"On being seated round the table, the question arose who should sign

first. Joseph Bonaparte claimed the right as brother to the head of

the government. I observed with great mildness and firmness, that both

as a cardinal and a legate of the Holy See, I could not consent to

assume the second rank in signing; beside, under the old _regime_ in

France, as well as everywhere else, the cardinals enjoyed a right of

precedence, which I could not give up, not indeed from any personal

motive, but on account of the dignity with which I was invested. It is

but due to Joseph to state, that after a momentary hesitation, he

yielded with very good grace, and begged of me to sign first. He

himself was to come after, followed by the prelate Spina, Councillor

Cretet, Father Caselli, and the Abbe Bernier.

"We set to work at once, and I had taken up the pen, when to my great

surprise the Abbe Bernier presented to me his copy, with the view of

making me sign it without examining its contents. On casting my eyes

upon it in order to ascertain its identity with my own copy, I

perceived that this ecclesiastical treaty was not the one agreed to by

the respective commissioners, not the one adopted by the First Consul

himself, but another totally different! The difference existing at the

very first outset induced me to examine the whole with the most

scrupulous attention, and I soon found out that this copy contained

the draught which the Pope had refused to accept without his

correction, the very refusal that had provoked an order to the French

agent to leave Rome; nay more, that this self-same draught was

modified in many respects by the insertion of certain clauses,

previously declared to be inacceptable even before it had been sent to

Rome.

"A proceeding of this character, so truly incredible, and yet so real,

which I shall not venture to qualify--for the fact speaks sufficiently

for itself--a proceeding of this kind literally paralyzed my hand. I

expressed my astonishment, declaring positively that on no condition

could I give my approval to such a deed. The First Consul's brother

did not appear less surprised than myself, pretending not to

understand the matter. The First Consul, he added, had assured him

that, everything being agreed to, nothing remained but to sign. As for

himself, he had just come up from the country, where he was busy with

Count Cobenzel about the affairs of Austria, being called upon merely

for the formality of signing the treaty. Concerning the matter itself,

he absolutely knew nothing about it."

Cardinal Consalvi, even when writing the above lines, does not seem to

doubt Joseph's sincerity, nor that of Councillor Cretet, who affirmed

his own innocence in terms equally strong. The latter could hardly

believe his own eyes, when the legate pointed out to him the glaring

discrepancies between both copies. The Pope's minister then turning

suddenly to Bernier: "Nobody better than yourself," said he, "can

attest the truth of what I affirm; I am highly astonished at the

studied silence which you maintain, and I must therefore call upon you

positively to communicate to us what you must know so pertinently."

"Then, with an air of confusion and an embarrassed countenance, he

faltered out that doubtless my language was but too true, and that he

would not deny the difference of the documents now proposed for our

signatures. 'But the First Consul has so ordained,' continued he,

'telling me that as long as no signature has been given, one is always

at liberty to make any alteration. So he requires these alterations,

{391} after duly considering the whole matter, he is not satisfied

with the previous stipulations.'"

The doctrine was so contrary to all precedents, that Consalvi had no

difficulty in convincing his auditors of its futility. He moreover

maintained his ground steadfastly, and refused to make any further

concession contrary to his duties. They cajoled him, they threatened

him with the violence and "fury" of the omnipotent Consul; he remained

unshaken. Joseph entreated him at least to go over the same ground

once more, following the Papal copy, and to this the cardinal

consented, firmly resolved not to give up one single point of

importance, but to modify such expressions as might induce Bonaparte

to accept the original treaty. So these six men sat down again at five

o'clock in the afternoon to discuss the whole question. The discussion

was laborious, precise, searching, and heated on both sides. It lasted

nineteen long hours, without interruption, without rest, without food,

without even sending away the servants or the carriages, as will often

happen when people hope to conclude at every minute some important

business. On one article alone they could never agree, and it was

specially reserved to the Pope's own decision. It was twelve o'clock

the next day before they came to a conclusion. But would the First

Consul adopt this plan? Would he not break all bounds, on finding his

duplicity discovered, and himself balked by the cardinal's firmness?

Joseph hurried to the Tuileries, in order to lay the whole before his

imperious brother, and in less than one hour came back, his features

evidently showing the grief of his soul. Says Consalvi:

"He told us that the First Consul had broken forth into the greatest

fury on being apprised of what had taken place. In his fit of anger he

had torn to pieces the concordat we had drawn up among us; but at

last, yielding to Joseph's entreaties and arguments, he had promised,

though with the most extreme repugnance, to accept every article we

had agreed to, except the one we had reserved, and about which he was

no less inflexible than irritated. The First Consul, added Joseph, had

closed the interview by telling him to inform me that he (Bonaparte)

was decided upon maintaining this article as it was expressed in

Bernier's copy:--consequently I had but two ways before me: either to

adopt this article just as it was in the concordat, or to give up the

negotiations. As for him, he had made up his mind to announce either

the signature or the rupture of the affair at the grand dinner he was

to give on that day.

"The reader will easily imagine our consternation at this message. We

had yet three hours until five o'clock, the time appointed for the

dinner, at which we were all to attend. I really am unable to repeat

all the Consul's brother and the two other commissioners said, to

conquer my resistance. The picture of the consequences likely to ensue

upon the rupture was indeed of the darkest color; they gave me to

understand that I alone should become responsible for those evils in

the face of France and Europe, as well as to my own sovereign and

Rome. I should be accused of an unreasonable stiffness, and of having

brought on the results of such a refusal. I felt a death-like anguish,

on conjuring up before my eyes the realization of these prophecies,

and I was--if I may be allowed such words--like unto the man of

sorrow. But my duty won the victory: thanks to heaven, I did not

betray it. I persisted in my refusal during the two hours of this

contest, and the negotiation was broken off.

"Such was the ending of this sad debate, which had lasted

four-and-twenty hours, having begun at four o'clock on the preceding

day, and closed toward the same hour of this unfortunate one. Our

bodily sufferings were doubtless very great, but they were nothing

when compared to our moral anxiety, which rose to such a pitch that

one must really have undergone {392} such tortures to form an idea of

them.

"I was condemned--and this was indeed a most cruel circumstance at

such a moment--to appear in an hour after at the famous banquet. I was

bound to front in public the very first shock of that headstrong anger

which the General Bonaparte would feel on being apprised by his

brother of the rupture.

"We hastened back to our hotel, in order to make a few rapid

preparations, and then hurried all three to the Tuileries. We had

hardly entered the saloon where the First Consul was standing--a

saloon filled with a crowd of magistrates, officers, state grandees,

ministers, ambassadors, and illustrious foreigners, who had been

invited to the dinner--when we were greeted in a way which may easily

be imagined, as he had already seen his brother. As soon as he

perceived me, he exclaimed, his face flushed with anger, and in a loud

and indignant tone:

"'Well, Monsieur le Cardinal, you have had your fling; you have broken

off: be it so! I don't stand in need of Rome. I will act for myself. I

don't stand in need of the Pope. If Henry the Eighth, who had not

one-twentieth part of my power, was enabled to change the religion of

his country, and to succeed in his plans, far better shall I know how

to do it, and to will it. By changing the religion in France, I shall

change it throughout the best part of Europe--everywhere, in fact,

where my power is felt. Rome will soon perceive her own faults; she

will rue them, but it will then be too late. You may take your leave;

it is the best thing you can do. You have willed a rupture: be it so!

When do you intend setting out?'

"'After dinner, general,' replied I, with the greatest calmness.

"These few words acted as an electric shock on the First Consul. He

stared at me for a few minutes; and, taking advantage of his surprise,

I replied to his vehement outbreak, that I neither could nor would go

beyond my instructions on matters which were positively opposed to the

maxims of the Holy See."

Here the Consul interrupted Consalvi, though in a milder tone, to tell

him that he insisted upon having the concordat signed according to his

own views, or not at all. "Well, then," retorted the cardinal, "in

that form I neither shall nor will ever subscribe to it; no--never."

"And that is the very reason," cried out Bonaparte, "why I tell you

that you are bent upon breaking off, and why Rome will shed tears of

blood on this rupture."

What a scene! and how finely the bold, calm demeanor of the Pope's

legate shows in strong relief against that dark, passionate, and

ominous, though intelligent face of Napoleon Bonaparte! What a

splendid subject for a painter, and how it calls up at once to our

mind those barbaric chieftains of old, fit enough to wield the

sword--fit enough even to lay the snares of a savage, but unable to

cope with the spiritual strength of a Christian bishop, and utterly

cowed by the meek sedateness of some missionary monk, just wafted over

from the shores of Ireland! Write the seventh, or the thirteenth,

instead of the nineteenth century, and say if the incident would be

clothed in different colors; for, in fact, what was Bonaparte himself

but the Hohenstaufen of his age--a strange mixture of real grandeur,

of seething passions, and of mean, crafty, fox-like cunning?

The French editor of these memoirs very justly observes that some

vestige of the above scene must still exist in the documents of the

Imperial archives, and expresses the wish that the charge of duplicity

so terribly brought home to the first Bonaparte may be properly sifted

and repelled. Of the existence of such information we have scarcely

any doubt, but we hardly believe that the select committee, headed by

Prince Napoleon, who have already so unscrupulously tampered with

{393} the correspondence of the great founder of the present dynasty,

will ever rebut the accusation, or even take notice of the narrative.

And yet it bears the stamp of truth in every line, so prone was

Napoleon to those fits of anger, which he sometimes used, Thiers

himself admits it, as tools for his policy, and to serve his end.

After all, the First Consul was glad to escape from the consequences

of his own violence, since, on the personal interference of the

Austrian ambassador, he again consented that the conferences should be

renewed. The two cardinal points on which, in the eyes of Rome, the

whole fabric of the concordat rested, were the freedom and publicity

of the Catholic worship. Without these two essential conditions, the

Pope and his ministers deemed that the Church obtained no compensation

for the numerous sacrifices which she consented to undergo in other

respects. The French government, on the contrary, admitted that

freedom and publicity, only so far as they were allowed to other forms

of worship, and saddled the article with the following rider: "The

public worship shall be free, as long as it conforms to the police

regulations." Such was the final difficulty against which Consalvi

maintained a most obstinate opposition, and it must be admitted that

his grounds were of a very serious nature. Taught by the experience of

other times and countries, he considered the obnoxious condition as a

bold attempt to enslave the Church by subjecting her to the secular

power. On the flimsy pretext of acting as the protector and defender

of the Church, a government was enabled to lord it over her, and

cripple her best endeavors for the fulfilment of her divine mission.

If such had been the case, even under the old French monarchy,

notwithstanding the strong Catholic dispositions of the Bourbon

sovereigns in general, as well as in the times of a Joseph II. and a

Leopold of Tuscany, what greater changes were to be feared on the part

of the revolutionary powers, which now swayed over France? The

cardinal readily admitted that, in the present state of the country,

it might be proper for the government to restrict on certain occasions

the publicity of the Catholic worship, for the very sake of protecting

its followers against the outbreaks of popular frenzy; but why lay

down such a sweeping and such an elastic rule? "With a clause of this

kind," said the legate, "the police, or rather the government, will be

enabled to lay their hands on everything, and may subject all to their

own will and discretion, whilst the Church, constantly fettered by the

words, 'As long as it conforms,' will have no right even to complain."

To these arguments the Consul constantly replied, "Well, if the Pope

can't accept such an indefinite and mild restriction, let him omit the

article, and give up publicity of worship altogether." As a curious

specimen of sincerity and candor, we must observe that Consalvi was

not even allowed to consult with his own court, nor to send a courier,

the French government refusing to supply him with the necessary

passports. So much for the international privileges of ambassadors.

Who can be astonished that the Papal minister should feel but little

confidence in the good faith of those he had to deal with?

Their attitude, indeed, seems to have strengthened his own unbending

firmness. In the course of these everlasting debates, he clenched the

subject in the following terms: "Either you are sincere in maintaining

that the government is obliged to impose a restriction upon the

publicity of the religious worship, being impelled thereunto by the

necessity of upholding the public peace and order, and in that case

the government cannot and ought not to hesitate as to asserting the

fact in the article itself; or the government does not wish it to be

so expressed; and in that case they show their bad faith, as also that

the only object of the aforesaid restriction is {394} the enslavement

of the Church to their own will."

The commissioners found nothing to reply to this dilemma; for, in

fact, Consalvi only asked that the reserve itself should be laid down

as a temporary restriction. At last they yielded, despairing of ever

overcoming, on this subject, their unflinching and powerful

antagonist. The concordat, duly signed and authenticated, was sent up

for approval to the First Consul, who, after another fit of anger,

gave his consent; but, as Consalvi himself presumes, from that hour he

resolved to annul the intrinsic and most beneficial effects of the

concordat by those celebrated organic articles which are even at this

moment a bone of contention between the French clergy and the Imperial

government.

It is, indeed, a most remarkable fact that the same man who

imperiously prescribed that the concordat should be drawn up and

signed in the course of five days, allowed a full year to elapse

before he published it and sent the official ratifications to Rome.

When he did fulfil these formalities, he coupled them with the

promulgation of those famous laws which, in reality, tended to cut off

all free communication between the Holy See and the Gallican clergy,

and to spread throughout Europe the false belief that the Pope himself

had concurred in the adoption of these obnoxious measures. In vain did

Pius VII. protest against them--in vain, at a later period, was he

induced to crown the emperor in Paris, in hopes of obtaining the

fulfilment of his own promises. Napoleon turned a deaf ear to the most

touching importunities. On considering the whole of his conduct, it is

hardly possible to refrain from concluding that Bonaparte ever looked

upon the Pope's supremacy and power as an appendage and satellite of

his own paramount omnipotence. Viewed by this light, many of his acts

in latter years will appear at least consistent, though by no means

justifiable on any principle whatsoever. Is there not often a certain

consistency in madness? And if so in ordinary life, why not in the

freaks and starts of despotism? And again, is not despotism itself

madness in disguise?

But why indulge in our own speculations and surmises, when we have

before us positive evidence that in 1801, as well as ten years

afterward, Napoleon entertained and maintained a plan for arrogating

to himself both the spiritual and temporal power? The examples set by

Henry VIII., Albert of Brandenburg, and Peter I. of Russia, were ever

before his eyes, blinding his own innate good sense, and exerting a

sort of ominous fascination over his best impulses. The reader has

doubtless heard of, if not perused, those wonderful pages in which the

fallen giant whiled away his tedious hours at St. Helena, pretending

to write his own history, but in reality veiling truth under fiction,

and endeavoring to palm upon the world certain far-fetched views of

benevolence or civilization, which he never dreamt of whilst he was on

the throne. Still, that strange _Memorial of St. Helena_ often

contains many a startling proof of candor, as if the mask suddenly

fell, and revealed to our astonished gaze the inner man. Among such

passages, none perhaps are so remarkable as those referring to the

concordat and to the religious difficulties of later years. One day

Napoleon dictated to General Montholon these lines, which so strongly

justify Consalvi's fears and opposition:

"When I seized the helm, I already held the most precise and definite

ideas on all those principles which cement together the social body. I

fully weighed the importance of religion--on that head I was

convinced--and had resolved to restore it. But one can hardly realize

the difficulties I had to contend with when about to bring back

Catholicism. I should have been readily supported had I unfurled the

Protestant standard. This feeling went so far that, in the {395}

council of state, where I met with the strongest opposition against

the concordat, many a man tacitly determined to plot its destruction.

'Well,' used they to say, 'let us turn Protestants at once, and then

we may wash our hands of the business.' It is, indeed, quite true

that, in the midst of so much confusion and so many errors, I was at

liberty to choose between Catholicism and Protestantism; and still

truer that everything favored the latter. But, _beside_ my own personal

bias inclining toward my national religion, I had most weighty reasons

to decide otherwise. I should thus have created in France two great

parties of equal strength, though I was determined to do away with

every party whatsoever; I should have conjured up all the frenzy of

religious warfare, whilst the enlightenment of the age and my own will

aimed at crushing it altogether. By their mutual strife these two

parties would have torn France asunder, and made her a slave to

Europe, whilst my ambition was to make her its mistress. Through

Catholicism I was far surer of attaining all my great objects. At

home, the majority absorbed the minority, which I was disposed to

treat with so much equity that any difference between both would soon

disappear; abroad, Catholicism kept me on good terms with the Pope.

Beside, thanks to my own influence and to our forces in Italy, I did

not despair, sooner or later, by some means or other, _to obtain the

direction and guidance of the Pope; and then what a new source of

influence! what a lever to act upon public opinion, and to govern the

world!"_

A few moments after the emperor resumed:

"Francis I. had a capital opportunity to embrace Protestantism, and to

become its acknowledged head throughout Europe. His rival, Charles V.,

resolutely sided with Rome, because he considered this the best way to

subject Europe. This alone should have induced Francis to defend

European independence. Instead of that, he left a reality to run after

a shadow, following up his pitiful quarrels in Italy, allying himself

with the Pope, and burning the reformers in Paris.

"Had Francis I. embraced Lutheranism, which is so favorable to the

royal supremacy, he would have spared France those dreadful

convulsions which were afterward brought on by the Calvinists, whose

republican organization was so near ruining both the throne and our

fine monarchy. Unfortunately, Francis was unable to understand

anything of the kind. As to his scruples, they are quite out of the

question, since this self-same man made an alliance with the Turks,

whom he introduced among us. Oh, those stupid times! Oh, that feudal

intellect! After all, Francis I. was but a tilting king--a

drawing-room dandy--a would-be giant, but a real pigmy."

It is scarce necessary to add, that at the time Napoleon is speaking

of he was an unbeliever, though a lurking respect for his national

religion still lingered at the bottom of his heart. But then, how

fully does he admit that religion was but a tool of his ambition! How

openly does he confess his plan to get hold of the Pope _by some means

or other!_ How glaringly true must now appear in our eyes that

narrative of Consalvi's in which he exposes the mean trick that

Napoleon endeavored to play upon his vigilance! Lastly, how faithfully

does the emperor adhere to the plans secretly laid within the dark

mind of the First Consul! For, as if to leave no doubt as to the

fulfilment of those plans, he related to Montholon the most minute

details of what took place during the Pope's captivity at

Fontainebleau:

"The English," said Napoleon, "plotted an escape for him from Savona;

the very thing I could have wished for. I had him brought to

Fontainebleau, where his misfortunes were to end, and his splendor to

be restored. All my grand views had been thus fulfilled under disguise

and in secrecy. I had so managed that {396} success was infallible,

even without an effort. Indeed, the Pope adopted the famous concordat

of Fontainebleau, notwithstanding my reverses in Russia. But how far

different had I returned triumphant and victorious! So at last I had

obtained the long-wished-for separation of the spiritual and temporal

powers; whilst their confusion is so fatal to the former, by causing

trouble and disorder within society in the name of him who ought to

become a centre of union and harmony. Henceforward I intended to place

the Pope on a pinnacle; we would not even have regretted his temporal

power, for I would have made an idol of him, and he would have dwelt

close to me. Paris should have become the capital of the Christian

world, and _I would have governed the spiritual as well as the

political world._ By this means I should have been enabled to

strengthen the federative portions of the empire, and to maintain

peace in such parts as were beyond its limits. I should have had my

religious sessions, just the same as my legislative sessions: my

councils would have represented, all Christendom, and the popes would

have merely acted as their presidents. I should myself have opened

their assemblies, approved and promulgated their decrees, as was the

case under Constantine and Charlemagne. In fact, if the emperors lost

this kind of supremacy, it was because they allowed the spiritual

ruler to reside at a distance from them; and those rulers took

advantage of this act of weakness, or this result of the times, to

escape from the prince's government, and even to overrule it."

What words of ours could add to the bold significance of these? How

the proud spirit of the despot towers even within his prison! and how

little had he profited by the bitter lessons of experience! Never

before, do we believe, since the advent of Christianity, did any king

or conqueror profess such a barefaced contempt for the deepest

feelings of a Christian soul--the freedom of his spiritual being!

This pretended liberation from the court of Rome, this religious

government concentrated within the hands of the sovereign, became,

indeed, at one time, the constant object of Napoleon's thoughts and

meditations:

"England, Russia, Sweden, a large part of Germany (was he wont to

say), are in possession of it; Venice and Naples enjoyed it in former

times. Indeed, there is no doing without it, for otherwise a nation is

ever and anon wounded in its peace, in its dignity, in its

independence. But then such an undertaking is most arduous; at every

attempt I was beset with new dangers; and, once thoroughly embarked in

it, the nation would have abandoned me. More than once I tried to

awaken public opinion; but all was in vain, and I was obliged to

acknowledge that the people would not follow me."

On reading these last words, who will not remember Cacault's apothegm,

uttered in 1801: "Nations now-a-days will not allow their rulers to

dispose of them in regard to religious matters."

We hope that the reader will not accuse us of prolixity for having

related rather fully the negotiations which proceeded the concordat of

1801. Hitherto the main facts of this important event have been

gleaned from French sources of information. No voice had been raised,

we believe, on the part of Rome, and no one, it must be admitted, had

a better right to speak of that celebrated treaty than the man who

contributed so largely, so exclusively, we might almost say, to its

final adoption. And then, throughout the whole of his simple and

unpretending, yet clear and spirited memoirs, the great cardinal reads

us a grand lesson, which may be felt and understood by every human

soul. During the perusal of these two volumes, we have ever before our

eyes the struggle of right against might, of duty against tyranny, of

a true Christian soul against the truckling, shuffling, intriguing

spirit of the world. Ever {397} and anon, this able, firm, and yet

amiable diplomatist allows some expression to escape him which shows

that his heart and soul are elsewhere, that his beacon is on high, and

that he views everything and all things in this nether world from the

light of the gospel. And this, perhaps, is the very reason why,

throughout a long career of such numerous difficulties and dangers, he

moved serene, undaunted, unblemished in his honor, proclaimed wisest

amongst the wise, until kings, princes, warriors, and statesmen,

Protestants and Catholics, counted his friendship and esteem of

priceless value.

----

From Once a Week.

HYMN BY MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

O Domine Deus, speravi in te!

O care mi Jesu, nunc libera me!

In dura catena, in misera pcena,

Desidero te;

Languendo, gemendo et genuflectendo,

Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me!

(TRANSLATION.)

O Lord, O my God, I have hoped but in thee;

Jesu, my dearest, now liberate me:

In hard chains, in fierce pains,

I am longing for thee:

Languishing, groaning and bending the knee,

I adore, I implore thou wouldst liberate me!

ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.

----

{398}

From The Lamp.

MANY YEARS AGO AT UPFIELD.

In the last decade of the last century, Upfield was a very healthy,

pretty, prosperous town in Suffolk. Its centre was a green;

undulating, irregular, and from four to five acres in area. Round it

were laborers' cottages, a forge, the inn, the veterinary surgeon's

house, the doctor's, the vicarage, and the Grey House, each with land

proportioned to its character. A little, very little way off, was the

church; belonging anciently to a Carthusian monastery, of which some

ruins still existed; and beyond that, but within a quarter of a mile

of Upfield, was Edward's Hall, the fine baronial residence of the

Scharderlowes, who had owned it since the reign of Henry IV., and

never forsaken the Catholic faith. Upfield was eloquent about the

past, as well as actually charming. The church, early English, was

little injured exteriorly. Inside it reminded one of a nun compelled

to wear a masquerade dress. The beautiful arches and lofty roof had

defied time and the vulgar rage of vicious fanaticism; so had the

pavement, rich in slabs imploring humbly prayers for the repose of the

dead who lay under it; but devotion and taste mourned over the changed

use of the sacred building, and the characteristics thereof; for

instance, a singing-gallery in the western end, with the royal arms

done in red and gilded plaster, fastened to it; high deal pews for the

mass of the congregation, and the squire's praying-made-comfortable

one within the carved oak screen in the south transept, where had been

the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.

The Grey House was low, rambling, picturesque; the _beau-ideal _of a

happy, hospitable old English home. It had been built by instalments,

at distant intervals; and had derived its name from a Lord Grey, of

Codnoure, who had formerly possessed lands in the neighborhood. At the

time whence this story starts, it had been for a hundred years or more

in the family of the Wickhams, who claimed to be descended

collaterally from William of Wykeham--whether they were or not, had

never been discussed, and therefore never formally established; nor

did any one in the neighborhood, except Mr. Scharderlowe and his

family, know that a former Wickham had bartered his religion for a

wealthy Protestant wife, and allowed her to bring up their children in

her own way. In January, 1790, George Wickham, the head of the family,

died at the Grey House, of inflammation of the lungs, in his

forty-second year, and no one was ever more regretted. A

kinder-hearted man had never breathed. His attachments had been warm

and numerous; he had helped every one whom he could help, been

peculiarly gentle to the poor and his dependents, hated nothing but

wickedness, and believed in that only when it was impossible to be

blind to it. "Poor dear Mr. Wickham," said Mrs. Scharderlowe, when her

husband told her the news; "I'm heartily sorry. I always thought he

would become a Catholic--he was so liberal in all his feelings; only

the last time we met, conversation taking that turn--I forget why--he

said it was too bad that we could not worship God as we pleased,

without suffering for it; and that he was ashamed of Englishmen who

forgot that their noblest laws were made, and their most glorious

victories won, in Catholic times. What a loss he will be to Upfield

and his family!" "Yes," returned her husband, "that poor pretty little

widow is about as helpless and ignorant of the world as possible; she

never had occasion to think of anything but how to make {399} home

happy, which I believe she did; they were a particularly united

family. I hope he made a will; but I think it is likely he did not;

his illness was short and painful, and previously to it no one ever

had a fairer prospect of long life than he had."

Mr. Wickham's funeral was talked of in Upfield and the neighborhood

many years afterward. Mr. Scharderlowe sent his carriage; the county

member, and persons of every class, attended. The clergyman from an

adjacent parish, who had been requested to perform the burial-service,

because the vicar, Mr. Wickham's nephew, felt unequal to it, burst

into tears, and had to pause some minutes to recover himself. The

widow fainted; and her eldest son Robert, a youth in his nineteenth

year, tried to jump into the vault when his father's coffin was

lowered.

There was a will, made during Mr. Wickham's last illness, and the

vicar was sole executor and trustee, with a legacy of L500. There was

ample provision for the younger children; and Robert was, when of age,

to succeed to a brewery, which his father had started many years

previously, and which was the most lucrative in the county. He was to

learn its management from James Deane, the confidential clerk, whose

salary was to be raised, and to whom L100 was left in token of Mr.

Wickham's appreciation of his services. The Grey House, and everything

in it, with L200 a year, was to be Mrs. Wickham's, and at her disposal

at death.

The brewery was half a mile from Upfield; Mr. Wickham had built it

where it would not injure the prospect, and Deane had a pretty cottage

attached to it, where he, a widower, lived with his sister and only

child, a daughter. He was a Catholic, son of a former steward of Mr.

Scharderlowe's, and extremely attached to Mr. Wickham, who had taken

him when a boy into the brewery, and advanced him steadily. He was a

well-principled, intelligent man, who had improved himself by taking

lessons in geography, grammar, and algebra, as the opportunities

offered; and he was, from his position, well-known in the

neighborhood. He told his sister that he feared that Mr. Wickham's

death was only the beginning of trouble for his family; for he

distrusted Mr. William, the vicar. "It isn't that he's a dishonorable

man, Lizzy; but it isn't likely that a crack shot, a bold rider after

the hounds, a gentleman who is as fond of a ball as anyone, and who

takes no trouble about his own affairs, will do justice to a dead

man's, though I don't doubt he means it now."

"But what harm can he do, James?"

"Why, he can ruin the younger children. Everything except the brewery

and what is left to Mrs. Wickham is as much in his power as it was in

his uncle's. I doubt if the poor dear gentleman wouldn't have arranged

differently if he'd had longer time: it's an awful lesson to be always

prepared for death; I'm sure I thought Mr. Wickham might live to be a

hundred. No doubt pain and sorrow confused his mind, and anyhow it was

natural that he should trust his own relations."

"He had better have trusted you, James."

"That was not to be expected, Lizzy, and I mightn't have been fit for

it. There's plenty on my hands. It is a large, increasing business,

and I have to teach it to Mr. Robert; and one can't tell how he'll

take to it; I've been afraid he would be unsteady, but he has taken

his father's death to heart uncommonly, and I hope he'll try to be as

good a man."

About this time people had begun to remark that Polly Deane, then in

her fifteenth year, was growing up a remarkably pretty girl; she was

an old established pet of the Wickhams; her mother had been the

daughter of a tenant, and so great a favorite that when she married

Deane, the wedding was celebrated at the Grey House. When, two years

later, she was dying of fever, Mr. and Mrs. Wickham promised to watch

over her child. All that {400} they undertook they carried out

generously, and Polly lived as much with them as with Aunt Lizzie, who

did her part toward her well--loving her fondly, keeping her fresh,

healthy, and merry, checking her quick temper, teaching her her

prayers, and taking her often to Mr. Scharderlowe's, to get his

chaplain's--Father Armand's--blessing; and when she was old enough,

to mass and the sacraments. The fact of the Wickhams having no

daughter increased their tenderness for her, and her father was

delighted and flattered by Mrs. Wickham's watchfulness over her dress

and manner, and Mr. Wickham's care for her education; it was the best

that could be had in Upfield, and good enough to make her as charming

as she need be. She did plain sewing extremely well, and some quaint

embroidery of hideous designs in wool and floss silks; she had worked

a cat in tent-stitch, and a parrot of unknown species in cross; her

sampler was believed to be the finest in the county; she could read

aloud very pleasantly, spell wonderfully, write a clear, stiff hand,

which one might decipher without glasses at eighty; she could not have

gone up for honors in grammar, but she talked very prettily; she had

never had occasion to write a letter; as to geography, she believed

that the world was round, for her father and Mr. Wickham said so, and

she had heard that Captain Cook had been round it; but only that she

was ashamed, she would have liked to ask some one how it could be, and

how it was found out; it was such a contradiction of observation, if

only because of the sea; she had never seen the sea, but she believed

in it, and could understand water remaining on level ground; there was

the horse-pond, for instance, but that thousands of miles of roaring,

angry, deep water should hold on to a round world was too much for

her. You could not puzzle her in the multiplication table, but she did

not take kindly to weights and measures. She had learned no history,

her father could not get a Catholic to teach her, and would trust no

one else, but she had picked up a few facts and notions; for instance,

she had heard of Alfred the Great and his lanterns; of St. Edward the

Confessor, and that he made good laws; of King Charles I., and those

wicked men--she fancied Guy Fawkes was one of them--had cut his head

off; when he lived she was not sure, and she hoped Mr. Wickham would

never ask her, for she should not like to say that she did not know,

and she was sometimes afraid that he would when he talked of Carlo's

being a King Charles spaniel. It was puzzling, because she remembered

Carlo a puppy, and she was sure that the king's name had been George

ever since she was born. She had an exquisite ear for music, and a

voice of great promise. Mr. Wickham was passionately fond of music,

and therefore, appreciating peculiarly this talent of Polly's, had

engaged a good master from the county-town to teach her to play on the

piano. She had profited well by his instructions, and only a few days

before Mr. Wickham was taken ill, she had played the accompaniment

when he sang "From the white-blossomed thorn my dear Chloe requested,"

"O lady fair," and "Oh life is a river, and man is the boat;" and he

had patted her head and kissed her, and asked her for the "Slow

movement in Artaxerxes" and "The harmonious Blacksmith," and--she was

so glad--she had played them without one mistake. Of course she

danced, and made cakes and pastry, beauty-washes, elder-wine, and

various preserves and salves; knitted her father's stockings and her

aunt's mittens, and read a romance whenever she could get one, but

that was very rarely.

The vicar made, at any rate, a good start, fulfilling his uncle's

instructions exactly; apprenticed his second son, Alfred, to the

College of Surgeons--that was the most liberal way in those days of

entering the medical profession--and placed him {401} to board with an

old family friend, an opulent practitioner. The third son was articled

to an eminent attorney; the others were sent to school. The void made

by the death of those even most important and most fondly loved is

soon filled up externally; how otherwise could justice be done to the

living? The widow acquiesced in the separation from her children; it

was her husband's plan, and for their advantage. She was sure she

could not long survive him; she might even be sinful enough to wish to

die, but for her sons' sakes, she was so utterly lonely. They loved

her truly, the darlings; but they could not understand her, never

would, unless--which God in his great mercy forbid--they ever came to

suffer as she suffered. To lose such a husband! so manly, yet so

tender and thoughtful. She had always looked forward to his nursing

her in her last illness, and receiving her last breath. He would have

grieved for her truly, she was sure of that; but he could have borne

it better; he would have been of more use to the boys. Thus she mused

often, weeping plentifully; but she never denied that she had many

consolations. No one could have suited her better than Polly, and she

was never more than a day or two absent from her. They were alike in

character--simple, self-sacrificing, and affectionate in an uncommon

degree. Polly's caresses seldom failed to arouse her; the gentle girl

felt how much more she could have done had Mrs. Wickham been

accessible to the comfort in which her own, the dear old faith,

abounded; and prayed daily that it might soon be hers, and did her

best. She never attempted direct consolation, but interested the

mourner in some trifle, or coaxed her into conversation or employment.

Sometimes she really could not arrange some obstinate flowers;

sometimes her work was all wrong, and no one but Mrs. Wickham could

show her how to put it right, and Mary Hodge's baby ought to have the

garment that evening. Once, when all her ingenuity failed, she was

actually delighted by Betty's running in with her darling kitten, wet

to the skin, just saved out of the water-butt; Mrs. Wickham dried her

eyes, and pitied it, and watched Polly wiping it, and arranging a

cushion inside the fender for it; and at last smiled at the endearing

nonsense she talked, and told her she was more than a mother to it.

Robert was quite steady; regular at the brewery, pleasant at home. Of

course it would have been dull for him without Polly: her youth,

beauty, and sisterly at-homeness made a glow in the dear old house.

Did he or his mother ever calculate on what was likely to come of that

near companionship? No: their actual life engrossed them. He first

drew his mother to look on while he and Polly played cribbage or

backgammon, and then to play herself a little. He took in the

_Gentleman's Magazine_, and showed her the curious old prints, and read

the odds and ends of news aloud. Music was unendurable to her for some

months; but she conquered herself by degrees, and came to enjoy it.

Then Robert and Polly sang every evening, she playing the

accompaniments. Summer brought the boys home for holidays, and that

did good. When the anniversary of the father's death came round, its

melancholy associations pressed evidently on the widow, and she spent

the greater portion of the day in her room; but she was resigned, and

better than those who watched her lovingly expected her to be.

The great feature of those Christmas holidays was Alfred's return in

an altered character. He had left Upfield a lout--the despair of his

mother and the maids; who were the more provoked, because he was

undeniably the handsomest of the family. To keep him clean, or make

him put on his clothes properly, had been impossible. He had credit

for talent; for, when sufficiently excited, he wrote what were deemed

wonderfully pretty {402} verses, and he was quick at repartee and

sarcasm; but he had been in perpetual disgrace at school, and silent

and awkward--sulky as a bear, his brothers called him at home. He made

a great sensation on the first evening of his return from London: he

was fluent in conversation, perfectly well dressed, and--chief

marvel--had clean, carefully-shaped nails. Polly smiled, wondered,

and said to herself that he was really very handsome, and sang

beautifully. All the Wickhams sang, but none of them, she thought,

could be compared to him. The change was not agreeable to Robert, and

he showed it; grumbled in an undertone about fops; and asked his

brother if he could play cricket or quoits, or skate, or take a

five-barred gate, or shoot snipe.

Alfred yawned, and replied:

"My dear Bob, don't you remember that I was never fond of trouble?

Those rough amusements are very well for country gentlemen and

farmers; and I give them up to them with all my heart. As to skating,

you none of you know anything about it; you should see the gentlemen,

and elegant ladies too, cutting out flowers, and other complicated

figures, on the Serpentine."

Then addressing himself to his mother and Polly--Robert's countenance

lowering as he observed the innocent girl's natural interest in

such-topics--he talked about the last drawing-room and the fashionable

plays. He had seen _The School for Scandal_ and _The Haunted Tower,_

at Drury Lane; _Othello_ and _The Conscious Lovers_, at Covent Garden,

and he recited--really well--some of the tender passages in _Othello_.

Next he described the lying-in-state of the Duke of Cumberland; the

trial and execution of Jobbins and Lowe for arson; the recent storms,

which had not touched Upfield, but had been terrible

elsewhere--chimneys killing people in their beds, the lightning

flowing like a stream of fluid from a glasshouse. And no one

interrupted him, till Robert said, savagely:

"That fellow will talk us all deaf."

"Not this time, Bob: you and I will sing 'Love in thine eyes' now. I

know Polly will play for us."

They did it; Alfred directing the sentiment to her, so as to make her

feel shy and uncomfortable, and his brother vowing inwardly that "he'd

give that puppy a good thrashing before he went back to London, if he

didn't mind what he was about."

Alfred had seen a good deal of what country folk call "finery" in

London; but he declared that breakfast at home was unrivalled,

particularly in winter. There was the superb fire of coal and oak

blocks, throwing a glow on the massive family plate and fine, spotless

damask: such a silver urn and teapot were not often seen. Further, the

young gentleman inherited a family predilection for an abundant show

of viands; liked to see--as was usual at an everyday breakfast

there--a ham just cut, a cold turkey, round of beef, and delicate

clear honey, with other sweet things, for which his mother's

housekeeping was famed. This was not all. The room formed one side of

a light angle in the picturesque old house, and from two sides of the

table one could see a magnificent pyrocanthus, the contrast between

its scarlet berries and the table-cloth positively delicious.

Robert and Alfred lingered one morning after the rest of the family

had left this room. Alfred was considering that it might be possible

to enjoy life in the country; Robert was watching him, half-curiously,

half-jealously: he did not believe that his brother was handsomer than

himself; but he detested the ease of manner and ready wit that gave

him ascendancy disproportioned to his years. He threw himself back in

a large armchair, stretched his legs, and said: "I'm not sure that I

don't envy you, Bob, after all."

"Your condescension is great certainly. Have you been all this time

finding out that it is a good thing to be George Wickham's eldest

son?"

{403}

"Ah, yes!--eldest son. Well, it's a comfort for the younger ones that

there's no superior merit in being born first. But I'm not going to

philosophize; it's too much trouble, and not your line. But, really,

to breakfast here every morning in all this splendid comfort, the

prettiest and gentlest of mothers pressing you to eat and drink more

than is good for you; and that lovely fairy, Polly--that perfect Hebe

--flitting about--is more than even an eldest son ought to enjoy. How

sorry you will be next year, when you come of age, unless"--and he

looked searchingly, through half-closed eyes, at Bob.

"Why, pray? And unless what?"

"Only that I conclude you will then set up a house of your own, unless--

as it is evident my mother could not part from pretty Polly--unless you

arrange to live here, and marry our pet."

Strange flushings and palenesses passed over Robert's face, and he had

to master a choking in his throat and heaving of his chest before he

spoke. He had never had his hidden feelings put into words before--he

had not even any definite intention about the young girl whom his eye

followed stealthily every where, and whose voice, the rustling of

whose dress even, was music to him. He only knew that he should

throttle any one who laid a finger on her. He had not guessed that any

one connected him with her, even in thought; and now here was all that

was most secret and sacred in his heart dragged out, and held

mockingly before him by a boy two years younger than himself. It

seemed to him hours instead of seconds before he spoke, and his voice

had the passionate tremulousness which betrays great interior tumult;

he was sure that he should say something he would rather not say, but

conscious every moment's delay gave an advantage to his abhorred

tormentor. Without raising his eyes, he said hoarsely, "The Wickhams

are proud--they don't make low marriages."

"Upon my word, Bob," returned his brother patronizingly, "I respect

you; I did not give you credit for so much good sense. The girl's a

perfect beauty, no doubt. What a sensation she'd make in London! But,

after all, she's our servant's daughter, and old Molly Brown's

grandchild. Then, again, that unlucky religion of hers! The

Scharderlowes throw a respectability over it here, for they are

well-born and wealthy, but anywhere else it would be extremely awkward

for you. I confess I had a motive for sounding you. Farmer Briggs's

eldest son hinted to me yesterday that he should be happy to lay West

Hill at Polly's feet."

"He 's an insolent rascal!" said Robert furiously.

"My dearest Bob, why? The poor fellow has eyes, and uses them; and one

would not wish our Hebe to be an old maid."

"I say," reiterated Robert, deadly pale, and stamping, "he's an

insolent rascal; and if I catch him coming to this house I'll tell him

so. A rustic boor like that to hint at marrying a girl who has always

been my parents' pet, and is my mother's favorite companion--"

He stopped abruptly; and his brother, who was a perfect mimic,

continued in precisely his tone, "And is so dear to Robert Wickham,

that he will not hear her name coupled with another man's--"

He had gone too far; Robert's indignation boiled over--he sprang at

him--and before he had time to stir, struck him a blow between the

eyes, which brought sparks from them, and blood from his nose. A crash

and struggle followed, which Polly heard. She ran to the room,

anticipating nothing more than that some of the large dogs, privileged

to roam about the house, were quarrelling over the cold meat. Amazed,

beyond all power of words, she stood silent and very pale. Then,

feeling, young as she was, instinctive womanly power over the

disgraced young men, and holding herself {404} so erect that she

looked a head taller than usual, she said, coldly and firmly, "I am

ashamed of you!"

By that time they were ashamed of themselves. Alfred, covering his

disfigured face with his handkerchief, left the room slowly. Robert,

who had received no visible hurt, threw up a sash, jumped out, and

when he turned to shut the window, looked earnestly and sadly at

Polly, so as to bring a strange unwelcome sensation to her heart.

There was an awkwardness at dinner that day. Polly had removed the

traces of the fray, and kept her counsel; but Alfred's features defied

concealment. He stayed in his room with raw beef on them, and

mutton-broth and barley-water for his regimen. His mother and Betty

could get nothing out of him but that Bob was a fool, and had licked

him for teasing him. He was by no means given to repentance; but his

bruises, and a message from the vicar, desiring to see him early next

morning, led him to the conclusion that he had better have "kept his

tongue within his teeth." He was sufficiently humbled to receive

silently unusually severe reproofs from his guardian, who had informed

him that he had sent for him in order to avoid the risk of paining his

excellent mother. It was not only that he knew all that Betty could

tell of "the row" between the brothers, and that he denounced the

"ruffianliness" of "brawling in a widowed mother's house," but that

Mr. Kemp, in whose house in London he lived, had inclosed bills of

disgraceful amount, in a letter complaining that Alfred's taste for

pleasure threatened to be his ruin; and regretting that justice to his

own family compelled him to decline retaining him as an inmate after

the approaching midsummer. The young man's unusual power of pleasing,

he said, made his example peculiarly dangerous.

"And now," said the vicar, "I ask you if your heart is not touched by

the thought of the pain that this letter would give your dead father,

were he living; and if you could bear your mother to know it? It is

only for her sake that I spare you. I will beg Mr. Kemp to retract his

resolution to dismiss you, if you become steadier, and I shall charge

him to let it be known that I will not pay any bills that exceed the

limit of your very handsome allowance: and I warn you that my natural

easiness and indolence shall not prevent my being severe if you

require it. As to the affair yesterday, I shall not inquire into it;

but I warn you that the recurrence of anything so disgraceful shall

prevent your spending your vacations at home; and I am sorry to say to

one of my good uncle's sons, that I am glad he must return to town the

day after to-morrow."

Alfred was surprised and alarmed, and made professions of penitence,

and promises of amendment.

There was a visible change thenceforward in Robert. He became more

manly in his bearing; and variable in his manner to Polly, saying even

at times very sharp things to her. The sweet-tempered girl gave no

provocation, and felt no resentment; but hid sometimes a tear. She did

not like to displease any one whom Mrs. Wickham loved. Robert attended

to business, took his proper place in society, and was popular; and

she felt it a relief when he was out, and she had not to play for him.

It was within three months of his twenty-first birthday, when, on

one of the frequent occasions of his dining with the vicar, that

gentleman asked him what were his plans. He replied that he hadn't

any.

"But, my dear boy, my authority over you is near its end, and so is

your enforced residence with your mother. It is time to think where

you will live."

"I don't think my mother will turn me out."

"No; but as her allowance for you ceases with your minority, you must,

in fairness to her, either contribute to {405} the household income,

or get a home of your own."

"I don't anticipate any difficulty about it."

"Merton Paddocks is to be let," continued William. "It is a nice

little place, and suitable to you in many ways. If you let it slip,

you may regret it. Your marrying is to be calculated on, and in that

event your living with your mother might not be agreeable to all

parties."

"I don't think of marrying."

"Oh, nonsense! every man's turn comes; and why should you escape?"

"As you escaped, perhaps."

"Me!--one old bachelor in a family is enough in two generations; and my

case may not be obstinate. I'm not actually too old."

"May I ask whom you think of elevating to the vicarage?" asked Robert,

laughing; but there was a pause which, he could not imagine why, made

him uncomfortable, before his cousin said:

"I have thought of Polly--do you forbid the banns?"

The room seemed turning round with Robert; but he swallowed a glass of

wine hastily, and said, as carelessly as he could, "That child!"

"Child! I don't know--she's seventeen, and I'm thirty-two--the

difference there was between your parents' ages when they married; and

Polly is two years older than your mother was then."

"Perhaps I'm no judge of the matter, William, but as you have broached

the subject, excuse me if I ask if you have any notion that Polly is

attached to you."

"None whatever; but any man can marry any woman provided he have a

fair field and no favor. What has really kept me doubtful has been a

distinct difficulty about pretty Polly's birth. It is awkward; and the

Wickhams have always been sensitive on such points; but I've nearly

resolved to sacrifice pride to Polly's charms. Her beauty and grace

would adorn any position; and as soon as my guardianship, and

consequent business relations with her father, ceases, I shall

probably ask my aunt's consent and blessing. It will be great

promotion for her pet, and insure her having her near her for life.

Meanwhile, Bob, I rely on your silence."

"Certainly."

Poor Robert! Here was one of his own family seeing no difficulty about

marrying the girl of whom he had spoken as beneath himself! another

man talking with assurance of being Polly's husband as soon as he

thought fit! while he, who had been domesticated with her from her

infancy--had never dared to give her a playful kiss since they had

ceased to be children--had never ventured on the least demonstration

of the fondness that tormented him for expression. He made an excuse

to go home early; walked in the shrubbery, wretched and irresolute,

till midnight; went to his room, threw himself undressed on the bed,

had some uneasy sleep, rose early, walked again, and appeared at

breakfast haggard and irritable. His mother observed it, and was

distressed. He had sat up too late, he said; and, for once, William's

wine was bad. He would not go to the brewery that day; but, if she

liked, he would drive her and Polly in the phaeton to Larchton, and

they could give Betty a treat by taking her. She was always glad to

visit her native place, and he knew she had not been there for a long

time. His mother was willing. Larchton was a two hours' drive; and

they put up the horses there.

Mrs. Wickham and Betty went to see some old people; and Robert

proposed to Polly to take a walk. She remembered afterward that she

had had an unusual feeling about that walk. They had often walked

together before, as a brother and sister might.

For the first time, however, Robert said, "Take my arm, Polly."

She took it; and they proceeded in silence in the fields for some

minutes.

Then he said abruptly, "Do you {406} ever think of getting married,

Polly?"

"No," she replied with an innocent laugh; "what would Mrs. Wickham do

without me?"

"And do you expect never to love any one better than my mother?"

"I really don't think it would be possible."

"But, Polly, you're not a child. You know there's a different--love

the love my father had for my mother."

"I have never thought about it," she said carelessly.

Her manner gave him courage; it was so easy and unconscious. Taking

the little hand that was on his arm, and holding it so firmly that he

could not feel her effort to withdraw it, he went on: "Polly, I made

an excuse to come here that I might talk to you without interruption.

The love that my father had for my mother, I have for you. I cannot

tell when it began; but I first knew how strong it was when Alfred

came home first from London. I was madly jealous of him because he was

forward and I was bashful. Do you remember the morning you found us

fighting in the breakfast-parlor? He had provoked me so much by

something that he said about you, that I could not help striking him.

I don't know what I might have done if you hadn't come in then; and

I've never been happy since. I've been irritable, and sometimes, I

know, cross and disagreeable. Something occurred last night which I

can't tell you now--I may another time--which made me wretched; and I

made up my mind this morning to put myself out of suspense, and ask

you, Polly, to be my wife."

He had been too full of his story to look at her while he was

speaking, but he looked then eagerly for her answer. He could not read

the lovely countenance which new and various feelings made different

from anything he had ever seen. The soft eyelids down, the lashes

moist, the lips trembling, the flush so deep that it would have

spoiled a less delicate skin. She was surprised to find how much he

loved her; grateful to him; sorry she had made him unhappy, and

believed him ill-tempered. Then came a rapid thought of how handsome

he was; but, sweeping everything away, perplexity followed. What would

Mrs. Wickham and her father wish her to do? What would Father Armand

say?

Robert could not guess all this; and there was almost agony in his

voice as he said, "Oh, Polly, Polly, do speak to me!"

She made a great effort, and replied, "I don't know what to say, or

what I ought to do!"

"Say, at any rate, that you don't dislike me."

"Oh, no!" she said readily, almost laughing to think that he could

suppose that possible.

"One thing more, Polly; do you prefer any one else?"

She hesitated a minute, for her quick wit told her that the question

involved a great deal; but she answered firmly, though shyly, "No; I

do not."

Distrustful as he had been of his power to please her, this was enough

for the time to make him almost beside himself with delight.

He said "God bless you!" heartily; and was silent awhile because he

could not command his voice. He resumed, "As to your 'ought to do,'

don't say anything to any one till I've spoken to my mother. We'll go

and look for her now." He talked a great deal of nonsense on the way,

and Polly said very little then, or during the drive. She was ashamed

to look at Mrs. Wickham, and was glad that her attention was drawn

from her to Robert. He "touched up" the young horses so wildly, that

she declared he should never drive her again, if he did not behave

better. Directly they got home, he told her that he wanted to speak to

her that moment alone; and he poured out his story. Such an old, old

story! So like what her own dead and buried George had told her long,

long ago. _She_ stand in the way of an innocent love, and between two

of the creatures dearest to her on earth! She would be very glad {407}

to have Polly as a daughter--she loved her as one. As to pride and

such nonsense, people who had loved and lost, as she had, knew all its

profound folly. Polly's beauty and goodness might make any husband

proud, any home happy. As to William, there was no injustice done him.

In the first place, she was sure that Polly could never be brought to

think of him as a husband. She looked on him as quite an old man--he

_was_ getting very bald; and in the next place, if he had had any real

love for her, he could not have spoken so coolly and confidently of

winning her. Robert said that the last observation was corroborated by

his own experience, and that his mother was a remarkably sensible

woman. Thereupon she smiled, and kissed and blessed him, and advised

him to go directly and tell the simple truth to the vicar.

Polly, meanwhile, sat alone in her pretty bedroom--her face buried in

her hands, her rich golden hair unbound and falling loosely over her

shoulders, dreading to go down to dinner. Not that she was ashamed of

dear, dear Mrs. Wickham. No; she could throw her arms around her neck

and hide her face there, and make her a confidante without any fear of

being repulsed; but how could she look at Robert, much less speak to

him? and of course the servant would see and understand all about it.

She wished she might stay in her room. If she had but a headache! but

she was really perfectly well; and false excuses she never dreamed of

making. Robert would be talking to her again as he had talked in the

fields. Really, really she did not know what to say to him. Indeed she

had never thought of getting married. She had looked forward to living

between the Grey House and her father's, beloved and welcome in both;

adding to his and Mrs. Wickham's happiness more and more as they grew

older and wanted greater care. Why could not this go on, with only the

difference that Robert should never be displeased with her? That _had_

made her unhappy. She did like him very much; better than any one,

next to her father and Mrs. Wickham; better than good old Aunt Lizzy.

He was very handsome, and sang well, and so attentive to his mother;

and ever since his father's death he had been quite fond of home. How

could he ever have supposed that she preferred any one else? But as to

being his wife--he was a Protestant. How she should feel his never

going to mass with her, his thinking confession useless, his not

believing in the dear Lord in the Blessed Sacrament! She had often

felt it hard that conversation about these things must be avoided in

the dear Grey House, and that her friends there, fond as they were of

her, wished her religion different. If she married Robert, it would be

worse, for she should love him better than any one on earth then; her

anxiety about his salvation would be so great as to make her quite

wretched, and he might not like her to talk to him about it. From her

earliest childhood, she prayed for the conversion of the Wickhams. She

began by saying one Hail Mary daily for the intention; and since she

had been older, she had said many novenas, and offered many communions

for it. She really did not think her father would give his consent;

and Father Armand would at any rate look grave and sad. She had heard

him tell pitiful stories of the unhappiness that had come of mixed

marriages among persons whom he knew. She did feel truly unhappy. She

walked to her window; she could see thence dear venerable Edward's

Hall, and knew exactly where the chapel was. She knelt down, fixing

her eyes there, and her heart on her divine Lord in the tabernacle,

and asked him that, for the love of his blessed mother, he would help

and direct her, and convert her friends.

Robert had not expected to feel it formidable to tell his story to his

cousin, and he was equally grieved and surprised by the way in which

he received it. He changed countenance so that he looked ten years

older; walked rapidly up and down the room; {408} threw himself into a

great chair, and buried his face in his hands; asked Robert to ring;

ordered sherry, and drank several glasses. Robert, utterly mystified,

was trying to say something soothing, when he interrupted him.

"My dear fellow, I'm not simply love-sick; but circumstances, which I

will explain another time, do make this a terrible shock to me. I have

been such a fool! To any one but myself, your falling in love with

Polly would have seemed the most natural thing in the world; but I was

blinded, stultified, as men who have--never mind now--go away--I'm not

fit to talk--I will call or write to you tomorrow. Blame you!

Certainly not. Give my love to your mother and Polly. God bless you

all!"

Next morning early came a note stating that he was going from home for

a few days; and that if he did not return, he would explain himself

fully in the following week.

Worthy of a peerage as Polly Deane seemed to Robert, he could not be

ignorant that to marry him was great promotion for her; and though

delicacy in her regard, and real respect for her father, made him ask

his consent with the utmost deference, he felt that this was a mere

matter of good manners.

Mr. Deane was visibly gratified; said that he could never have

expected a proposal so complimentary to his child, though he might be

pardoned for saying that he thought any one might be proud of her. His

obligations to the Wickham family were of many years' standing; in

fact, he owed everything to Mr. Wickham. He could never, making all

due allowance for Polly's beauty and goodness, express how honored he

felt himself and her on that occasion; but--and he made a long pause

in evident difficulty how to express himself; and Robert was mute with

surprise and alarm.

"But is it possible, Mr. Robert, that Mrs. Wickham and you don't see

one very great objection?"

"In the name of heaven, what is it?" gasped Robert.

"Why, surely, sir, the dear child's religion."

"Now is it possible, Deane, that you think we would ever interfere

with that? Have we ever done so by word, or look, or deed, in all the

years we've known you? Have not you, ever since you came into this

business, been free to observe your holy days in your own way? Have we

not always been ready--even when my mother's spirits were at the

lowest--to spare Polly to go to mass or confession? I am really hurt,

and feel that we don't deserve this?"

"It is all true, Mr. Robert, and the Lord reward you, as he will; but

don't you see it might be different--I don't say that it would; but

I'm bound to do my best for my girl's soul no less than her body--if

she was your wife, and so completely in your power? There's no doubt

that a young man in love will promise anything, and mean to keep his

word too; but ours is a despised religion (God be praised for it!');

it is one among many signs that it is the true one; and you might come

to be ashamed that one so near and dear to you belonged to it, and

that would breed great unhappiness. Then, again, you might have

children, and I should not dare give my consent to their being reared

Protestants. Perhaps, if some ancestor of yours had been firm in such

a case as this, you and yours might be still of the old faith."

"I'm sure, as far as I'm concerned, Deane, I wish we were. No one will

go to heaven, if Polly doesn't; and the religion that would take her

there can't be bad for any one. She might make a Catholic of me."

"God grant it, sir; but don't you see that I must not act on chance?

If the child was breaking her heart for you, and"--smiling--"it's not

come to that yet, I could not let her risk her soul, and perhaps her

children's souls."

"Look here, Mr. Deane: I'm quite ready to give you a written promise

{409} that I will never interfere in any way with Polly's practising

her religion, and that all her children--boys as well as girls--shall

be brought up in it; and I'm sure my mother will make no difficulty."

"You cannot say more, Mr. Robert; but still, if you please, I will

take a week to think the matter over, and talk about it to Father

Armand and Polly, and for that time I think she'd better come home.

She must feel awkward in the same house with you under present

circumstances. Will you give my respects to Mrs. Wickham, and say that

I will call for the child this evening?"

Numerous, and all wide of the truth, were Mrs. Wickham's and Robert's

conjectures respecting the vicar. They began even to consider whether

he had ever shown any symptoms of insanity, and were thankful to know

that it was not hereditary in the family.

The week stipulated for by Mr. Deane passed; and after consulting

Father Armand and Mr. Scharderlowe, he agreed to give his consent to

Polly's marrying Robert at the end of a year, if he were then equally

willing to bind himself by a written promise to respect her faith, and

have his children brought up in it. They said they thought that the

kind, liberal, honorable character of the Wickhams being considered,

and having been proved in all their conduct to the Deanes, and the

difficulty of Catholic marrying Catholic (which was far, _far_ greater

in England then than it is now) being weighed, the case was as hopeful

as a mixed marriage could be.

Robert grumbled about the delay, every one else approved of it. His

mother thought a man young to even at twenty-two; and the time seemed

to Polly none too long for becoming accustomed to new feelings and new

prospects.

Two days after all this was arranged came the vicar's

anxiously-expected letter, dated Scarborough. It said:

"MY DEAR ROBERT,--The punishment of my youthful sins and follies,

which has been pursuing me for years, has at last fallen so heavily

upon me, that I feel inclined to cry out, like Cain, that it is

greater than I can bear. Try to believe, as you read my humiliating

confession, that the bitterest portion of my suffering is the fact

that I have injured my uncle's family; and that I shall regret my

pangs less if they prove a useful warning to you and your brothers.

I can hardly remember when I was not in debt. Before I was eight

years old I owed pence continually for fruits, sweets, toys. I

suffered torture for fear of detection while these trifles were

owing, but directly they were paid, I began a fresh score. At school

I borrowed money of every one who would lend it, and had a bill at

every shop to which a boy would be attracted. The misery I continued

to endure while I could not pay was always forgotten directly I had

paid; and I was in the same difficulty over and over again. I must

own, moreover, that I was absolutely without excuse. I had as much

money and indulgence of every kind as any boy of my age and

position. I went to the university. My allowance was liberal, but my

debts became tremendous. I gave endless wine-parties; drove to

London frequently; entered into all its pleasures, made expensive

presents, bought horses, and betted; and was of course done;

finally, I got into the hands of Jews. It is singular that my father

never suspected my delinquencies, and that I was wonderfully helped

by circumstances. I was young when I succeeded to the living and a

large amount of ready money. All was swallowed up in the dreadful

gulf that my unprincipled extravagance had made. Year after year the

greater portion of my income has gone in payment of exorbitant

interest. Your dear father's legacy went that way; and my infamous

creditors, having ascertained that his will placed a great deal in

my power, threatened me with exposure--which would have {410} been

fatal to a man in my position--till I had pacified them with

thousands not my own--with, in fact, a considerable portion of your

brothers' inheritance.

"At first I stifled my conscience by representing to myself that

being released from pressure which had worried me for years, I

should have a clear head for business; and recover, by judicious

speculation, the sums that I had appropriated--as I hoped--but for a

time. I have speculated unfortunately, and made matters infinitely

worse; for whereas my previous creditors were rapacious rascals to

whom, in justice, nothing was due, my present ones are the helpless

children of my warm-hearted, trustful, dead uncle.

"By this time old Smith is, I suppose, dead, and you are aware of

his will--as singular as all we know of his life--but he is

necessary to my story. A day or two before I told you that I thought

of marrying Polly he sent for me, said that he felt himself

breaking, and wished me to witness his will, and be aware of its

purport, that it might not be said, when he was gone, that he had

acted at the priest's instigation. He said that at that moment no

one knew he was a Catholic, that he had led a godless life for

years, but he meant to make his peace with God before he died. He

had no relations who had any claim on him; he had left L100 to Mr.

Armand for religious uses, and the rest of his money--nearly

L20,000--to Polly. I thought the man mad, and humored him. He

understood me, and said so; told me that existence had ceased to be

more than endurable when, twenty years ago, he entered Upfield a

stranger; and that therefore he had confined himself to the

necessaries of life, and been glad to be believed poor. That he had

thought of leaving his money to a hospital; but that Polly had

become so like the only woman he had ever loved--and whom he had

lost by death--that he had grown to feel very fatherly toward her;

and his intention to make her his heiress had been decided by a

little fact very characteristic of Polly. She was walking with your

mother one very windy day, when he was out for nearly the last time,

and his hat blew off. He was too infirm to follow it, and every one

but Polly was too lazy or too much amused to do so. She ran for it,

and brought it to him with a kindness which seems to have thoroughly

melted him. If he be still living, this must not be mentioned; but,

as I said before, I think it is impossible. It is an old saying that

'drowning men catch at straws.' Oppressed as I was by hopeless

remorse, I caught at the notion that I would marry Polly. Her

father, I thought, would be pleased with her elevation. I did not

anticipate any difficulty in making such a gentle creature love me.

I intended to do my utmost to make her life happy; and I knew that

she would give up anything to do good to your family. I calculated

that, living moderately, my income would be ample, and that I could

appropriate Polly's fortune to repaying what I had misused, and

still without wronging her--for that, as my wife, she would have

advantages far beyond her father's expectations. How all this

scheming is defeated, you know. The only reparation now in my power,

I make willingly. Deducting a curate's stipend and eighty pounds a

year for myself, I will furnish you with full powers to receive the

residue of my income, and apply it to your brothers' use. I will

appoint Deane guardian in my stead, and furnish him with all

necessary documents. If I live--and I pray that I may live for that

object--your brothers will not suffer ultimately. I have made my

will, and left them whatever property I may possess when I die. I

have, you know, expectations from the Heathcotes.

"There is, I hope, some guarantee for my reform in the willingness

with which I accept my punishment. I am glad that, with luxurious

tastes, I must exist on very narrow means for years; {411} that with

sturdy English prejudices I must live among foreigners. I had not

courage to make my shameful confession verbally, or to see any of

you afterward. I cross hence to Hamburg to-morrow. My further course

is undecided, but I will write to you; and Hangham and Hunt, Fleet

street, will forward letters to me. Think of all I have lost, of all

I have suffered secretly, for years, of my dreary prospects, and try

to be merciful to your miserable cousin,--WILLIAM WICKHAM."

Polly had returned to the Grey House. Mrs. Wickham fretted, and

Robert--to be candid--was disagreeable in her absence. Shy and

conscious though she felt, she was quite willing to go back. Her

father was never at home till the evening--not always then. Aunt

Lizzie wanted no help or cheering up, and Polly's happiness depended

mainly on her being necessary to some one. There is, moreover, no

denying that, differently educated as she had been, her aunt's habits

and notions were not hers; and I could not say positively that she did

not miss Robert, and admit to herself that it was pleasant to expect

him at certain times, and to spend a good deal of time in his society.

When the vicar's letter arrived, she was at the breakfast-table, doing

the duties of president deftly and satisfactorily, as she did

everything--housewifely genius as she was.

"What a long affair!" exclaimed Robert, as he glanced at the letter.

"What can he have to say? I can't wait to read it now; I must be off

to the brewery. Here, my mother, you take it, and tell me all about it

when I come back."

She put it in her pocket, remembering that Polly was concerned in it,

and not liking to read it before her without mentioning its purport.

The thoughtful, methodical damsel soon departed for an hour's duty

among birds and flowers, and then the thunderbolt fell on poor Mrs.

Wickham. Her darling younger sons were not only fatherless, but almost

dependent on their brother. She was no woman of business; but she

guessed that there would not be more than L300 a year to come from the

vicar, when the deductions he mentioned had been made. She could of

course spare L100. What did she want with money? This would meet all

the expenses of education, supposing the vicar lived--and if he died!

In any case there was no capital to start her sons in their

professions; and, unluckily, Alfred, who would want it first, had

never been a favorite of Robert's. His assumption of superiority and

his sarcasm had nettled him extremely; and he dropped expressions

occasionally which showed he had not forgiven him. But Robert would be

very well able to help. Even supposing that--as she hoped he would--

he did marry Polly, and have a family, his brothers would be off his

hands before his children became expensive. If the story about poor

old Mr. Smith proved true, he would be a rich man. Polly would of

course do something handsome for her father and aunt, and yet have a

large fortune. That incident about the hat Mrs. Wickham remembered

perfectly; the poor old man looked enraptured when, lovelier even than

usual, glowing from her running and good-nature, she gave it to him.

It was, however, very wonderful. How much had happened in quiet

Upfield during the last two years! Then she began to pity the vicar

heartily; to make excuses for him, and forgive him. The sacrifices he

made proved the sincerity of his repentance: how miserable he would be

for years, poor and lonely in a foreign land! In those days anywhere

"abroad" seemed to simple inland folk something terrible. He might get

yellow fever, or the plague. She believed them to be imminent anywhere

out of the British Isles. She must talk to Polly, and have her for a

staunch ally before Robert came home. He had not his father's noble

impulsiveness, but he was just and honorable, and she and Polly could

do a great deal with him. Of {412} course she should omit telling her

about the vicar's having thought of marrying her, and the story about

old Smith. One fact would be painful to her; the other might be

untrue.

The two guileless creatures agreed fully that Robert must be worked

upon to forgive his cousin, and do all that was necessary for his

brothers. They were so radiant with hope and charity that their

countenances struck Robert peculiarly when he returned, and he said he

saw plainly that they had good news to tell him. It was an awkward

beginning: his mother feared that the contrary character of her

intelligence would displease him the more, and said timidly, "You had

really better read William's letter yourself, my dear boy; he tells

his story much better than I can."

The rush of events at Upfield seemed, for a few days, overpowering to

those whom it concerned; and those whom it concerned not were very

much excited. There was the vicar gone--no one knew wherefore or

whither, or for how long; and a curate with a wife and seven children

had taken possession of his trim bachelor's hall. Then there was Mr.

Smith, not very old, probably not more than fifty, dead. And he had

turned out to be a rich man! why who could have guessed it? He had

appeared one day at the inn, as suddenly as if he had dropped from the

clouds--had evidently come a long way afoot--had no luggage but a

valise; and was altogether so equivocal-looking that Mr. Mogg, the

veterinary surgeon, would not take him as a lodger without his paying

six months' rent in advance. He had paid his way regularly, certainly;

but no one could have supposed that he had anything to spare. He would

never talk of his affairs except to say that he had out-lived all his

near relations, and been a great deal in foreign parts. People had

suggested that he might be an escaped felon, a man resuscitated after

hanging, a deserter, a Jew. On the strength of the last notion Mr.

Mogg tested him with roast pig; and he liked it.

Then he never went to church. To be sure he was not the only person in

Upfield of whom that might be said; but no one guessed that he was a

papist. They had, at last, no proof that he was; but it was

understood, though not formally acknowledged, that the librarian at

Edward's Hall was a Catholic priest, and that persons of his communion

could and did benefit by his ministrations. Such things were winked

at, in spite of penal enactments, in the case of some Catholics of

high social standing, like Mr. Scharderlowe.

Now this librarian, Mr. Armand, had been sent for by Mr. Smith when he

was taken ill, had visited him frequently, and been with him when he

died. No doubt he was a papist. That might be the reason he left his

money to Polly Deane. Well, well! what luck some people had! Upfield

wouldn't be surprised if Robert Wickham married her; and the

neighborhood supposed it must call upon her, whether he did or not. It

wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Wickham had known all along of Mr. Smith's

intention; it wouldn't be surprised; there was something odd in the

way they had educated the girl, and taken her out of her sphere. But,

after all, Mrs. Pogram said, she mightn't like Robert Wickham; and

with such a fortune as hers, she could afford to please herself. Mrs.

Pogram's own sons were decidedly finer young men, had more dash, and

were in the army--every one knew that girls liked red coats.

Lancaster would be coming home soon, on leave. She would call at once;

let others do as they pleased. Deane was a highly-respectable man, and

no one could be ashamed of his daughter.

A year later there was a large family-gathering at the Grey House at

dinner, and Mrs. Wickham presided. Her grief had settled into a

placid, subdued character, which, with the weeds, gave a kind of

moonlight tone to her appearance, and became her so {413} well that no

one could wish to see her ever otherwise.

Robert and Polly, man and wife, had returned that day from a bridal

excursion to the English lakes. The younger brothers were assembled to

meet them. Aunt Heathcote was there with her ear-trumpet; and

queer-tempered Mrs. Trumball, all smiles. Mr. Deane, of the firm of

Wickham and Deane, urbane in shorts, black-silk stockings, and silver

knee and shoe buckles, was a father of whom the lovely bride felt

proud, as she did too of Aunt Lizzie; who looked as if she had worn

silks and laces, and kept her soft white large hands in mittens all

her life. Deep in every one's heart was the memory of warm-hearted,

generous George Wickham, gone for ever from those whose meeting there,

and in their mutual relations, he would have made more joyous; but no

one named him, for no one could have done it then and there in a voice

which would not have been thick with emotion. Tears must have followed

any mention of him; and who would have caused their flow at such a

happy gathering? Every one knew what every one was feeling and what a

long pause meant, which Robert broke by saying with a sigh, "Well, I

do wish that poor dear William were here; I am so happy that I wish

every one else was; and I hate to think of him, hospitable,

affectionate creature, dragging out his days among fat phlegmatic

Dutch boors, without a single soul to speak to." Polly, at his side,

contrived to give him, under the table, a little squeeze expressive of

the fullest approbation.

"I'm glad you have forgiven him, Bob," said his mother.

"Well, really, mother, it was but natural that I should be savage at

first. Men can't be quite as tender-hearted as women, I suppose; and

they see the consequences of pecuniary frailties more clearly, and

suffer more from them, than they do; but I must be a brute if, happy

as I am, I didn't wish well to everybody, especially to that good

fellow. Now don't cry, Polly."

Her father observed that there were great excuses for the vicar, and

that every one must admit that he had done his utmost to make

reparation.

"Yes," said Alfred, with mock gravity. It was his delight to puzzle

Aunt Lizzie; she never could make out whether he were joking or

oracular. "I have learned wisdom through the rudiments of a painful

experience; and, steady reformed man of mature years as I find myself,

I pronounce that William might have done much worse."

"Shall I write and urge him to come back?" asked Robert.

"Do! do! do!" resounded in various voices all around the table.

"Very well; I'm more than willing. Polly told me confidentially a few

days ago that she had no turn for extravagance; and I feel so domestic

and moderate, that I fancy we may manage to provide for the fine young

family that William's indiscretions have thrown on our hands, though

he will be able to give less help than if he remained at Rotterdam."

"Mr. Ridlem's stipend would be saved, you know, Bob."

"Not exactly, mother. William couldn't live at home as he lives now;

that would be painful to us and impossible for him."

"True; I forgot that."

"It is difficult for me to put in a word," said Alfred, "because I've

been a great expense to Bob, and he hasn't done with me yet; in fact

I've no right to make a suggestion; but it is my full intention to

reimburse him one of these days. I shouldn't have said so, only the

chance of helping to bring William back--"

"You're a good fellow, Alfred; I believe you; and must confess that I

have found you less trouble than I expected."

The result of the consultation was a letter to the vicar, signed by

every one present, entreating him to return forthwith; a letter over

which he cried like {414} a girl. It brought him back speedily, a

wiser and not a sadder man. He said indeed that, though down among the

dykes, he had never been so happy as since he made all square with his

conscience.

To follow the affairs of Upfield and the Wickhams further would

involve a series of stories. It must suffice to say that Robert's

marriage turned out really well; and that from the day of her

betrothal, the dearest wish of Polly's heart was gratified; for he,

unasked, joined her and the other stragglers who--the laws

notwithstanding--made their way on Sundays and holidays to a

side-entrance in venerable old Edward's Hall, and were admitted to

mass in the little well-loved chapel; Mr. Armand the librarian,

identical with Father Armand the priest, thanking God devoutly for the

addition to the fold.

------

From The Month.

A LOST CHAPTER OF CHURCH HISTORY RECOVERED.

BY JAMES SPENCER NORTHCOTE, D.D.

If we set before a skilful professor of comparative anatomy a few

bones dug out of the bowels of the earth, he will re-construct for us

the whole form of the animal to which they belonged; and it sometimes

happens that these theoretical constructions are singularly justified

by later discoveries. It is the province of an archaeologian to

attempt something of the same kind. A historian transcribes for our

use annals more or less fully composed and faithfully transmitted by

his predecessors. He may have to gather his materials from various

sources; he must distinguish the true from the false; and he gives

shape, consistency, and life to the whole; but, for the most part at

least, he has little to supply that is new from any resources of his

own. The archaeologian, on the contrary, if he be really a man of

learning and science, and not a mere collector of old curiosities,

aims at discovering and restoring annals that are lost, by means of a

careful and intelligent use of every fragment of most heterogeneous

materials that happens to come across him. And there is certainly

nobody in the present age whose talent and industry in this branch of

learning, so far at least as _Christian_ archaeology is concerned, can

at all compare with that of Cavaliere G. B. de Rossi. For more than

twenty years he has devoted himself to the study of the Roman

catacombs, and at length we begin to enter upon the fruit of his

labors. He has just published (by order of the Pope, and at the

expense, we believe, of the Commission of Sacred Archaeology,

instituted by his Holiness in 1851) the first volume of _Roma

Sotteranea_; a magnificent volume, splendidly illustrated, and full of

new and varied information. An abstract of its contents would hardly

be suitable to our pages; but none, we think, can fail to be

interested in what we may venture to call _the first chapter_ of the

History of the Catacombs--a chapter that had certainly never before

been written, even if it had been attempted.

All earlier authors upon subterranean Rome, so far as our experience

goes, whilst describing fully, and it may be illustrating with

considerable learning, the catacombs as they now exist, and all the

monuments they {415} contain, have been content to pass over with a

few words of apology and conjecture the question of their origin and

early history. They have told us that the Jewish residents in Rome had

burial-places of a similar character; and they have shown how natural

and probable it was that the first Roman Christians, unwilling to burn

their dead in pagan fashion, should have imitated the practices of the

ancient people of God. When pressed to explain how so gigantic a work,

as the Roman catacombs undoubtedly are, could have been carried on by

the Christians under the very feet of their bitter persecutors, yet

without their knowledge, they have pointed to the rare instance of a

cemetery entered by a staircase hidden within the recesses of a

sand-pit; they have guessed that here or there some Christian

patrician, some senator or his wife, may have given up a garden or a

vineyard for use as a burial-ground; and then they have passed on to

the much easier task of enumerating the subterranean chapels, tracing

the intricacies of the galleries, or describing the paintings,

sculptures, and inscriptions. The work of De Rossi is of a very

different character. It begins _ab ovo_, and proceeds scientifically.

It shows not only how these wonderful cemeteries _may_ have been made,

but also--as far as is practicable, and a great deal further than

nine-tenths even of the most learned archaeologians ever supposed to

be practicable--how and when each cemetery really _was_ made. From the

few scattered bones, so to speak, which lay buried, and for the most

part _broken_, partly in the depths of the catacombs themselves,

partly in the Acts of the Martyrs, the Liber Pontificalis, and a few

other records of ecclesiastical history, he has reconstructed with

consummate skill the complete skeleton, if we should not rather say

has reproduced the whole body, and set it full of life and vigor

before us. Not that he has indulged in hasty conjectures, or given

unlimited scope to a lively imagination; far from it. On the contrary,

we fear many of his less learned readers will be disposed to find

fault with the slow and deliberate, almost ponderous, method of his

progress, and to grow impatient under the mass of minute criticisms

with which some of his pages are filled, and by which he insists upon

justifying each step that he takes. Indeed, we have some scruple at

presenting our readers with the sum and substance of his argument,

divested of all these _pieces justificatives_, as our neighbors would

call them, lest they should suspect us of inventing rather than

describing. However, we think it is too precious a page of Church

history to be lost, and we therefore proceed to publish it, only

premising that nobody must pretend to judge of its truth merely from

the naked abstract of it which we propose to give, but that all who

are really interested in the study should examine for themselves in

detail the whole mass of evidence by which, in De Rossi's pages, it is

supported, most of which is new, and all newly applied.

To tell our story correctly, it is necessary we should step back into

pagan times, and first take a peep at their laws and usages in the

matter of burials. No classical scholar need be told how strictly

prohibited by old Roman law was all intra-mural interment. Indeed

every traveller knows that all the great roads leading into Rome were

once lined on either side with sepulchral monuments, many of which

still remain; and the letters inscribed upon them tell us how many

feet of frontage, and how many feet at the back (into the field),

belonged to each monument, [IN. FR. P. so many. IN. AG. P. so many.

_In fronte, pedum--. In agro, pedum--_.] M. de Rossi (the brother of

our author) has published a very interesting plan of one of these

monuments with all its dependencies, as represented on an ancient

marble slab dug up on the Via Lavicana. On this slab, not only are the

usual measurements of frontage and depth carefully recorded, but also

the private or public roads which crossed the {416} property, the

gardens and vineyards of which it consisted, the swampy land on which

grew nothing but reeds (it is called _Harundinetum_), and the ditch by

which, on one side at least, it was bounded. Unfortunately the slab is

not perfect, so that we cannot tell the exact measurement of the

whole. Enough, however, remains to show that the property altogether

was not less than twelve Roman _jugera_, or nearly 350,000 square

feet; and other inscriptions are extant, specifying an amount of

property almost equal to this as belonging to a single monument (e.g.

_Huic monumento cedunt agri puri jugera decem_). The necessity for so

large an assignment of property to a single tomb was not so much the

vastness of the mausoleum to be erected, as because certain funeral

rites were to be celebrated there year by year, on the anniversary of

the death, and at other times; sacrifices to be offered, feasts to be

given, etc.; and for these purposes _exedrae_ were provided, or

semi-circular recesses, furnished with sofas and all things necessary

for the convenience of guests. A house also (_custodia_) was often

added, in which a person should always live to look after the

monument, for whose support these gardens, vineyards, or other

hereditaments were set apart as a perpetual endowment. It only remains

to add, that upon all these ancient monuments may be found these

letters, or something equivalent to them, H.M.H.EX.T.N.S. (_Hoc

monumentum haeredes ex testamento ne sequatur_); in other words, "This

tomb and all that belongs to it is sacred; henceforth it can neither

be bought nor sold; it does not descend to my heirs with the rest of

my property; but must ever be retained inviolate for the purpose to

which I have destined it, viz., as a place of sepulchre for myself and

my family," or certain specified members only of the family; or, in

some rare instances, others also external to the family. The same

sacred character which attached to the monuments themselves belonged

also to the _area_ in which they stood, the _hypogeum_ or subterranean

chamber, which not unfrequently was formed beneath them; but it is a

question whether it extended to the houses or other possessions

attached to them.

Nor were these monuments confined to the noblest and wealthiest

citizens. Even in the absence of all direct evidence upon the subject,

we should have found it hard to believe that any but the very meanest

of the slaves were buried (or rather were thrown without any burial at

all) into those open pits (_puticoli_) of which Horace and others have

told us. And in fact, a multitude of testimonies have come down to us

of the existence, both in republican and imperial Rome, of a number of

colleges, as they were called, or corporations (clubs or

confraternities, as we should more probably call them), whose members

were associated, partly in honor of some particular deity, but far

more with a view to mutual assistance for the performance of the just

funeral rites. Inscriptions which are still extant testify to nearly

fourscore of these _collegia_, each consisting of the members of a

different trade or profession. There are the masons and carpenters,

soldiers and sailors, bakers and cooks, corn-merchants and

wine-merchants, hunters and fishermen, goldsmiths and blacksmiths,

dealers in drugs and carders of wool, boatmen and divers, doctors and

bankers, scribes and musicians--in a word, it would be hard to say

what trade or employment is not here represented. Not, however, that

this is the only bond of fellowship upon which such confraternities

were built; sometimes, indeed generally, the members were united, as

we have already said, in the worship of some deity; they were

_cultores Jovis_, or _Herculis_, or _Apollinis et Diana_; sometimes

they merely took the title of some deceased benefactor whose memory

they desired to honor; e. g. _cultores statuarum et clipeorum L.

Abulli Dextri;_ and sometimes the only bond of union seems to have

been service in the same house or family. A long {417} and curious

inscription belonging to one of these colleges, consisting mainly of

slaves, and erected in honor of Diana and Antinous, _and for the

burial of the dead_, in the year 133 of our era, reveals a number of

most interesting particulars as to its internal organization, which

are worth repeating in this place. So much was to be paid at entrance,

and a keg of good wine beside, and then so much a month afterward; for

every member who has regularly paid up his contribution, so much to be

allowed for his funeral, of which a certain proportion to be

distributed amongst those who assist; if a member dies at a distance

of more than twenty miles from Rome, three members are to be sent to

fetch the body, and so much is to be allowed them for travelling

expenses; if the master (of the slave) will not give up the body, he

is nevertheless to receive all the funeral rites; he is to be buried

in effigy; if any of the members, being a slave, receives his freedom,

he owes the college an amphora of good wine; he who is elected

president (_magister_), must inaugurate his accession to office by

giving a supper to all the members; six times a year the members dine

together in honor of Diana, Antinous, and the patron of the college,

and the allowance of bread and of wine on these occasions is

specified; so much to every _mess_ of four; no complaints or disputed

questions may be mooted at these festivals, "to the end that our

feasts may be merry and glad;" finally, whoever wishes to enter this

confraternity is requested to study all the rules first before he

enters, lest he afterward grumble or leave a dispute as a legacy to

his heir.

We are afraid we have gone into the details of this ancient burial

club more than was strictly necessary for our purpose; but we have

been insensibly drawn on by their extremely interesting character,

reminding us (as the Count de Champagny, from whom we have taken them,

most justly remarks) both of the ancient Christian _Agapae_, or

love-feasts, and (we may add) the mediaeval guilds. This, however,

suggests a train of thought which we must not be tempted to pursue. De

Rossi has been more self-denying on the subject; he confines himself

to a brief mention of the existence of the clubs, refers us to other

authors for an account of them, and then calls our attention to this

very singular, and for our purpose most important fact concerning

them: viz., that at a time when institutions of this kind had been

made a cover for political combinations and conspiracies, or at least

when the emperors suspected and feared such an abuse of them, and

therefore rigorously suppressed them, nevertheless an exception was

expressly made in favor of those which consisted of "poorer members of

society, who met together _every month_ to make a small contribution

toward the expenses of their _funeral_;" and then he puts side by side

with this law the words of Tertullian in his _Apology_, written about

the very same time, where he speaks of the Christians contributing

_every month_, or when and as each can and chooses, a certain sum to

be spent on feeding and _burying_ the poor. The identity of language

in the two passages, when thus brought into juxtaposition, is very

striking; and we suppose that most of our readers will now recognize

the bearing of all we have hitherto been saying upon the history of

the Christian catacombs, from which we have seemed to be wandering so,

far.

We have already said that one of the first questions which persons are

inclined to ask when they either visit, or begin to study, the

catacombs, is this: How was so vast a work ever accomplished without

the knowledge and against the will of the local authorities? And we

answer (in part at least), as the Royal Scientific Society _should_

have answered King Charles the Second's famous question about the live

fish and the dead fish in the tub of water, "Are you quite sure of

your facts? Don't call upon us to {418} find the reason of a problem

which, after all, only exists perhaps in your own imagination." And so

in truth it is. The arguments of the Cavaliere de Rossi have satisfied

us that the Christians of the first ages were under no necessity of

having recourse to extraordinary means of secrecy with reference to

the burial of their dead; it was quite possible for them to have

cemeteries on every side of Rome, under the protection of the ordinary

laws and practices of their pagan neighbors.

But is not this to revolutionize the whole history of these wonderful

excavations? We cannot help it, if it be so; it is at least one of

those revolutions which are generally accepted as justifiable, and

certainly are approved in their consequences; for when it is complete,

everything finds its proper place; books and grave-stones, the

cemeteries and their ancient historians, every witness concerned gives

its own independent testimony, all in harmony with one another, and

with the presumed facts of the case. Let us see how the early history

of the catacombs runs, when reconstructed according to this new

theory. The first Christian cemeteries were made in ground given for

that very purpose by some wealthier member of the community, and

secured to it in perpetuity in accordance with the laws of the

country. There was nothing to prevent the erection of a public

monument in the area thus secured, and the excavation of chambers and

galleries beneath. And history tells us of several of the most ancient

catacombs that they had their origin from this very circumstance, that

some pious Christian, generally a Roman matron of noble rank, buried

the relics of some famous martyr on her own property (_in praedio

suo_.)

The oldest memorial we have about the tomb of St. Peter himself is

this, that Anacletus "_memoriam construxit B. Petri_, and places where

the bishops (of Rome) should be buried;" and this language is far more

intelligible and correct, if spoken of some public tomb, than of an

obscure subterranean grave; _memoria_, or _cella memoriae_, being the

classical designation of such tombs. How much more appropriate also

does the language of Caius the presbyter, preserved to us by Eusebius,

now appear, wherein he speaks (in the days of Zephyrinus) of the

_trophies_ of the apostles being _to be seen_ at the Vatican and on

the Ostian way? Tertullian, too, speaks of the bodies of the martyrs

lying in _mausoleums and monuments_, awaiting the general

resurrection. From the same writer we learn that the _areae_ of the

Christian burials were known to and were sacrilegiously attacked by

the enraged heathens in the very first years of the third century; and

quite recently there has reached us from this same writer's country a

most valuable inscription, discovered among the ruins of a Roman

building, not far from the walls of the ancient Caesarea of

Mauritania, which runs in this wise: "Euelpius, a worshipper of the

word (_cultor Verbi_; mark the word, and call to mind the _cultores

Jovis_, etc.), has given this area for sepulchres, and has built a

_cella_ at his own cost. He left this _memoria_ to the holy church.

Hail, brethren: Euelpius, with a pure and simple heart, salutes you,

born of the Holy Spirit." It is true that this inscription, as we now

have it, is not the original stone; it is expressly added at the foot

of the tablet, that _Ecclesia fratrum_ has restored this _titulus_ at

a period subsequent to the persecution during which the original had

been destroyed; but both the sense and the words forbid us to suppose

that any change had been made in the language of the epitaph, to which

we cannot assign a date later than the middle of the third century.

But, finally, and above all, let us descend into the catacombs

themselves, and put them to the question. Michael Stephen de Rossi,

the constant companion of his brother's studies, having invented some

new mechanical contrivance for taking plans of subterranean

excavations, [Footnote 78] has made exact {419} plans of several

catacombs, not only of each level (or _floor_, so to speak) within

itself, but also in its relations to the superficial soil, and in the

relations of the several floors one with another. A specimen of these

is set before us by means of different colors or tints, representing

the galleries of the different levels, in the map of the cemetery of

St. Callixtus, which accompanies this volume; and a careful study of

this map is sufficient to demonstrate that the vast net-work of paths

in this famous cemetery originally consisted of several smaller

cemeteries, confined each within strict and narrow limits, and that

they were only united at some later, though still very ancient period.

For it cannot have been without reason that the subterranean galleries

should have doubled and re-doubled upon themselves within the limits

of a certain well-defined area; that they should never have

overstepped a certain boundary-line in this or that direction, though

the nature of the soil and every other consideration would have seemed

to invite them to proceed; that they should have been suddenly

interrupted by a flight of steps, penetrating more deeply into the

bowels of the earth, and there been reproduced exactly upon the same

scale and within the same limits. These facts can only be fully

appreciated by an actual examination of the map, where they speak for

themselves; but even those who have not this advantage will scarcely

call in question the conclusion that is drawn from them, when they

call to mind how exactly it coincides with all the ancient testimonies

we have already adduced on the subject, and when they learn the

singular and most interesting fact, that the Cav. de Rossi has been

able in more than one instance, by means of the sepulchral

inscriptions, to identify the noble family by whom the site of the

cemetery was originally granted.

[Footnote 78: It was highly commended and received a prize at the

International Exhibition of 1862.]

It will be of course understood that we have been speaking of the

earliest ages of the Church's history, and that we are far from

denying that there were other periods during which secrecy was an

essential condition of the Christian cemeteries; on the contrary, did

our space allow, we could show what parts of the catacombs belonged to

the one period, and what to the other, and what are the essential

characteristics of each. We might unfold also, with considerable

minuteness, the _economy_ of these cemeteries, even during the ages of

persecution; under whose management they were administered, whether

they were parochial or otherwise, together with many other highly

interesting particulars. But we have already exceeded the limits

assigned us, and we hope that those of our readers who wish to know

more on the subject will take care to possess themselves of the book

from which we have drawn our information, that so funds may not be

wanting for the completion of so useful a work. Nothing but a

deficiency of funds, in the present condition of the pontifical

treasury, hinders the immediate issue of other volumes of this and its

kindred work, the _Inscriptiones Christianae,_ by the same author. He

announces his intention to bring out the volumes of _Roma Sotterranea_

and of the _Inscriptions_ alternately, for they mutually explain and

illustrate one another, and are in fact parts of the same whole; and

the public has been long impatient for the volume which is promised

next, viz., the ancient inscriptions which illustrate Christian dogma.

------

{420}

MISCELLANY.

ART.

_Domestic._--The fortieth annual exhibition of the National Academy of

Design was opened to the public on the evening of April 27th, under

circumstances which may well mark an era in the history of that

institution. After drifting from place to place through forty long

years, now deficient in funds, and now in danger of losing public

sympathy or support, sometimes unable to carry out its specific

purposes, and almost always cramped for space, or otherwise perplexed

in the details of its public exhibitions, the Academy, like Noah's

ark, long buffetted by waves and driven by tempests, finds a resting

place, not on Mount Ararat, but at the corner of Fourth avenue and

Twenty-third street. And as the "world's gray fathers," after their

troubled voyage, regarded with infinite satisfaction _terra firma_ and

the blue sky, so doubtless the older of the academicians, those who

have accompanied the institution in all its wanderings, are doubtless

both pleased and amazed to find themselves arrived at a goodly haven

with secure anchorage. To drop the figure, the Academy is now

permanently established in an attractive and convenient building, well

situated in a central locality, and bids fair to enter upon a career

of usefulness far beyond the results of its previous experience.

The new building has been for so long a time completed externally,

that its merits have been canvassed with every shade of opinion, from

enthusiastic commendation to quite as decided disapprobation. The

majority of critics, having their reputation at stake, are afraid to

hazard an opinion, and prudently remain neutral, until some

authoritative decision shall be made. As an architectural effort it

may be called an experiment, on which account it presents perhaps as

many claims to critical notice as the works of art which adorn its

walls. The style, singularly enough, is assigned to no special era or

country, but is described to be of "that revived Gothic, now the

dominant style in England, which combines those features of the

different schools of architecture of the Middle Ages which are most

appropriate to our nineteenth-century buildings," which means probably

that the building is of an eclectic Gothic pattern. All modern styles

since the renaissance may be said to be eclectic, whether founded on

antique or mediaeval models, and the building in question differs from

other Gothic edifices, of more familiar aspect to us, chiefly in form,

external decoration, and the arrangement of its component parts. In

the American mind Gothic architecture is associated chiefly with

ecclesiastical structures and is popularly supposed to be subject to

no fixed laws, beyond an adherence to the irregular and picturesque.

Given a cruciform ground-plan, a pointed spire, steep roof, narrow

arched windows, buttresses, and pinnacles _ad libitum_, and you have

as good a Gothic building as the public taste can appreciate. Here,

however, is a nearly square building, covering an area of eighty by

about a hundred feet, which is neither a church nor a college, and is

without steep roof, spire, buttresses, or pinnacles. The public

evidently do not fathom the mystery at present, and those whose praise

of the new Academy borders on the extravagant, are perhaps as much

astray in their adherence to the _omne ignotum pro magnifico_

principle as those wiseacres who tell you knowingly that the architect

has tried to palm off upon us a palpable imitation of the doge's

palace in Venice. If the latter class of critics will refresh their

memory a little, or consult any good print of Venetian architecture,

they will find about as much resemblance between the two buildings as

exists between the old Custom House in Wall street and the Parthenon.

The plain fact is that we are so unused to Gothic architecture,

applied to secular purposes, and to any other forms of it than the

ecclesiastical, as to be without sufficient data to form a correct

idea of the present edifice. And yet, such is the conceit of

criticism, that thousands of persons pronounce their judgment upon it

with as much confidence as they would upon a trivial matter perfectly

{421} familiar to them. These may yet find that hasty opinions are

dangerous.

The Academy, as has been hinted above, is of rectangular shape, having

three stories, of which the first is devoted to the life school and

the school of design, the second to the library, reception rooms,

council room, and similar apartments, and the third to the exhibition

galleries, five in number, with which at present we have specially to

deal. The main entrance to the building is on Twenty-third street.

Passing up a double flight of marble steps and through a magnificent

Gothic portal into a vestibule, the visitor next enters the great

hall, in the centre of which commences a broad stairway, consisting at

first of a double flight of steps, and ultimately of a single flight,

leading to the level of the exhibition floor. Running all around the

open space on this story caused by the stairway is a corridor, two

sides of which, parallel with the stairway, comprise a double arcade,

supported on columns of variegated and polished marble, the capitals

of which, of white marble, are hereafter to be sculptured in delicate

leaf-and-flower work from nature. Opening from this corridor are the

exhibition rooms, which also communicate with each other, and of which

the largest is thirty by seventy-six feet, and the smallest, used as a

gallery of sculpture, is twenty-one feet square. These are all lighted

by sky-lights, and are intended for the purposes of the annual

exhibitions. In the corridor surrounding the stairway are to be hung

the works of art belonging to the Academy, although at present its

walls are covered with pictures contributed to this year's exhibition.

The several rooms described are well-lighted, and though smaller

perhaps than the large outlay upon the building might have led the

public to expect, seem excellently adapted for their purposes. The

largest of them is a model exhibition gallery in respect to

proportions and light, and all are tastefully finished and pannelled

with walnut from floor to ceiling. Throughout the building the same

costly and durable style prevails, the wood-work being of oak and

walnut, and the vestibules floored with mosaic of tiles.

So much for the interior, against which no serious complaint has been

uttered. Externally the walls of the basement story are of gray marble

relieved by bands of graywacke, those of the story above of white

marble with similar bands, while the uppermost story is of white

marble with checker-work pattern of oblong gray blocks, laid

stair-fashion. The whole is surmounted by a rich arcaded cornice of

white marble. The double flight of white marble steps on Twenty-third

street, leading to the main entrance, is, perhaps, the most marked

feature of the building, at once graceful, rich, and substantial, and

may fairly challenge comparison with any similar structure of like

pattern in the country. Under the platform is a triple arcade,

inclosing a drinking-fountain, and profusely decorated with sculpture,

and from the upper landing springs the great arched Gothic portal,

large enough almost for the entrance to a cathedral. On either side of

this are two columns of red Vermont marble with white marble capitals

and bases, on which rests a broad archivolt enriched with sculpture

and varied by voussoirs, alternately white and gray. The tympanum

above the door is to be filled with an elaborate mosaic of colored

tile work. The basement windows, on Fourth avenue, are double, with

segmental arches, each pair of which is supported in the middle on a

clustered column with rich carved capital and base. All the other

windows in the building have pointed arches, and the archivolts of

those in the first story are decorated like that of the doorway. In

the place of windows on the gallery floor are circular openings for

ventilation, filled with elaborate tracery. The building was designed

by Mr. P. B. Wight, and erected at a cost of over two hundred thousand

dollars.