and the stingy need suffer for their

sins. For most offences the bastinado is inflicted, but for heinous

crimes capital punishments are enforced. There is a sufficient variety

in the modes of execution. Sometimes the criminal is sentenced to be

strangled; at other time's he is decapitated, or trampled to death by

an elephant, or even hacked to pieces if his crime has been in any way

extraordinary. For minor delinquencies recourse is had to

transportation in irons to a distant province, or to hard labor, such

as cutting grass for the emperor's elephants.

Society is divided into two classes--the people and the mandarins.

Nobility is hereditary, but the son of a mandarin of the first order

ranks only with the second until he has done something to merit

promotion to his father's rank. In like manner the son of a

second-class mandarin belongs to the third rank, and so on to the

lowest grade; and there are nine of these--the highest two sitting in

the imperial council. But the most exalted honors are open to the most

humble. No man is so low born as to despair of becoming one of the

pillars of the empire. The competition system prevails here in its

full vigor. Everything depends upon the passing certain examinations;

but for all that the mandarins are described as oppressors of the

poor, evil advisers of the sovereign, addicted to fraud, given up to

their appetites, wasting their time in sensual and frivolous pursuits,

corrupt and venal in the administration of justice.

The patrimony is distributed equally among all the sons, whether

legitimate or otherwise, except that the eldest receives one-tenth of

the entire property in addition to his own share; in return for which

he is expected to guard the interests of the family, and above all to

look after his sisters, who cannot marry without his consent. The

daughters have no part in the inheritance save in the absence of male

heirs, but in that case they are treated as if they were sons. Through

extreme poverty children are often sold as slaves by their parents. An

insolvent debtor likewise becomes the bondsman of his creditor; and as

the legal rate of interest is thirty per cent., a debt rapidly

accumulates.

An Anamite hour is twice the length of a European one, and the night

is divided into five watches. A year consists of twelve lunar months;

so that every two or three years it becomes necessary to add another

month: in nineteen years there are seventeen of these intercalated

months. The lapse of time is marked by periods of twelve years, five

of which constitute a "grand cycle;" but in historical narratives the

dates are calculated from the accession of the reigning monarch. The

year begins with the month of February. The decimal system of

enumeration is the one adopted by the Cochin Chinese.

The religion of the people is a superstitious Buddhism; that of the

lettered classes a dormant belief in the moral teachings of Confucius.

Whatever temples there are, are of a mean order, and are served by an

ignorant and ill-paid priesthood. The malignant spirits are

propitiated by offerings of burnt paper inscribed with prayers, of

bundles of sweet-scented wood, and of other articles of trifling

value; the good spirits are mostly neglected. Sincere veneration,

however, is shown to the manes of deceased ancestors. The priests take

a vow of celibacy, to which they occasionally adhere. They abstain

entirely from animal food, and affect a yellow or red hue in their

apparel. After death their bodies are burned, and not buried as is the

case with the laity.

{377}

The inhabitants of Cochin China are naturally industrious, and possess

considerable skill as carpenters and upholsterers. They also work in

iron with some success, and display no mean taste in their pottery.

Their cotton and silk manufactures are, however, coarse and greatly

inferior to the Chinese. Their lackered boxes are famous throughout

the world, nor are their filigree ornaments unworthy of admiration.

But though skilful and intelligent as artisans, and abundantly endowed

with the faculty of imitation, they are wretchedly deficient in

imagination, and have no idea of invention. This defect is perhaps of

less consequence now that they have the benefit of receiving their

impulses from the most inventive nation in the world. Without doubt,

their material prosperity will be largely augmented by the French

domination, nor have they anything to lose in moral and social

respects. The conquest of Cochin China may therefore be regarded as an

advantage to the people themselves; but how far it is likely to yield

any profit to the French is altogether another question, and one which

at present we are not called upon to discuss. Sufficient for the day

is the evil thereof.

------

From The Dublin Review.

CONSALVI'S MEMOIRS.

_Memoires du Cardinal Consalvi, Secretaire d'Etat du Pape Pie VII.,

avec une Introduction et des Notes._ Par J. CRETINEAU-JOLY. 2 vols.

8vo. Paris: Plon. 1864.

M. Cretineau-Joly is a Vendean, and there seems to be in his blood

something of that pugnacious and warlike quality which so

distinguished his forefathers. Each of his former publications betrays

this combative propensity, and the introduction which accompanies

Cardinal Consalvi's Memoirs is worthy of its predecessors. M.

Cretineau-Joly is well known on the continent by his "History of the

Jesuits"--a work containing a considerable amount of valuable

information concerning that celebrated and much maligned order; but,

at the same time, it may be considered in the light of an Armstrong

gun, which batters and reduces to dust the bastions of an enemy.

Indeed, it was ushered forth at the very height of the warfare which

raged against the Church in France, a few years previous to the

downfall of Louis Philippe. In 1858 the same writer produced a

brochure bearing the following title, "The Church versus the

Revolution," another broadside fired against crowned revolutionists,

no less than against the sectarian hordes of a Mazzini and a

Garibaldi. Hardly a year had elapsed when the French emperor invaded

Lombardy, with what result the whole world is aware. So M.

Cretineau-Joly had taken time by the forelock. And now, again, he

comes forth with these highly interesting and authentic memoirs,

written by the cardinal and prime minister of Pius VII. In every

respect they may be proclaimed the most important, if not the most

voluminous, of the editor's publications. No one, at the same time,

will fail to perceive that between the actual situation of the Holy

See and that which marked its history in the eventful years between

1799 and 1811, there underlies a startling similarity. Singularly

enough, the second half of the nineteenth {378} century begins with

the same picture of violence, the same hypocrisy, the same contempt of

right by might, that characterized the dawn of the present age. On the

one side, an all-powerful ruler, intoxicated by success, backed by a

host of servile demagogues, and hardly less servile, though royal

infidels; on the other, a weak old man, backed by a calm, deliberate,

truly Christian genius--both wielding no other weapons but faith,

hope, and charity--both torn from their home and judgment-seat by the

iron hand of revolutionary despotism--and yet both riding triumphant

over the seething waves, whilst the grim corpses of their enemies are

washed to the shore, or startle the traveller as he comes suddenly

upon them in his wanderings through Russian wilds. Ay, there she goes,

that tiny ship of Peter's, with a Pius at her helm; now, as in bygone

days, with an Antonelli as a commander--much about the same man as a

Consalvi.

"Blow fair, thou breeze! She anchors ere the dark.

Already doubled is the cape--our bay

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.

How gloriously her gallant course she goes!

Her white wings flying--never from her foes--

She walks the waters like a thing of life,

And seems to dare the elements to strife."

Setting aside metaphors and poetry, these memoirs are certainly one of

the most remarkable instances of calm self-possession and confidence

in a just cause that are to be met with in any time or country. Here

is a man, and prime minister of a captive sovereign, himself a

prisoner, who undertakes to write the history of the important events

in which he had played a most conspicuous part. He is closely watched,

and consequently obliged to write by fits and starts; he is deprived

of every source of documentary information, and consequently must

trust to his own memory. Will these hasty yet truthful sheets escape

his jailer's eye? He cannot tell. Will he ever recover his liberty, be

restored to his dear master's bosom and confidence? He cannot tell:

but nevertheless the great cardinal--for great he was universally

acknowledged--goes on bringing forth certain facts, known to himself

alone, and which throw more light on the true character of the first

Napoleon than the ponderous and garbled evidence of a Thiers, or even

the more trustworthy pages of M. Artaud, in his "Life of Pius VII."

Indeed, there are few comparisons of higher interest than to open

those two works at the parts which refer to the events narrated in

these memoirs. A labor of this kind, first originating in a spirit of

fair play, soon becomes a labor of love, so strong is the contrast

between the worldly, scheming, truckling, infidel historian of the

first empire, and the unassuming and conscientious, though bold and

resolute cardinal. One may safely say, that M. Thiers would have never

dreamt of bearding the headstrong Bonaparte, as Consalvi did on a

memorable occasion, which reminds us of those legates of old, who

daunted by their steady looks and unruffled patience the burly

violence of a Richard, or unveiled the cunning of a Frederic

Hohenstaufen.

At the very outset of these memoirs, the cardinal gives us their true

and solemn character. His last will, which accompanies them, and may

be considered as a sort of preface, contains the following lines:

"My heir and trustee, as well as those who may hereafter take charge

of my inheritance, are bound to bestow the greatest care on my

personal writings relative to the conclave held at Venice in 1799 and

1800; to the concordat of 1801; to the marriage of the Emperor

Napoleon with the Archduchess Maria Louisa of Austria; and, lastly, to

the papers on different periods of my life and ministry. These five

papers, some of which are nearly finished, and the others in course of

preparation, are not to be published before the death of those eminent

personages who are mentioned therein. In this way many disputes may be

avoided, for, though utterly unfounded, as my own writings rest on

truth alone, still {379} they might injure that very truth, and the

interests of the Holy See, to which I am desirous of leaving the means

of repelling any false attack published hereafter on these matters.

These memoirs on the conclave, the concordat of 1801, the marriage,

and the ministry, belonging more especially to the Holy Sec, and to

the pontifical government, my heir and trustee shall present them to

the reigning pontiff, and beseech the Holy Father to preserve them

carefully within the archives of the Vatican. They may be of use to

the Holy See on many occasions, but more particularly if any future

history be published of the events which form the object of the

present writings, or if it should become necessary to refute any false

statement. In regard to the memoirs concerning the different periods

of my own life, as the extinction of my family will leave behind me no

one directly interested in the following pages, they are to remain in

the hands of my heir and trustee, or in those of the successive

administrators of my fortune; or, again, they may be likewise handed

over to the archives of the Vatican, if they be deemed worthy of

preservation. My only desire is, that in case of the biography of the

cardinals being continued, my heir and executors shall cause these

memoirs to be known, so that nothing may be published contrary to

truth about myself; for I am ambitious of maintaining immaculate my

own reputation--a wish grounded on the prescriptions of Scripture. As

for the truth of the facts brought forward in my writings, I may make

bold to say, _Deus scit quia non mentior._"

Cardinal Consalvi was born at Rome, of a noble family, in 1757, and

was the eldest of five children, two of whom died at an early age. His

father bore the title of marquess, and his mother, the Marchioness

Claudia Carandini, was of Modenese origin.

The family itself, on the father's side, had sprung up in Tuscany at

Pisa, though not under the same name; but emigrated about a century

and a half ago to the Roman States, where it expanded, and gradually

grew into political, or rather ecclesiastical importance. Consalvi's

forefathers still, however, held in Tuscany some property, to which he

would have been entitled had he felt disposed to dispute the equity of

certain Leopoldine laws concerning trustees. But, with characteristic

disinterestedness the future cardinal never gave the matter a second

thought.

"I never felt (says he) a passion for riches; beside, my resources,

though far from opulent, were sufficient for a modest way of living,

thanks to the income arising out of the different offices which I held

successively. And thus being lifted, by Divine Providence, above

vanity and ambition, I never was tempted to prove that I was descended

from the Brunaccis and not from the Consalvis, whenever envy or

ignorance represented me as belonging to a stock unblessed with old

nobility. It would have been an easy matter to dispel these

imputations or errors. Being fully convinced that the best nobility

springs from the heart and from good deeds; knowing, likewise, that I

was a genuine Brunacci and not a Consalvi, I despised all such rumors.

. . . Nor did I alter my views when the high position which I

afterward attained afforded so many opportunities for putting an end

to those idle reports."

In the above passage we have already the whole man. During his long

and chequered life he never once exposed himself to the charge of

making his own fortune out of the numerous and even honorable

occasions which would have tempted a less exalted soul. It would be

useless to follow the young Consalvi through his course of studies,

which were brilliant, and partly gone through under the eye of

Cardinal York, the last of a fated race, who entertained for the

future minister an affectionate friendship that never cooled until his

death.

Hercules Consalvi had hardly finished his academical curriculum at

{380} Rome when he was called to the prelature, in 1783, as reporter

to the tribunal of the Curia. His talents and deep knowledge, though

so young, in canon and civil law, soon made him conspicuous among his

competitors. In 1786, the Pope Pius VI. appointed him _Ponente del

buono govemo_, a board, or congregation, charged with giving its

opinion on all municipal questions. This promotion was due to his

merit, but the cardinal himself confesses that it was a tardy one, not

on account of any neglect on the part of the pontifical government,

but merely because he did not avail himself of favorable

opportunities. "On the one hand," observes he, "my own disposition

never inclined to ask for favor, and still less to court the patronage

of those placed in high positions; whilst, on the other hand, I had

before my eyes, in such respects, the fine example of my own guardian,

the Cardinal Negroni. . . . He was wont to say, 'We never ought to ask

for anything; we must never flatter to obtain preferment; but manage

in such a way as to overcome every obstacle, through a most punctual

fulfilment of our duties, and the enjoyment of a sound reputation.' To

this piece of advice I strictly adhered through life." To those who

are so prone to malign the pomp and splendor of the Roman prelature,

it will be a matter of surprise to learn that at this very time the

only benefice conferred upon Consalvi amounted to the paltry stipend

of L12 a year.

The Pope, however, who seems to have been an excellent judge of true

merit, soon placed the young prelate at the head of the hospital of

San Michele, the largest and most important in Rome. The establishment

required a thorough reform; and Consalvi soon worked wonders, being

led on by his own innate ardor, and by a strong predilection for the

management of charitable institutions. But he had hardly realized his

intended labor of reformation, when he was superseded by another

prelate. Pius VI., in fact, did not wish Consalvi to wear out his

energies in the routine of administrative bureaucracy. The incident

which led to his promotion is so truly characteristic of both

personages, that we cannot refrain from a copious quotation:

"The sudden death of one of the _votanti di segnatura_, or Supreme

Court of Cassation, made a vacancy in that court. All my friends

engaged me not to lose a moment in applying for it. I did not yield

to their entreaties, nor, indeed, did the Pope allow me time for

that purpose. The above death had taken place on Maunday Thursday.

The very next morning, though it was Good Friday, and the sacred

services of the day were about to be solemnized; though all the

public offices were closed, according to custom, the Pope sent to

the Secretary of State an order to forward my immediate appointment

as _votanti di segnatura_. As soon as it arrived, I hastened to the

Pope to thank him. His Holiness was not in the habit of receiving

any one merely for the sake of hearing expressions of gratitude;

still less did I expect to be introduced on such a day, when the

Pope, after attending at the holy function, had retired to his

apartments, with a view of coming back for _Tenebra_, and was in

the very act of reciting Complin, which was to be followed by his

dinner.

"On learning that I was in the antechamber, where he had previously

given orders that I should not be sent away in case I should come,

he admitted me at once. After finishing Complin in my presence, he

addressed me so kindly that I shall remember his words as long as I

live. 'My dear Monsignor,' said he, 'you are well aware that we

receive no one merely to hear thanksgivings; and yet we have gone

against our usual custom, notwithstanding this busy day, and though

our dinner has just been served up, in order that we may have the

pleasure of making you the present communication. If you were not

included in the last promotion, it was {381} because we were obliged

to hand over to another the post really destined to yourself; and in

doing so we felt as much aggrieved as we are now delighted to offer

you immediately the vacant charge of _votanti di segnatura_. We do

it to show you the satisfaction which you afford us by your conduct,

We took you away from an administrative station merely to place you

on higher ground.'

"The Holy Father then added a few words concerning the opinion which

his kindness, and by no means my own merit, suggested to him

relatively to my future career. Indeed, the knowledge which I have

of myself would not allow me to transcribe those words. He then

continued as follows: 'What we now bestow upon you is really not

worth much, but I have nothing else for the present. Take it,

however, as a positive pledge of what I am disposed to do as soon as

an opportunity offers.'

"It is easy to understand that after such a speech, uttered in that

easy, affable, and yet majestic manner so peculiar to Pius VI., I

was at a loss for expressions to answer him. I could hardly stammer

out, that after the language he had just used about my

promotion--language showing that I had not incurred his disapproval

by my conduct at San Michele--my mind was quite at ease as to the

future. Indeed, I had no other ambition but to please him, and to

fulfil my duty in any station he might think fit to confer upon me.

"Here I was interrupted. 'I am satisfied--nay, highly

satisfied'--said the Pope, 'by your behavior at San Michele; but I

again say that I destine you to other purposes. What I promised

formerly was sincere, but still it was but empty words. This is

something matter of fact; not much, indeed, but yet better than

words. So don't refuse it; and now be off, for, you see, our dinner

is getting cold, and we must soon go back to chapel.'"

It would be doubtless congenial to our feelings to dwell upon these

touching details; but we are already in the year 1790, and the knell

of the old French monarchy is tolling. Let us plunge, therefore, at

once _in medias res_, and skip over the eight intervening years

between the time which saw Rome invaded by a revolutionary army, the

Pope torn from his throne, and led a prisoner, first to Florence, then

to Valence, where he was to die a martyr. On reading this part of the

memoirs, one is particularly struck with the similarity which it

presents with the history of Piedmontese invasion--the same hypocrisy,

the same attempts at provoking to insurrection the inhabitants at

Rome, and, these failing, the same recourse to violence. The

accidental death of General Duphot at last appears in its true colors,

but of course it supplied the Directory with a pretence for seizing

the Papal States, an act of spoliation it had been long preparing.

[Footnote 77] Thanks to the energy of Consalvi, to whom had been

entrusted the maintenance of public order, previous to the entry of

the French troops into the capital, no insurrection took place; but

for that very reason he was obnoxious to the government of the

invaders. After the Pope's departure he was thrown into prison, with

the prospect of being transported, together with many Roman

ecclesiastical and pontifical officers, to the fatal colony of

Cayenne. {382} To the honor of the French commander it must be said,

that he did all in his power to defend the energetic prelate against

his contemptible enemies, and to alleviate his captivity. The Paris

Directory had first banished him to Civita Vecchia, and then altered

his destination to Naples. But the Roman demagogues were determined

upon wreaking their vengeance on Consalvi:

[Footnote 77: As a proof of this, we may produce the secret

instructions forwarded, two months and a half before the general's

death and the Roman insurrection, by the French government to Joseph

Bonaparte, their plenipotentiary at Rome: "You have two things to

bear in mind: (1) To prevent the King of Naples from coming to Rome;

(2) To help, instead of opposing, the favorable dispositions of

those who believe that it is time for the Papal dominion to come to

an end. In short, you must encourage the impulse toward freedom by

which the people of Rome seems to be animated." Instructions like

these (observes, very justly, M. Cretineau-Joly) could have no other

object but to lay a diplomatical snare, or to provoke an

insurrection. The fact is so clear that Cacault, who succeeded to

Joseph Bonaparte at Rome, wrote in 1801 to the First Consul--"You

know, quite as well as I do, the details of this melancholy event.

Nobody in Rome ordered either to fire or to kill any one. General

Duphot was imprudent; nay, more--let us out with the word--he was

guilty. There is a law of nations at Rome not a whit less than

elsewhere." The admission does credit to the honest man who

contributed so largely to bring about the concordat of 1801.]

"I had been detained (says he) about four or five and twenty days,

when I was visited in my prison by my dear brother Andrea, as well as

by my two friends, the Princes Chigi and Teano. This piece of good

fortune I owed to the kind commander of the fortress. They informed me

that they were bearers of both good and bad news. I was at last to be

transported, not, indeed, to Tuscany, but to Naples, so that I might

not join the Pope. At the same time, it had been ordained that I was

to ride through the streets of the city mounted on an ass, escorted by

policemen, and lashed all along with a horsewhip. Many a window under

which I was to pass by was already hired; and our Jacobins, as well as

the wives of our consuls, promised themselves much pleasure at the

sight of this execution. My friends were quite amazed at my

indifference on receiving this last piece of news, which, indeed,

caused me but little pain; for I really considered it rather as a

source of triumph and glory. On the contrary, I was deeply vexed at

not being able to proceed to Tuscany, where I was so desirous of

meeting the Pope."

The humanity of the French general prevented the Roman demagogues from

carrying into execution the latter part of the sentence; but he

remained inflexible as to Consalvi's removal to Naples. The latter

had, therefore, but to obey; and started for his destination, in

company with a band of eighteen convicts, and several political

prisoners like himself. After many difficulties, arising out of

Acton's tortuous policy, he succeeded at length in reaching Leghorn,

where he had to encounter obstacles of a different nature. His very

first step was to proceed to Florence, in hopes that the Duke of

Tuscany would facilitate his access to the captive Pontiff, who was

detained in a neighboring Carthusian monastery. But the jealous

watchfulness of the French plenipotentiary struck terror into the

heart of the Tuscan minister, who peremptorily refused to have

anything to do with the matter. Consalvi was not, however, to be

daunted when on the path of duty; he consequently set out on foot for

the Chartreuse, situated at about three miles from Florence, and

contrived his visit so secretly that he baffled detection. On

approaching the foot of the hill, the faithful servant could hardly

repress his emotions. But let us hear him in his own words:

"Every step which brought me nearer to the Holy Father increased the

strong feelings that welled up from my soul. The poverty and

solitude of the place, the sight of the two or three unfortunates

who attended him, brought tears to my eyes. At last I was introduced

into his presence. O God! what were my emotions at that moment; my

heart throbbed almost to breaking!

"Pius VI. was seated before a table, a posture which concealed his

weakness, for he had almost lost the use of his legs, and he could

not move without the help of two strong men. The beauty and majesty

of his features were still the same as at Rome; he still inspired a

deep veneration and a most ardent attachment. I fell prostrate at

his feet, which I bathed with my tears; I told him the difficulties

I had to encounter, and how ardently I desired to remain with him,

in order to serve him, assist him--in fact, share his fate. I

promised not to spare any effort for the furtherance of this

object."

A full hour quickly fled in thus communing with each other, and

Consalvi was obliged to take his leave. The aged Pope foresaw that

this prop of {383} his declining and martyred life would not be

allowed him; but still he clung fondly to the idea, and when his

faithful adherent, on a second and last visit, admitted that he had

failed in every endeavor to gain his end, and had even been ordered

out of the country, Pius evinced a strong feeling of regret, though no

surprise. This farewell visit is related in terms no less touching

than the former:

"During this audience, which lasted also a full hour, he bestowed

upon me the greatest marks of kindness, exhorting me successively to

practise resignation, wisdom, and those acts of firmness of which

his own life and his whole demeanor set such a fine example. He

appeared to me quite as great, and even far greater, than when he

reigned at Rome. I besought him to give me his blessing. He laid his

hands on my head, and, like the most venerable among the patriarchs

of old, raising his eyes toward heaven, he prayed unto the Lord, and

blessed me, with an attitude so resigned, so august, so holy, so

full of real tenderness, that to the last day of my life the

remembrance will remain graven on my heart in indelible characters.

"When I retired, my eyes were swimming with tears; I was beside

myself with grief; and yet I felt both encouraged and re-assured by

the inexpressible calmness of my sovereign, and the sweet serenity

of his features. It was indeed the greatness of a good man

struggling against misfortune."

Four-and-twenty hours afterward, Consalvi was obliged to leave

Florence for Venice; the Pope was hurried through Alpine snows to

Valence, in Dauphine, where he died of his sufferings on the 29th of

August, 1799.

And what a time for the election of a new pope! Italy overrun by the

French revolutionary armies, Rome in their possession, and ruled by a

horde of incendiary demagogues; the Russians, headed by Suwarow,

pouring into the Peninsula to oppose the French; whilst Austria,

governed by a Thugut, was watching her opportunity to get hold of the

new Pope--if there should be a Pope--and make him the pliant tool of her

ambition. Nor let us forget that Bonaparte was on his way back from

Egypt, preparing to swoop down, eagle-like, on those very Austrian

possessions wherein the conclave was to meet. And yet the conclave _did_

meet at Venice, on an island of that famous republic, which had so

often defied the bans and interdicts of the Roman pontiffs;--the

cardinals hurried from their neighboring cities or secret abodes,

though with views and intentions not perhaps exactly in accordance

with the solemnity and urgency of the occasion. It is, indeed, a

curious picture of human passions, though blended with higher motives

and purposes,--that truthful memoir drawn up by Consalvi on the

conclave of 1800, wherein he was unanimously elected secretary to the

assembly. The election lasted more than three long months, on account

of the two contending factions, headed by Cardinal Herzan, on the part

of Austria, and by the celebrated Maury, then Bishop of Montefiascone

in the Papal States. Consalvi, notwithstanding his wonted moderation,

boldly proclaims these divisions to have been _scandalous_ in such

circumstances, and animadverts severely on the intrigues of the

imperial court. And yet he cannot help observing that, on such

occasions, the Sacred College seem led on, little by little, as it

were, by some higher power, to sacrifice their own private views and

interests to the common weal of Christendom. So it was, indeed, in the

present juncture, thanks to the extraordinary ability, to the

self-renouncement, prudence, and true Catholic spirit displayed

throughout by the youthful secretary. The votes were gradually won

over to Cardinal Chiaramonti, so well known afterward by the name of

Pius VII. Consalvi had truly displayed a master-mind; and the new

pontiff immediately showed how highly he appreciated his merit, by

appointing him Secretary of State. We can easily believe the surprise

and {384} alarm of the new minister; for doubtless his was no easy

task. The Austrians possessed nearly all the Papal States, whilst the

King of Naples held Rome itself. The court of Vienna, intent upon

keeping at least the three legations, which had recently been wrested

from the French, offered at the same time to restore to the Pope the

remaining parts of his dominions. To such a proposal the latter could

but oppose a flat denial, accompanied by a firm resolution to return

to Rome without delay. The imperial negotiator, Ghislieri, then

reduced his demands to the two legations of Bologna and Ferrara; but

he met with no better success. The spoliation of the Holy See, as the

reader may now perceive, is after all an old story. The Pope, indeed,

went so far as to write to the emperor a letter, in which he formally

demanded the restitution of all his provinces. No notice whatsoever

was taken of the Papal missive. At last, utterly worn out by Austrian

duplicity, Pius one day addressed Ghislieri in the following terms:

"Since the emperor refuses obstinately a restitution, which both

religion and equity require, I really do not see what new argument I

can produce to convince him. Let his majesty take care, however, not

to lay by in his wardrobe any clothes belonging, not to himself, but

to the Church. For not only will his majesty be unable to wear them,

but most probably they will pester with the grub his own hereditary

dominions, which may be worm-eaten in a short time."

The Marquess Ghislieri hurried out of the Papal presence in a rage,

which found vent when he met Consalvi. "The new Pope," he exclaimed,

"has hardly donned his own clothes; he is not yet accustomed to his

own craft, and he talks of the Austrian wardrobe being worm-eaten! He

knows but little of our power; it would require thousands of moths to

nibble it to dust." Two months after, the battle of Marengo had been

fought and won: the legations, Lombardy, Venetia, the hereditary

German states, the capital itself, had fallen a prey to the Corsican

conqueror! Pius VII. had scarcely set his foot on the shore of his own

dominions when the news of the famous defeat arrived: "Ah!" exclaimed

Ghislieri, a religious man, after all, "I now see fulfilled the Pope's

prediction: our wardrobe has truly been worm-eaten to tatters."

Pius VII. had but just returned to Rome, in the midst of a delighted

and grateful population, when he received the astounding news that the

conqueror of the Austrians was desirous of negotiating with the Holy

See for the restoration of religion in France. Whilst at Vercelli,

Bonaparte had met with Cardinal Martiniana, who was returning from the

conclave at Venice; and he expressed himself so clearly, so pointedly,

as to his future plans, that both Consalvi and the Pope were taken by

surprise. Their approbation was immediately given, and the Pope

himself wrote to Martiniana: "You may tell the First Consul that we

will readily enter into a negotiation tending to an object so truly

honorable, so congenial to our apostolical administration, and so

thoroughly conformable to our own views."

The history of this celebrated treaty, on which so much hangs in

France even in our own time, has been often related, and yet many a

detail of the intricate negotiations which preceded its conclusion had

remained secret until the publication of the present memoirs. Three

personages stand out in strong relief on that occasion, each with his

individual character: Cacault, the French ambassador at Rome,

Bonaparte, and Consalvi himself. Of the second, little need be said;

but M. Cacault is, we believe, hardly known in England. He was a

Breton by birth, and, as such, had imbibed those religious feelings

which stamp so strongly the most western province of France. As a

republican representative of the Directory, he did all in his power to

avert from the Papal See those evils and that invasion which {385}

ended in the captivity of Pius VI. When Napoleon's star was in the

ascendant, M. Cacault quickly discovered the depth and extent of his

genius, and thenceforward abetted his plans. At the same time, he was

by no means a flatterer, but ever plain-spoken to bluntness. A time

came, indeed, when the greatest conqueror of modern times found the

noble-hearted Breton rather too sincere, and consigned him to the

peaceful life of a seat in his new-fangled senate. But that day was

yet to come. In 1801, M. Cacault enjoyed the whole confidence of the

First Consul.

On leaving Bonaparte, the ambassador heard him utter those famous

words, which have been so often quoted: "Mind you treat the Pope as if

he had 200,000 men at his back. Remember, also, that in October, 1796,

I wrote to you how much I wished to save the Holy See, not to

overthrow it, and that both you and I entertained the same feelings in

this respect." With credentials like these, M. Cacault should have

found it an easy matter to negotiate with Rome; but, singularly

enough, the conservative government of Austria threw many an obstacle

in the way. The very idea of a reconciliation between revolutionary

France and the Papacy seems to have disquieted M. de Thugut, and he

did all in his power to breed a feeling of distrust, on the part of

Rome at least. The court of Naples was animated by the same policy;

and even Bonaparte himself, at one time, appeared to waver between the

impulse of his own good sense and the suggestions of his infidel

advisers. In the eyes of M. Cacault, the Pope stood too much on

theological tenets and opinions, when dealing with a victorious

adventurer. At any rate, matters soon grew from bad to worse. In a fit

of impatience, the consul ordered his ambassador to leave Rome in five

days, if the concordat sent from Paris was not signed at the

expiration of that short time.

At this critical juncture, the Breton came to a determination so truly

characteristic of the man, that we must allow him to speak for

himself. We borrow the following narrative from his secretary, M.

Artaud:

"We are bound to obey our government," said he, addressing himself to

me; "but then a government must be guided by a head capable of

understanding negotiations, by ministers capable of advising him

properly, and lastly, all must agree together. Every government ought

to have a plan, a will, an aim of its own. But this is no easy matter

with a new government. Now, though in a secondary station, I am really

master of this business; but if we go on in Rome as they are going on

in Paris, nothing can come out of it but a sort of chaos. .... It is

fully understood that the head of the state wished for a concordat; he

wished for it so far back as Tolentino, and even before, when he

called himself _the best friend of the Pope_.... In fact, he has sent

me here to negotiate a concordat, and for that purpose has given me in

yourself the prop I myself desired. But then his ministers probably

don't wish for a concordat, and they have constant access to his ear.

Now the character most easy to irritate and to deceive, is that of a

warrior, who as yet understands nothing about politics, and is ever

returning to military orders and to the sword.... Shall we, like two

fools, leave Rome in this way because the despatch orders us to do so,

and give up France to _irreligiosity_--a word no less barbarous than

the thing itself? Shall we leave her to a sort of spurious

Catholicism, or that hybrid system which advises the establishment of

a patriarch? God knows, then, that the future destinies of the First

Consul will probably never be fulfilled....

"I am fond of Bonaparte, fond of the general; but this patch-work name

of a First Consul is in itself ridiculous; he borrowed it from Rome,

where he has never set his foot. But in my eyes he is still nothing

more than an {386} Italian general. As for the fate of this terrible

general, it is now in my hands more than in his own; he is turning

into a sort of Henry the Eighth, flattering and scaring the Holy See

by turns; but how many sources of true glory will be dried up for him,

if he merely mimics Henry the Eighth! The measure is full; nations

now-a-days will not allow their rulers to dispose of them in regard to

religious matters. With concordats, on the contrary, miracles may be

wrought, more especially by him, or if not by him, supposing him to be

unwise, by France herself. Be sure, my dear sir, that great deeds

brought about at the proper moment, and bearing fruitful results, no

matter by what genius they are accomplished, are a wealthy dowry for

any country. In case of embarrassments, that country may ward off many

an attack by pointing to its history. France, with all her faults,

requires true grandeur. Our consul jeopardizes all by this pistol-shot

fired in time of peace, merely for the sake of pleasing his generals

whom he loves, but whose soldierlike jokes he fears, because he

himself now and then gives way to them. He thus breaks off a

negotiation which he wishes to succeed, and goes on casting rotten

seed. What can really be a religious concordat, that most solemn of

all human undertakings, if it is to be signed in five days? It reminds

one of the twelve hours granted by a general to a besieged town, which

can hope for no succor."

The result of the above conversation on the part of M. Cacault was a

determination to quit Rome, but to leave his secretary in that city,

whilst Consalvi himself was to set out immediately for Paris, as the

only means of preventing a positive rupture between the two courts,

for Bonaparte had already both a court and courtiers. The French

minister was by no means blind to the consequences of his boldness in

undertaking to correct the false steps of his own government; but, to

his credit be it said, the fear of those consequences did not make him

swerve one minute from his purpose. His very first step was,

therefore, to request an interview with Consalvi, and an audience from

the Pope. On meeting the cardinal, he began by reading_ in extenso_

the angry despatch which he had received, not even omitting the

epithets _"turbulent and guilty priest"_ which the Consul applied to

his eminence. M. Cacault then resumed as follows:

"There must be some misunderstanding; the First Consul is

unacquainted with your person, and still more with your talents,

your ability, your precedents, your adroitness, and your anxiety to

terminate this business. So you must start for Paris." "When?"

"To-morrow: you will please him; you are fit to understand each

other; he will then learn to know a statesmanlike cardinal, and you

will draw up the concordat together. But if you don't go to Paris, I

shall be obliged to break off all intercourse with you; and there

are yonder certain ministers, who advised the Directory to transport

Pius VI. to Guyana....

"I again repeat it, you must go to Paris, you will draw up the

concordat yourself--nay more, you will dictate a part of it,

obtaining at the same time far better conditions than I could ever

do, fettered as I am by so many shackles.... One word more: In a

place like this, where there is so much gossipping, I can't allow

you to bear alone the responsibility of this action. I consider it

as something truly grand; but as it may turn out a false step,

to-morrow I must see the Pope, and take the whole upon my shoulders.

I shall not bore the Pope, having but a few words to tell him, in

order to fulfil the Consul's former instructions."

Consalvi, fired at the boldness of the plan, hurried to the Pope,

rather to prepare him for this unforeseen separation than to ask for

permission. When, on the other hand, the French diplomatist was

admitted to his presence, {387} he showed so much candor, such a true

spirit of Christian feeling, such a total forgetfulness of self, that

the pontiff could not refrain from shedding tears, and ended by

breaking out into these words: "Indeed, indeed, you are a true friend,

and we love you as we loved our own mother. At this very moment, we

will retire to our oratory, in order to implore God's blessing on this

journey, as well as for the successful issue of an undertaking, which

may afford us some consolation in the midst of so much affliction."

It was indeed a bereavement for the Pope, who, having hardly ascended

the throne, was accustomed to consider Consalvi as his main prop and

right hand in every affair of any importance. He, however, readily

consented to the separation, and on the following day the cardinal

left Rome, accompanied by M. Cacault, in an open carriage, to show the

gossipping Romans that no real coolness existed between the two

governments. This, in fact, strengthened the hands of the Papal

administration, as reports were already rife that a French army was

about to march once more into Rome, with a view of restoring the

republic.

At the distance of more than half a century Consalvi's determination

scarcely seems an act of daring; but, at that period, it was

considered in a different light. We must remember that France had been

for ten long years the scene of anarchy and bloodshed within, while

she had proved the terror of Europe on the field of battle. She was

but just emerging from that anarchy, thanks to the iron grasp of a

fortunate soldier, who might yet, for aught the world knew, turn out

to be a bloody tyrant quite as well as a sagacious ruler. For a

priest, and still more for a cardinal, to venture alone of his own

accord into the lair of those beasts of prey, as they were then

termed, certainly showed an extraordinary degree of moral courage,

however M. Thiers may taunt Consalvi with his fears. Those fears the

Papal minister _did_ really entertain, as is proved by a few unwary

lines which he addressed before his departure to Acton at Naples, and

which were betrayed to Bonaparte in Paris. But then the cardinal,

prompted by a strong feeling of duty, overcame these apprehensions,

which is more perhaps than M. Thiers would vouch to have done on a

similar occasion, if we may judge from the infidel spirit and

intriguing disposition that are conspicuous alike throughout his own

career and writings. Success, not principle, ever appears to be his

leading star.

Once in Paris, Consalvi was not long in conquering that position which

the keenness of his friend Cacault foresaw that he was destined to

assume. Bonaparte approved in every respect the conduct of his

ambassador at Rome, appeared even flattered at being feared, at first

received the cardinal with affected coolness, but little by little

yielded to better feelings, and ended by turning into ridicule "that

fool Acton, who thought that he could stop the rush of a torrent with

cobwebs." To these friendly dispositions soon succeeded on both sides

a sincere confidence, and on one occasion the First Consul laughingly

inquired of Consalvi whether he was not considered as a _priest-eater_

in Italy; and then suddenly launched into one of those splendid

expositions of his future plans, by which he endeavored to fascinate

and charm those he aimed at winning over to his own views. In this

sparkling conversation the concordat held a foremost place. Napoleon

developed, just as he pleased, opinions half Protestant, half

Jansenist--in other words, exactly what he wanted the concordat to be,

and exactly what Consalvi could not allow. The contest between those

two rival spirits may well detain us a few moments longer. And why not

say at once that by degrees the master-genius of the age was obliged

to modify his own views, yielding, _nolens volens_, as he himself

admitted, to the graceful bearing and sound good sense of the man

whose countrymen had named him the Roman Syren?

{388}

We may gather from M. Thiers' work that Consalvi had undertaken a most

arduous task. Paris itself must have offered a strange sight to a

Roman cardinal in the very first year of the present century. The

churches were still shut, and bore upon their porches such

inscriptions as savored more of heathenism than of Christianity.

Wherever the legate's eye fell he was sure to meet with a temple of

plenty, of fraternity, of liberty, of trade, of abundance, and so

forth. And then when he went to court he found a ruler disposed to

break out into the most violent fits of anger if his will was

disputed, whilst on every hand he had to encounter a host of scoffers

and infidels, belonging to every hue and grade. The army, the bench,

the schools, the _savants_, and the very clergy, all vied in showing off

Rome as the hotbed of an obsolete superstition which it was high time

to do away with altogether. And when we mention the clergy, we mean

the remains of that schismatic body which had hailed the civil

constitution so formally condemned by the Holy See in 1791. They were

active, intriguing, influential, and had the ear of Bonaparte himself.

He was intent upon distributing among them a portion of the new sees

about to be erected, and it required all the firmness of Consalvi to

ward off this impending danger. If we may believe M. Thiers, many

among them were by no means of dissolute lives; yet he cannot disguise

the fact that they were ambitious, servile, and disposed to bend to

every caprice of the ruling power. But that power was fully aware that

the French population had no confidence whatever in their

ministrations; the non-jurors, or priests who had unflinchingly

remained faithful to their duty, were, on the contrary, sought out and

held in high esteem. In this strange society the functions of

Catholicism and the rites of our religion were openly resumed by

believers, who attended them in back streets, in by-ways, in dark

warehouses, whither some aged priest repaired at dawn, after escaping

but shortly before from the dungeons of the Directory or the scaffolds

of the Revolutionary Committee. The writer of these lines has known

more than one man who was baptized at that period in a miserable

garret by some ecclesiastic disguised as a common laborer, before the

eyes of his parents, though without any sponsors, for fear of

detection. That such men should turn round in the streets of Paris and

stare with wonder at the sight of a cardinal publicly making for the

Tuileries in one of the Consul's carriages is by no means surprising;

but the fact increases our admiration for the two eminent statesmen

who both cast such a firm glance into the depths of futurity.

Consalvi had only been a few hours in Paris when he was summoned

before the First Consul, who sent him word that "he was to show off as

much of a cardinal as possible." The able diplomatist was, however,

not in the least disposed to "show off," and contented himself with

wearing the indispensable insignia of his dignity. It will be well to

remember that, at the time we are speaking of, no priest would have

ventured to put on the clerical costume in the French capital. This

first audience took place in public, in the midst of all the high

functionaries of the state. On the cardinal approaching, Bonaparte

rose and said abruptly: "I am aware of the object of your journey to

France. My will is, that the conferences shall begin immediately. I

give you five days for the purpose, and tell you beforehand that, if

on the fifth day the negotiations have not come to a conclusion, you

may return to Rome; for, within my own mind, I have come to a

determination should such an event take place."

"By sending his prime minister to Paris (replied coolly the cardinal)

His Holiness proves at any rate the interest he takes in the

conclusion of a concordat with the French government, and I fully hope

to terminate this business in the time you have marked." {389}

Apparently satisfied with this answer, Bonaparte immediately broke

forth into one of those eloquent displays for which he was

remarkable--the concordat, the Holy See, the interests of religion,

the articles which had been rejected by the Pope, all became, on his

part, the subject of a most vehement and exhaustive speech, which was

silently listened to by the surrounding audience.

One of the most amusing and almost ludicrous instances of the Consul's

ignorance in regard to religious matters took place on this occasion.

He bore a bitter hatred to the Jesuits, and was constantly harping on

the subject. "I am quite astounded and scandalized (said he all of a

sudden) that the Pope should be allied to a non-Catholic power like

Russia, as is evident by the restoration of the Jesuits in that

country. Such a union ought surely to wound and irritate a Catholic

sovereign, since it contributes to please a schismatical monarch."

"I must answer candidly (resumed the cardinal) that your informations

are incorrect on this matter. Doubtless the Pope has deemed it

advisable not to refuse the request of the Russian emperor for the

restoration of the Jesuits in his own states, but, at the same time,

His Holiness has shown no less fatherly affection and deference for

the King of Spain, since an interval of several months has elapsed

between Paul's request and the bull, which was not sent before the

court of Spain had expressly stated that it would in no way complain

of the act."

When Bonaparte had fixed such a short term for the conclusion of the

concordat, he fully intended that not a single jot of his own plan

should be rejected by Rome. That plan, as we have already observed,

was half schismatic, and would have bound over the French Church to

the supreme will and power of the ruling government. But Consalvi

showed himself equally firm as to essentials, whilst he gracefully

yielded to every demand of minor importance. As to the wisdom of this

conduct, the present circumstances bear ample testimony; for, had the

cardinal been less firm, what might not be in 1865 the painful

situation of the French episcopacy? But the negotiations, instead of

ending in five days, were prolonged for more than three weeks, during

which the Abbe Bernier, who represented his government, was constantly

starting new difficulties, and threatening Consalvi with some new

outbreak of violence on the part of the First Consul.

At last, toward the middle of July, every difficulty being overcome,

and Bonaparte having formally promised to accept every article of the

concordat as it had been agreed to at Rome, nothing remained but to

copy and sign that famous treaty. The First Consul was to give a grand

dinner on the 14th of July to foreigners of distinction, and to men of

high standing in the country. His intention was to inform publicly his

guests of this happy event, and on the 13th the _Moniteur_ published

the following laconic piece of news: "Cardinal Consalvi has succeeded

in the object which brought him to Paris." Bonaparte had selected his

brother Joseph, a councillor of state, and Bernier to sign the deed,

whilst on the other side were Consalvi, Monsignor Spina, and a

theologian named Father Caselli. But at the last moment there occurred

one of the most astounding incidents contained in the history of

diplomacy. As it has never been mentioned in any memoirs or documents

of those times, we cannot do better than let the cardinal relate it in

his own words:

"Toward four o'clock in the afternoon, Bernier arrived with a roll of

paper, which he did not unfold, but stated to be a copy of the

concordat that we were about to sign. We took our own with us, and set

out all together for the house of citizen Joseph, as was the slang of

the day, the brother to the First Consul. He received me with the

utmost politeness. Though he had been ambassador at Rome, I had not

been introduced to him, being yet but {390} a prelate. During the few

days I passed in Paris, I had not met him on a formal visit which I

paid him, for he often resided in the country. This was, therefore,

the first time we saw each other. After the usual compliments, he bade

us to sit down round a table, adding: 'We shall have soon done, having

but to sign the compact, as all is concluded.'