SOUL.

I go before my Judge. Ah! . . . .

ANGEL.

.... Praise to his name!

The eager spirit has darted from my hold,

And, with the intemperate energy of love,

Flies to the dear feet of Emmanuel;

But, ere it reach them, the keen sanctity,

Which with its effluence, like a glory, clothes

And circles round the Crucified, has seized,

And scorched, and shrivelled it; and now it lies

Passive and still before the awful throne.

O happy, suffering soul! for it is safe,

Consumed, yet quickened, by the glance of God.

SOUL.

Take me away, and in the lowest deep

There let me be,

And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,

Told out for me.

There, motionless and happy in my pain,

Lone, not forlorn,--

There will I sing my sad perpetual strain,

Until the morn.

There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,

Which ne'er can cease

To throb, and pine, and languish, till possessed

Of its sole peace.

There will I sing my absent Lord and love:--

Take me away,

That sooner I may rise, and go above,

And see him in the truth of everlasting day.

Sec. 7.

ANGEL.

Now let the golden prison ope its gates,

Making sweet music, as each fold revolves

Upon its ready hinge. And ye, great powers,

Angels of purgatory, receive from me

My charge, a precious soul, until the day,

When, from all bond and forfeiture released,

I shall reclaim it for the courts of light.

{640}

SOULS IN PURGATORY.

1. Lord, thou hast been our refuge: in every generation;

2. Before the hills were born, and the world was:

from age to age thou art God.

3. Bring us not, Lord, very low: for thou hast said,

Come back again, ye sons of Adam.

4. A thousand years before thine eyes are but as yesterday:

and as a watch of the night which is come and gone.

5. Though the grass spring up in the morning;

yet in the evening it shall shrivel up and die.

6. Thus we fail in thine anger; and in thy wrath we are troubled.

7. Thou hast set our sins in thy sight:

and our round of days in the light of thy countenance.

8. Come back, O Lord! how long? and be entreated for thy servants.

9. In thy morning we shall be filled with thy mercy:

we shall rejoice and be in pleasure all our days.

10. We shall be glad according to the days of our humiliation;

and the years in which we have seen evil.

11. Look, O Lord, upon thy servants and on thy work;

and direct their children,

12. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us:

and the work of our hands direct thou it.

Glory be to the father and to the Son: and to the Holy Ghost.

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be;

world without end. Amen.

ANGEL.

Softly and gently, dearest, sweetest soul

In my most loving arms I now enfold thee,

And, o'er the penal waters, as they roll,

I poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee.

And carefully I dip thee in the lake,

And thou, without a sob or a resistance,

Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take

Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance.

Angels, to whom the willing task is given,

Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest;

And masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven,

Shall aid thee at the throne of the Most Highest.

Farewell, but not for ever! brother dear,

Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow;

Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here,

And I will come and wake thee on the morrow.

----

{641}

From The Edinburgh Review. (Abridged.)

THE CHURCH AND MOSQUE OF ST. SOPHIA.

1. _Byzantine Architecture; illustrated by Examples of Edifices

erected in the East during the earliest ages of Christianity_. With

Historical and Archaeological Descriptions. By C. TEXIER and E. P.

PULLAN. Folio. London: 1864.

2. _Epigraphik von Byzantium und Constantinopolis, von den aeltesten

Zeiten bis zum J._ 1453. Von Dr. S. A. DETHIER und Dr. A. D.

MORDTMANN. 4to. Wien: 1864.

3. _Acta Patriarchates Constantinopolitani_, 1305-1402, _e Codice MS.

Bibliothecae Palat. Vindobonensis; edentibus_ D. D. MIKLOVISCH et

MULLER. 8vo. 2 vols. Viennse: 1860-2.

4. _Die alt-christliche Baudenkmale Konstantinopels von V. bis XII.

Jahrhundert. Auf Befehl seiner Majestaet des Koenigs aufgenommen und

historisch erlaeutert von_ W. SALZENBERG. _Im Anhange des Silentiarius

Paulus Beschreibung der heiligen Sophia und der Ambon, metrisch

uebersetzt und mit Anmerkungen versehen, von_ Dr. C. W. KORTUeM. Fol.

Berlin: 1854.

5. _Aya Sofia, Constantinople, as recently restored by Order of H. M.

the Sultan Abdul Medjid_. From the original Drawings of Chevalier

GASPARD FOSSATI. Lithographed by Louis HAGHE, Esq. Imperial folio.

London: 1854.

There is not one among the evidences of Moslem conquest more galling

to Christian associations than the occupation of Justinian's ancient

basilica for the purposes of Mohammedan worship. The most commonplace

sight-seer from the west feels a thrill when his eye falls for the

first time upon the flaring cresent which surmounts "Sophia's cupola

with golden gleam;" and this emotion deepens into a feeling of awe at

the mysterious dispensations of Providence, when he has stood beneath

the unaltered and still stately dome, and

"surveyed

The sanctuary, the while the usurping Moslem prayed."

For oriental Christians, this sense of bitterness is hardly second to

that with which they regard the Turkish occupation of Jerusalem

itself. In the latter, however they may writhe under the political

supremacy of their unbelieving master, still, as the right of access

to those monuments which form the peculiar object of Christian

veneration is practically undisturbed, they are spared the double

indignity of religious profanation super-added to social wrong. But

the mosque of St. Sophia is, in Christian eyes, a standing monument at

once of Moslem sacrilege and of Christian defeat, the sense of which

is perpetuated and embittered by the preservation of its ancient, but

now desecrated name.

To an imaginative visitor of the modern mosque, it might seem as if

the structure itself were not unconscious of this wrong. The very

position of the building is a kind of silent protest against the

unholy use to which its Turkish masters have perverted it. Like all

ancient Christian churches, it was built exactly in the line of east

and west; and, as the great altar, which stood in the semicircular

apse, was directly at the eastern point of the building, the

worshippers in the old St. Sophia necessarily faced directly eastward;

and all the appliances of their worship were arranged with a view to

that position. Now, in the exigencies of Mohammedan ecclesiology,

since the worshipper must turn to the Kibla at Mecca (that is, in

Constantinople, to the south-east), the _mihrab_, or sacred niche, in

the modern St. Sophia is {642} necessarily placed out of the centre of

the apse; and thus the _mimber_ (pulpit), the prayer carpets, and the

long ranks of worshippers themselves, present an appearance singularly

at variance with every notion of architectural harmony, being arranged

in lines, not parallel, but oblique, to the length of the edifice, and

out of keeping with all the details of the original construction. It

is as though the dead walls of this venerable pile had retained more

of the spirit of their founder than the degenerate sons of the fallen

Rome of the east, and had refused to bend themselves at the will of

that hateful domination before which the living worshippers tamely

yielded or impotently fled!

The mosque of St. Sophia had long been an object of curious interest

to travellers in the east. Their interest, however, had seldom risen

beyond curiosity; and it was directed rather toward St. Sophia as it

is, than to the Christian events and traditions with which it is

connected. For those, indeed, who know the grudging and capricious

conditions under which alone a Christian visitor is admitted to a

mosque, and the jealous scrutiny to which he is subjected during his

visit, it will be easy to understand how rare and how precarious have

been the opportunities for a complete or exact study of this, the most

important of all the monuments of Byzantine art; and, notwithstanding

its exceeding interest for antiquarian and artistic purposes, far more

of our knowledge of its details was derived from the contemporary

description of Procopius [Footnote 126] or Agathias, [Footnote 127]

from the verses of Paulus Silentiarius, [Footnote 128] from the casual

allusions of other ancient authorities, and, above all, from the

invaluable work of Du Gauge, which is the great repertory of

everything that has been written upon ancient or mediaeval Byzantium,

than from the observation even of the most favored modern visitors of

Constantinople, until the publication of the works named at the head

of these pages.

[Footnote 126: _De Edificiis_, lib. i. c. i. ]

[Footnote 127: Pp. 152-3.]

[Footnote 128: A very good German version, with most valuable notes,

is appended to the text of Saltzenberg's _Baudenkmale._]

For the elaborate account of the present condition of the mosque of

St. Sophia which we now possess, we are indebted to the happy

necessity by which the Turkish officials, in undertaking the recent

restoration of the building, were led to engage the services of an

eminent European architect, Chevalier Fossati, in whose admirable

drawings, as lithographed in the "Aya Sofia," every arch and pillar of

the structure is reproduced. The archaeological and historical

details, which lay beyond the province of a volume mainly professional

in its object, are supplied in the learned and careful work of M.

Salzenberg, who during the progress of the restoration was sent to

Constantinople at the cost of the late King of Prussia, for the

express purpose of copying and describing exactly every object which

might serve to throw light on Byzantine history, religion, or art, or

on the history and condition of the ancient church of St. Sophia, the

most venerable monument of them all.

Nor is it possible to imagine, under all the circumstances of the

case, a combination of opportunities more favorable for the purpose.

From long neglect and injudicious or insufficient reparation, the

mosque had fallen into so ruinous a condition, that, in the year 1847,

the late sultan, Abdul Medjid, found it necessary to direct a

searching survey of the entire building, and eventually a thorough

repair. In the progress of the work, while engaged near the entrance

of the northern transept, M. Fossati discovered, beneath a thin coat

of plaster (evidently laid on to conceal the design from the eyes of

true believers) a beautiful mosaic picture, almost uninjured, and

retaining all its original brilliancy of color. A further examination

showed that these mosaics extended throughout the building; and, with

a liberality which every lover of art must gratefully applaud, the

sultan at once acceded to the suggestion of M. Fossati, {643} and

ordered that the plaster should be removed throughout the interior;

thus exposing once more to view the original decorations of the

ancient basilica. It was while the mosque was still crowded with the

scaffolding erected to carry on this most interesting work, that M.

Salzenberg arrived in Constantinople. He thankfully acknowledges the

facilities afforded to him, as well by the Turkish officials as by the

Chevalier Fossati; and, although the specimens of the purely pictorial

decorations of the ancient church which he has published are not as

numerous as the reader may possibly expect, yet they are extremely

characteristic, and full of religious as well as of historical and

antiquarian interest.

Notwithstanding the beauty and attractiveness of M. Louis Haghe's

magnificent lithographs of Chevalier Fossati's drawings published in

the "Aya Sofia," the subject has received in England far less

attention than it deserves. There is not an incident in Byzantine

history with which the church of St. Sophia is not associated. There

is not a characteristic of Byzantine art of which it does not contain

abundant examples. It recalls in numberless details, preserved in

monuments in which time has wrought little change and which the

jealousy or contempt of the conquerors has failed to destroy or even

to travesty, interesting illustrations of the doctrine, the worship,

and the disciplinary usages of the ancient Eastern Church, which are

with difficulty traced, at present, in the living system of her

degenerate representative. To all these researches the wider

cultivation of art and of history, which our age has accepted as its

calling, ought to lend a deeper significance and a more solemn

interest. St. Sophia ought no longer to be a mere lounge for the

sightseer or a spectacle for the lover of the picturesque.

The history of this venerable church may be said to reach back as far

as the first selection of Byzantium by Constantine as the new capital

of his empire. Originally, the pretensions of Byzantium to

ecclesiastical rank were sufficiently humble, its bishop being but a

suffragan of the metropolitan of Heraclea. But, from the date of the

translation of the seat of empire, Constantine's new capital began to

rise in dignity. The personal importance which accrued to the bishop

from his position at the court of the emperor, was soon reflected upon

his see. The first steps of its upward progress are unrecorded; but

within little more than half a century from the foundation of the

imperial city, the celebrated fifth canon of the council which was

held therein in 381 not only distinctly assigned to the Bishop of

Constantinople "the primacy of honor, next after the Bishop of Rome,"

but, by alleging as the ground of this precedence the principle "that

Constantinople is the new Rome," laid the foundation of that rivalry

with the older Rome which had its final issue in the complete

separation of the Eastern from the Western Church.

The dignity of the see was represented in the beauty and magnificence

of its churches, and especially of its cathedral. One of the

considerations by which Constantine was influenced in the selection of

Byzantium for his new capital, lay in the advantages for architectural

purposes which the position commanded. The rich and various marbles of

Proconnesus; the unlimited supply of timber from the forests of the

Euxine; the artistic genius and the manual dexterity of the architects

and artisans of Greece--all lay within easy reach of Byzantium; and,

freely as Constantine availed himself of these resources for the

embellishment of the new city in its palaces, its offices of state,

and its other public buildings, the magnificence which he exhibited in

his churches outstripped all his other undertakings. Of these churches

by far the most magnificent was that which forms the subject of the

present notice. Its title is often a subject of misapprehension to

those who, being accustomed to regard {644} "Sophia" merely as a

feminine name, are led to suppose that the church of Constantine was

dedicated to a saint so called. The calendar, as well of the Greek as

of the Latin Church, does, it is true, commemorate more than one saint

named Sophia. Thus one Sophia is recorded as having suffered martyrdom

under Adrian, in company with her three daughters, Faith, Hope, and

Charity. Another is said to have been martyred in one of the latter

persecutions together with St. Irene; and a third is still specially

venerated as a martyr at Fermo (the ancient Firmum). But it was not

any of these that supplied the title of Constantine's basilica. That

church was dedicated to the [Greek text]--the HOLY WISDOM; that is,

to the Divine Logos, or Word of God, under the title of the "Holy

Wisdom," borrowed by adaptation from the well-known prophetic allusion

contained in the eighth chapter of Proverbs, and familiar in the

theological language of the fourth century.

The original church, however, which Constantine erected in 325-6 was

but the germ out of which the latter St. Sophia grew. The early

history of St. Sophia is marked by many vicissitudes, and comprises,

in truth, the history of four distinct churches, that of Constantine,

that of Constantius, that of Theodosius, and finally that of

Justinian.

Thirty-four years after the foundation of St. Sophia by the first

Christian emperor, his son, Constantius, either because of its

insufficient size, or owing to some injury which it had sustained in

an earthquake, rebuilt it, and united with it the adjoining church of

the _Irene_, or "peace" (also built by his father), forming both into

one grand edifice. And, although the church of Constantius was not

much longer lived than that of his father, it is memorable as the

theatre for several years of the eloquence of St. John Chrysostom,

while its destruction was a monument at once of the triumph and of the

fall of that great father. It was within the walls of this church that

his more than human eloquence was wont to draw, even from the light

and frivolous audiences of that pleasure-loving city, plaudits, the

notice of which in his own pages reads so strange to modern eyes. It

was here that he provoked the petty malice of the imperial directress

of fashion, by his inimitable denunciation of the indelicacy of female

dress. Here, too, was enacted that memorable scene, which, for deep

dramatic interest, has seldom been surpassed in history--the fallen

minister Eutropius clinging to the altar of St. Sophia for protection

against the popular fury, while Chrysostom, in a glorious exordium on

the instability of human greatness, [Footnote 129] disarms the rage

of the populace by exciting their commiseration for their fallen

enemy. Nor can we wonder that those who had hung entranced upon that

eloquent voice should, when it was silenced by his cruel and arbitrary

banishment, have recognized a Nemesis in the destruction of the church

which had so often echoed with the golden melody of its tones. St.

Sophia, by a divine judgment, as the people believed, was destroyed

for the second time in 404, in the tumult which followed the

banishment of St. John Chrysostom.

[Footnote 129: _Horn, in Eutropium Patricium._ Opp. tom iii., p. 399

_et seq._ (Migne ed.) ]

The third St. Sophia was built in 415 by Theodosius the Younger. The

church of Theodosius lasted longer than either of those which went

before it. It endured through the long series of controversies on the

Incarnation. It witnessed their first beginning, and it almost

survived their close. It was beneath the golden roof of the Theodosian

basilica that Nestorius scandalized the orthodoxy of his flock, and

gave the first impulse to the controversy which bears his name, by

applauding the vehement declaration of the preacher who denied to the

Virgin Mary the title of mother of God. And it was from its ambo or

{645} pulpit that the Emperor Zeno promulgated his celebrated

Henoticon--the "decree of union" by which he vainly hoped to heal the

disastrous division. The St. Sophia of Theodosius was the scene of the

first act in the long struggle between Constantinople and Rome, the

great Acacian schism; when, at the hazard of his life, an impetuous

monk, one of the fiery "Sleepless Brotherhood," pinned the papal

excommunication on the cope of Acacius as he was advancing to the

altar. And it witnessed the close of that protracted contest, in the

complete and unreserved submission to Rome which was exacted by the

formulary of Pope Hormisdas as the condition of reconciliation. The

structure of Theodosius stood a hundred and fourteen years--from 415

to 529, but perished at length in the fifth year of Justinian, in a

disaster which, for a time, made Constantinople all but a desert--the

memorable battle of the blue and green factions of the hippodrome,

known in history as the _Nika_ sedition.

The restoration of St. Sophia, which had been destroyed in the

conflagration caused by the violence of the rioters, became, in the

view of Justinian, a duty of Christian atonement no less than of

imperial munificence. There is no evidence that the burning of the

church arose from any special act of impiety directed against it in

particular; but it is certain that the ancient feuds of the religious

parties in the east entered vitally as an element of discord into this

fatal sedition; and even the soldiers who had been engaged on the side

of the civil power in the repression of the tumult, and who were

chiefly legionaries enlisted from among the Heruli, the most savage of

the barbarian tribes of the empire, had contributed largely to the

sacrilegious enormities by which, even more than by the destruction of

human life, the religious feelings of the city had been outraged.

The entire history of the reconstruction exhibits most curiously the

operation of the same impulse. It was undertaken with a

large-handedness, and urged on with an energy, which bespeak for other

than merely human motives. Scarce had Constantinople begun to recover

after the sedition from the stupor of its alarm, and the affrighted

citizens to steal back from the Asiatic shore to which they had fled

in terror with their families and their most valuable effects, when

Justinian commissioned Anthemius of Tralles to prepare the plans of

the new basilica, on a scale of magnificence till then unknown. On the

23d of February, 532, within forty days from the catastrophe, the

first stone of the new edifice was solemnly laid. Orders, to borrow

the words of the chronicler, [Footnote 130] "were issued

simultaneously to all the dukes, satraps, judges, quaestors, and

prefects" throughout the empire, to send in from their several

governments pillars, peristyles, bronzes, gates, marbles, and all

other materials suitable for the projected undertaking. How

efficiently the order was carried out may yet be read in the motley,

though magnificent array of pillars and marbles which form the most

striking characteristic of St. Sophia, and which are for the most

part, as we shall see, the spoil of the older glories of Roman and

Grecian architecture. We shall only mention here eight porphyry

columns from the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, which Aurelian had sent

to Rome, and which, having come into the possession of a noble Roman

widow, named Marcia, as her dowry, were presented by that pious lady

to Justinian, as an offering [Greek text], "for the Salvation of her

soul." [Footnote 131]

[Footnote 130: _Anonymi de Antiquit. Constantinop._ (in Banduri's

_Imperium Orientale_), p. 55.]

[Footnote 131: _Anonymi_, p. 55.]

Indeed, some of the incidents of the undertaking are so curious in

themselves, and illustrate so curiously the manners and feelings of

the age, that we are induced to select a few of them from among a mass

of more or less legendary details, supplied by the anonymous {646}

chronicler already referred to, whose work Banduri has printed in his

_Imperium Orientals_ [Footnote 132] and who, if less trustworthy than

Procopius or the Silentiary, has preserved a much greater amount of

the traditionary gossip connected with the building.

[Footnote 132: Under the title _Anonymi de Antiquitatibus

Constantinopoleos_. The third part is devoted entirely to a "History

and Description of the Church of St. Sophia."]

For the vastly enlarged scale of Justinian's structure, it became

necessary to make extensive purchases in the immediate circuit of the

ancient church; and, as commonly happens, the demands of the

proprietors rose in proportion to the necessity in which the imperial

purchaser was placed. It is interesting to contrast the different

spirit in which each sought to use the legal rights of a proprietor.

The first was a widow, named Anna, whose tenement was valued by the

imperial commissaries at eighty-five pounds of gold. This offer on the

part of the commissary the widow unhesitatingly refused, and declared

that she would consider her house cheap at fifty hundred-weight of

gold; but when Justinian, in his anxiety to secure the site, did not

hesitate to wait upon the widow herself in person, she was so struck

by his condescension, and so fired by the contagion of his pious

enthusiasm, that she not only surrendered the required ground, but

refused all payment for it in money: only praying that she might be

buried near the spot, in order that, from the site of her former

dwelling itself, she "might claim the purchase-money on the day of

judgment." She was buried, accordingly, near the _Skeuophylacium_, or

treasury of the sacred vessels. [Footnote 133]

[Footnote 133: _Anonymi_, p. 58.]

Very different, but yet hardly less characteristic of the time, was

the conduct of one Antiochus, a eunuch, and _ostiarius_ of the palace.

His house stood on the spot now directly under the great dome, and was

valued by the imperial surveyor at thirty-five pounds of gold. But

Antiochus exacted a far larger sum, and obstinately refused to abate

his demand. Justinian, in his eagerness, was disposed to yield; but

Strategus, the prefect of the treasury, begged the emperor to leave

the matter in his hands, and proceeded to arrest the obdurate

proprietor and throw him into prison. It chanced that Antiochus was a

passionate lover of the sports of the hippodrome, and Strategus so

timed the period of his imprisonment that it would include an

unusually attractive exhibition in the hippodrome--what in the

language of the modern turf would be called "the best meeting of the

season." At first Antiochus kept up a determined front; but, as the

time of the games approached, the temptation proved too strong; his

resolution began to waver; and, at length, when the morning arrived,

he "bawled out lustily" from the prison, and promised that, if he were

released in time to enjoy his favorite spectacle, he would yield up

possession on the emperor's own terms. By this time the races had

begun, and the emperor had already taken his seat; but Strategus did

not hesitate to have the sport suspended, led Antiochus at once to the

emperor's tribunal, and, in the midst of the assembled spectators,

completed the negotiation. [Footnote 134]

[Footnote 134: _Anonymi_ p. 59.]

A third was a cobbler, called by the classic name of Xenophon. His

sole earthly possession was the stall in which he exercised his trade,

abutting on the wall of one of the houses doomed to demolition in the

clearance of the new site. A liberal price was offered for the stall;

but the cobbler, although he did not refuse to surrender it,

whimsically exacted, as a condition precedent, that the several

factions of the charioteers should salute him, in the same way as they

saluted the emperor, while passing his seat in the hippodrome.

Justinian agreed; but took what must be considered an ungenerous

advantage of the simple man of leather. The letter of Xenophon's.

condition was fulfilled. He was placed {647} in the front of the

centre tribune, gorgeously arrayed in a scarlet and white robe. The

factions, as they passed his seat in procession, duly rendered the

prescribed salute; but the poor cobbler was balked of his anticipated

triumph, being compelled, amid the derisive cheers and laughter of the

multitude, _to receive the solute with his back turned to the

assembly!_ [Footnote 135]

[Footnote 135: _Anonymi_, p. 59. ]

But it is around the imperial builder himself that the incidents of

the history of the work, and still more its legendary marvels, group

themselves in the pages of the anonymous chronicler. For although the

chief architect, Anthemius, was assisted by Agathias, by Isidorus of

Miletus, and by a countless staff of minor subordinates, Justinian,

from the first to the last, may be truly said to have been the very

life and soul of the undertaking, and the director even of its

smallest details. From the moment when, at the close of the

inauguratory prayer, he threw the first shovelful of mortar into the

foundation, till its solemn opening for worship on Christmas-day, 538,

his enthusiasm never abated, nor did his energy relax. Under the glare

of the noon-day sun, while others were indulging in the customary

siesta, Justinian was to be seen, clad in a coarse linen tunic, staff

in hand, and his head bound with a cloth, directing, encouraging, and

urging on the workmen, stimulating the industrious by liberal

donations, visiting the loiterers with his displeasure. Some of his

expedients, as detailed by the chronicler, are extremely curious. We

shall mention only one. In order to expedite the work, it was

desirable to induce the men to work after-hours. The natural way of

effecting this would have been to offer them a proportionate increase

of pay; but Justinian chose rather to obtain the same result

indirectly. Accordingly, he was accustomed--if our authority can be

relied on--to scatter a quantity of coins about the building; and the

workmen, afraid to search for them in the open day, were led to

continue their work till the shades of evening began to fall, in order

that they might more securely carry off the spoil under cover of the

darkness!

Some of the building operations which this writer describes are

equally singular. The mortar, to secure greater tenacity, was made

with barley-water; the foundations were filled up with huge

rectangular masses, fifty feet long, of a concrete of lime and sand,

moistened with barley-water and other glutinous fluid, and bound

together by wicker framework. The tiles or bricks of which the cupola

was formed were made of Rhodian clay, so light that twelve of them did

not exceed the weight of one ordinary tile. The pillars and buttresses

were built of cubical and triangular blocks of stone, with a cement

made of lime and oil, soldered with lead, and bound, within and

without, with clamps of iron.

It is plain, however, that these particulars, however curious they may

seem, are not to be accepted implicitly, at least if they are judged

by the palpable incredibility of some of the other statements of the

writer. The supernatural appears largely as an element in his history.

On three several occasions, according to this chronicler, the emperor

was favored with angelic apparitions, in which were imparted to him

successive instructions, first as to the plan of the building, again

as to urging on its progress, and finally as to finding funds for its

completion. One of these narratives is extremely curious, as showing

the intermixture of earth and heaven in the legendary notions of the

time. A boy, during the absence of the masons, had been left in charge

of their tools, when, as the boy believed, one of the eunuchs of the

palace, in a resplendent white dress, came to him, ordered him at once

to call back the masons, that the work of heaven might not be longer

retarded. {648} On the boy's refusing to quit the post of which he had

been left in charge, the supposed eunuch volunteered to take his

place, and swore "by the wisdom of God" that he would not depart from

the place till the boy should return. Justinian ordered all the

eunuchs of the palace to be paraded before the boy; and on the boy's

declaring that the visitor who had appeared to him was not any of the

number, at once concluded that the apparition was supernatural; but,

while he accepted the exhortation to greater zeal and energy in

forwarding the work, he took a characteristic advantage of the oath by

which the angel had sworn not to leave the church till the return of

his youthful messenger. Without permitting the boy to go back to the

building where the angel had appeared to him, Justinian _sent him away

to the Cyclades for the rest of his life,_ in order that the perpetual

presence and protection of the angel might thus be secured for the

church, which that divine messenger was pledged never to leave till

the boy should return to relieve him at his post! [Footnote 136]

[Footnote 136: _Anonymi_, p. 61.]

Without dwelling further, however, on the legendary details, we shall

find marvels enough in the results, such as they appear in the real

history of the building. And perhaps the greatest marvel of all is the

shortness of the period in which so vast a work was completed, the new

church being actually opened for worship within less than seven years

from the day of the conflagration. Ten thousand workmen were employed

on the edifice, if it be true that a hundred master-builders, each of

whom had a hundred men under him, were engaged to accelerate and

complete the undertaking. For the philosophical student of history,

there is a deep subject of study in the bare enumeration of the

materials brought together for this great Christian enterprise, and of

the various quarters from which they were collected. It is not alone

the rich assortment of precious marbles--the spotless white of Paros;

the green of Croceae; the blue of Libya; together with parti-colored

marbles in a variety hardly ever equalled before--the costly

cipolline, the rose-veined white marble of Phrygia, the curiously

streaked black marble of Gaul, and the countless varieties of Egyptian

porphyry and granite. Far more curious is it to consider how the

materials of the structure were selected so as to present in

themselves a series of trophies of the triumphs of Christianity over

all the proudest forms of worship in the old world of paganism. In the

forest of pillars which surround the dome and sustain the graceful

arches of the gynaeconitis, the visitor may still trace the spoils of

the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, of the famous Temple of Diana at

Ephesus, or that of the Delian Apollo, of Minerva at Athens, of Cybele

at Cyzicus, and of a host of less distinguished shrines of paganism.

When the mere cost of the transport of these massive monuments to

Constantinople is taken into account, all wonder ceases at the

vastness of the sums which are said to have been expended in the work.

It is easy to understand how, "before the walls had risen two cubits

from the ground, forty-five thousand two hundred pounds were

consumed." [Footnote 137] It is not difficult to account for the

enormous general taxation, the oppressive exactions from individuals,

the percentages on prefects' incomes, and the deductions from the

salaries of judges and professors, which went to swell the almost

fabulous aggregate of the expenditure; and there is perhaps an

economical lesson in the legend of the apparition of the angel, who,

when the building had risen as far as the cupola, conducted the master

of the imperial treasury to a subterranean vault in which eighty

hundred weight of gold were discovered ready for the completion of the

work! [Footnote 138]

[Footnote 137: Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," vol. iii. p. 633.]

[Footnote 138: _Anonymi_, p. 62.]

Even independently of the building itself and its artistic

decorations, the value of the sacred furniture and appliances exceeded

all that had ever before been devised. The sedilia of the {649}

priests and the throne of the patriarch were of silver gilt. The dome

of the tabernacle was of pure gold, ornamented with golden lilies, and

surmounted by a gold cross seventy-five pounds weight and encrusted

with precious stones. All the sacred vessels--chalices, beakers,

ewers, dishes, and patens, were of gold. The candelabra which stood on

the altar, on the ambo, and on the upper gynaeconitis; the two

colossal candelabra placed at either side of the altar; the dome of

the ambo; the several crosses within the bema; the pillars of the

iconastasis; the covers of the sacred books--all were likewise of

gold, and many of them loaded with pearls, diamonds, and carbuncles.

The sacred linens of the altar and the communion cloths were

embroidered with gold and pearls. But when it came to the construction

of the altar itself, no single one of these costly materials was

considered sufficiently precious. Pious ingenuity was tasked to its

utmost to devise a new and richer substance, and the table of the

great altar was formed of a combination of all varieties of precious

materials. Into the still fluid mass of molten gold were thrown pearls

and other gems, rubies, crystals, topazes, sapphires, onyxes, and

amethysts, blended in such proportions as might seem best suited to

enhance to the highest imaginable limit the costliness of what was

prepared as the throne of the Most High on earth! And to this

combination of all that is most precious in nature, art added all the

wealth at its disposal, by the richness of the chasing and the

elaborateness and beauty of the design.

The total cost of the structure has been variously estimated. It

amounted, according to the ancient authorities, to "three hundred and

twenty thousand pounds;" but whether these were of silver or of gold

is not expressly stated. Gibbon [Footnote 139] leaves it to each

reader, "according to the measure of his belief," to estimate it in

one or the other metal; but Mr. Neale [Footnote 140] is not deterred

by the sneer of Gibbon from expressing his "belief that gold must be

intended." According to this supposition the expenditure, if this can

be believed possible, would have reached the enormous sum of thirteen

millions sterling!

[Footnote 139: "Decline and Fall," vol. iii., p. 523.]

[Footnote 140: "Eastern Church," vol. i., p. 237. ]

It was, no doubt, with profound self-gratulation that, at the end of

almost six years of anxious toil, Justinian received the intelligence

of the completion of this great labor of love. At his special

entreaty, the last details had been urged forward with headlong haste,

in order that all might be ready for the great festival of Christmas

in the year 538; and his architect had not disappointed his hopes.

There is some uncertainty as to the precise date of the dedication;

and indeed it is probable that the festival may have extended over

several days, and thus have been assigned to different dates by

different writers. But when it came (probably on Christmas eve,

December 24, 538) it was a day of triumph for Justinian. A thousand

oxen, a thousand sheep, a thousand swine, six hundred deer, ten

thousand poultry, and thirty thousand measures of corn, were

distributed to the poor. Largesses to a fabulous amount were divided

among the people. The emperor, attended by the patriarch and all the

great officers of state, went in procession from his palace to the

entrance of the church. But, from that spot, as though he would claim

to be alone in the final act of offering, Justinian ran, unattended,

to the foot of the ambo, and with arms outstretched and lifted up in

the attitude of prayer, exclaimed in words which the event has made

memorable: "Glory to God, who hath accounted me worthy of such a work!

I have conquered thee, O Solomon!"

Justinian's works in St. Sophia, however, were not destined to cease

with this first completion of the building. Notwithstanding the care

bestowed on {650} the dome, the selection of the lightest materials

for it, and the science employed in its construction, an earthquake

which occurred in the year 558 overthrew the semi-dome at the east end

of the church. Its fall was followed by that of the eastern half of

the great dome itself; and in the ruin perished the altar, the

tabernacle, and the whole bema, with its costly furniture and

appurtenances. This catastrophe, however, only supplied a new

incentive to the zeal of Justinian. Anthemius and his fellow-laborers

were now dead, but the task of repairing the injury was entrusted to

Isidorus the Younger, nephew of the Isidorus who had been associated

with Anthemius in the original construction of the church. It was

completed, and the church rededicated, at the Christmas of the year

561; nor can it be doubted that the change which Isidorus now

introduced in the proportions of the dome, by adding twenty-five feet

to its height, contributed materially as well to the elegance of the

dome itself as to the general beauty of the church and the harmony of

its several parts.

The church of Justinian thus completed may be regarded as

substantially the same building which is now the chief temple of

Islam. The few modifications which it has undergone will be mentioned

in the proper place; but it may be convenient to describe the

building, such as it came from the hands of its first founder, before

we proceed to its later history.

St. Sophia, in its primitive form, may be taken as the type of

Byzantine ecclesiology in almost all its details. Although its walls

enclose what may be roughly [Footnote 141] called a square of 241

feet, the internal plan is not inaptly described as a Greek cross, of

which the nave and transepts constitute the arm, while the aisles,

which are surmounted by the gynaeconitis, or women's gallery, may be

said to complete it into a square, within which the cross is

inscribed. The head of the cross is prolonged at the eastern extremity

into a slightly projecting apse. The aisle is approached at its

western end through a double narthex or porch, extending over the

entire breadth of the building, and about 100 feet in depth; so that

the whole length of the structure, from the eastern wall of the apse

to the wall of the outer porch, is about 340 feet. In the centre, from

four massive piers, rises the great dome, beneath which, to the east

and to the west, spring two great semi-domes, the eastern supported by

three, the western by two, semi-domes of smaller dimensions. The

central of the three lesser semi-domes, to the east, constitutes the

roof of the apse to which allusion has already been made. The piers of

the dome (differing in this respect from those of St. Peter's at Rome)

present from within a singularly light and elegant appearance; they

are nevertheless constructed with great strength and solidity,

supported by four massive buttresses, which, in the exterior, rise as

high as the base of the dome, and are capacious enough to contain the

exterior staircases of the gynaeconitis. The lightness of the

dome-piers is in great part due to the lightness of the materials of

the dome itself already described. The diameter of the dome at its

base is 100 feet, its height at the central point above the floor is

179 feet, the original height, before the reconstruction in 561,

having been twenty-five feet less. [Footnote 142] The effect of this

combination of domes, semi-domes, and plane arches, on entering the

nave, is singularly striking. It constitutes, in the opinion of the

authors of "Byzantine Architecture," what may regarded as the

characteristic beauty be of St. Sophia; and the effect is heightened

in the modern mosque by the nakedness of the lower part of the {651}

building, and by the absence of those appurtenances of a Christian

church,--as the altar, the screen, and the ambo,--which, by arresting

the eye in more minute observation, withdrew it in the Christian times

from the general proportions of the structure. This effect of

lightness is also increased by numerous window's, which encircle the

tympanum. They are twenty-four in number, small, low, and

circular-headed; and in the spaces between them spring the twenty-four

groined ribs of the dome, which meet in the centre and divide the

vault into twenty-four equal segments. The interior was richly

decorated with mosaic work. At the four angles beneath the dome were

four colossal figures of winged seraphim; and from the summit of the

dome looked down that majestic face of Christ the Sovereign Judge,

which still remains the leading type of our Lord's countenance in the

school of Byzantine art, and even in the Latin reproductions of it

fills the mind with a feeling of reverence and awe, hardly to be

equalled by any other production of Christian art. The exterior of the

dome is covered with lead, and it was originally surmounted by a

stately cross, which in the modern mosque is replaced by a gigantic

crescent fifty yards in diameter; on the gilding of this ornament

Murad III. expended 50,000 ducats, and the glitter of it in the

sunshine is said to be visible from the summit of Mount Olympus--a

distance of a hundred miles. To an eye accustomed to the convexity of

the cupola of western churches, the interior height of the dome of

Sophia is perhaps somewhat disappointing, especially considering the

name "aerial," by which it is called by the ancient authorities. This

name, however, was given to it, not so much to convey the idea of

lightness or "airiness" in the structure, as because its proportions,

as designed by the architect, were intended to represent or reproduce

the supposed convexity of the "aerial vault" itself.

[Footnote 141: This is not exactly true. The precise dimensions of

the building (excluding the apse and narthex) are 241 feet by 226

feet.]

[Footnote 142: Later Greek authorities, for the purpose of exalting

the glories of the older church, allege that the second dome is

fifteen feet lower than the first; and even Von Hammer

(_Constantinople und der Bosporus_, vol. i., p. 346) adopts this

view. But Zonaras and the older writers agree that the height was

increased by twenty-five feet. See Neale's "Eastern Church," vol.

i., p. 239.]

With Justinian's St. Sophia begins what may be called the second or

classic period of Byzantine archaeology. It is proper, therefore, that

we should describe, although of necessity very briefly, its general

outline and arrangements.

With very few exceptions, the Greek churches of the earlier period

(including the older church of St. Sophia, whether as originally built

by Constantine and restored by his son, or as rebuilt by Theodosius)

were of that oblong form which the Greeks called "dromic" and which is

known in the west as the type of the basilica. The present St. Sophia,

on the contrary, may be regarded as practically the type of the

cruciform structure. This cruciform appearance, however, is, as has

been already explained, confined to the internal arrangement, the

exterior presenting the appearance of a square, or if the porch be

regarded as part of the church, of an oblong rectangle.

To begin with the narthex or porch:--That of St. Sophia is double,

consisting of an outer (exonarthcx) as well as an inner (esonarthex)

porch. Most Byzantine churches have but a single narthex--often a

lean-to against the western wall; and in some few churches the narthex

is altogether wanting. But in St. Sophia it is a substantive part of

the edifice; and, the roof of the inner compartment being arched, it

forms the substructure of the western gynaeconitis, or women's choir,

which is also carried upon a series of unrivalled arches supported by

pillars, most of which are historical, around the northern and

southern sides of the nave. The outer porch is comparatively plain,

and communicates with the inner one by five marble doorways (of which

one is now walled up), the doors being of bronze, wrought in floriated

crosses, still distinguishable, although much mutilated by the Turkish

occupants. The inner porch is much more rich, the floor of watered

marble, and the walls lined with marbles of various colors and with

richly carved alabaster. It opens on {652} the church by nine gates of

highly-wrought bronze; over the central portal is a well-preserved

group in mosaic, bearing the inscription: [Greek text]--and

representing our Lord, with the Virgin and St. John the Baptist on

either hand, in the act of giving with uplifted right hand his

benediction to an emperor (no doubt Justinian) prostrate at his feet.

This group is represented in one of M. Salzenberg's plates; and it is

specially interesting for the commentary, explanatory of the attitude

of our Lord, given in the poem of Paul the Silentiary, according to

whom the position of our Lord's fingers represents, in the language of

signs then received, the initial and final letters of the sacred name,

[Greek text]:

[Greek text]

The outstretched forefinger meant I; the bent second finger, C or

[sigma]; the third finger applied to the thumb, X; and the little

finger, [sigma]. It may also be noted that Justinian in this curious

group is represented with the nimbus. During the progress of the

restoration of the building in 1847, this mosaic was uncovered, and

exactly copied; but like all the other mosaics which contain

representations of the human form, it has been covered with canvas,

and again carefully coated with plaster. It was on the _phiale_ or

fountain of the outer court of this narthex that the famous

palindromic inscription was placed:

[Greek text]

"Wash thy sins, not thy countenance only."

The interior of St. Sophia, exclusive of the women's choir, consisted

of three great divisions--the nave, which was the place of the laity;

the _soleas_, or choir, which was assigned to the assisting clergy of

the various grades; and the _bema_, or sanctuary, the semi-circular

apse at the eastern end in which the sacred mysteries were celebrated,

shut off from the soleas by the _inconastasis_ or screen, and flanked

by two smaller, but similar, semicircular recesses; the _diaconicon_,

corresponding with the modern vestry; and the _prothesis_, in which

the bread and wine were prepared for the eucharistic offering, whence

they were carried, in the procession called the "Great Entrance," to

the high altar within the bema.

The position of these several parts is still generally traceable in

the modern mosque, although, the divisions having been all swept away,

there is some controversy as to details.

The nave, of course, occupies the western end, and is entered directly

from the porch. It was separated from the soleas, or choir, at the

_ambo_--the pulpit, or more properly gallery, which was used not only

for preaching, but also for the reading or chanting of the lessons and

the gospel, for ecclesiastical announcements or proclamations, and in

St. Sophia for the coronation of the emperor. The ambo of St. Sophia

was a very massive and stately structure of rich and costly material

and of most elaborate workmanship; it was crowned by a canopy or

baldachin, surmounted by a solid golden cross a hundred pounds in

weight. All trace of the ambo has long disappeared from the mosque;

but from the number of clergy, priests, deacons, subdeacons, lectors,

and singers (numbering, even on the reduced scale prescribed by

Justinian, 385) which the soleas was designed to accommodate, as well

as from other indications, it is believed that the ambo, which was at

the extreme end of the soleas, must have stood under the dome, a

little to the east of the centre. The seat of the emperor was on the

left side of the soleas, immediately below the seats of the priests,

close to the ambo, and opposite to the throne of the patriarch. The

seats assigned in the present patriarchal church to the princes of

Wallachia and Moldavia correspond in position to those formerly

occupied by the throne of the emperor and are directly opposite that

of the patriarch. Beside its sacred uses, the ambo of St. Sophia was

{653} the scene of many a striking incident in Byzantine history. The

reader of Gibbon will recall the graphic picture of Heracleonas

compelled by the turbulent multitude to appear in the ambo of St.

Sophia with his infant nephew in his arms for the purpose of receiving

their homage to the child as emperor; [Footnote 143] or his still more

vivid description of the five sons of Copronimus, of whom the eldest,

Nicephorus, had been made blind, and the other four had their tongues

cut out, escaping from their dungeon and taking sanctuary in St.

Sophia. There are few more touching stories in all the bloody annals

of Byzantium than that which presents the blind Nicephorus employing

that faculty of speech which had been spared in him alone, by

appealing from the ambo on behalf of his mute brothers to the pity and

protection of the people! [Footnote 144]

[Footnote 143: "Decline and Fall," vol. iv.. p. 403. ]

[Footnote 144: _Ibid_., vol. iv., p. 413. ]

But it was upon the bema of St. Sophia, as we have already seen, that

the wealth and pious munificence of Justinian were most lavishly

expended. It was shut off from the soleas by the inconastasis, which

in Byzantine art is a screen resembling, in all except its position,

the rood-screen of western architecture, and derived its name from the

sacred pictures ([Greek text]) represented upon it. In that of St.

Sophia the material was silver, the lower part being highly wrought

with arabesque devices, and the upper composed of twelve pillars,

twined two and two, and separated by panels on which were depicted in

oval medallions the figures of our Lord, his Virgin Mother, and the

prophets and apostles. It had three doors; the central one (called

[Greek text], "sacred door") leading directly to the altar, that on

the right to the diaconicon, and that on the left to the prothesis.

The figures on either side of the central door, following what appears

to have been the universal rule, were those of our Lord and the

Virgin, and above the door stood a massive cross of gold. The altar,

with its canopy or tabernacle, has been already described. The

_synthronus_, or bench with stalls, for the officiating bishop and

clergy, are at the back of the altar along the circular wall of the

bema. The seats were of silver gilt. The pillars which separated them

were of pure gold. All this costly and gorgeous structure has of

course disappeared from the modern mosque. The eye now ranges without

interruption from the entrance of the royal doors to the very

extremity of the bema;--the only objects to arrest observation being

the sultan's gallery (maksure), which stands at the left or north side

of the bema; the mimber, or pulpit for the Friday prayer, which is

placed at the right or southern end of the ancient inconastasis; the

mahfil, or ordinary preaching pulpit, in the centre of the mosque; and

the mihrab, or sacred niche, which is at the south-east side of the

bema.

It was more difficult, in converting the church into a mosque, to get

rid of the numerous sacred pictures in gold and mosaic which adorned

the walls and arches. Accordingly, instead of attempting to remove or

destroy them, the Moslem invaders of the church were content with

covering all these Christian representations with a coat of plaster;

and thus in the late reparation of the mosque, the architect, having

removed the plaster, was enabled to have copies made of all the groups

which still remained uninjured. Of the principal of them M. Salzenberg

has given fac-similes. On the great western arch was represented the

Virgin Mary, with Sts. Peter and Paul. On the side walls of the nave,

above the women's choir upon either side, were figures, in part now

defaced, of prophets, martyrs, and other saints. M. Salzenberg has

reproduced in his volume Sts. Anthemius, Basil, Gregory, Dionysius the

Areopagite, Nicolas of Myra, Gregory the Armenian apostle, and the

prophets Jeremiah, Isaiah, and Habakkuk. On the great eastern arch was

a group consisting of the Virgin Mary, St. John the Baptist, and {654}

the Emperor John Palaeologus, the last Christian restorer of the

building; but these figures--and still more the group which decorated

the arch of the bema, our Lord, the Virgin, and the Archangel

Michael--are now much defaced. Much to the credit of the late sultan,

however, he not only declined to permit the removal of these relics of

ancient Christian art, but gave orders that every means should be

taken to preserve them; at the same time directing that they should be

carefully concealed from Moslem eyes, as before, by a covering of

plaster, the outer surface of which is decorated in harmony with those

portions of the ancient mosaic, which, not containing any object

inconsistent with the Moslem worship, have been restored to their

original condition. Accordingly, the winged seraphim at the angles of

the buttresses which support the dome have been preserved, and, to a

Christian visitor, appear in strange contrast with the gigantic Arabic

inscriptions in gold and colors which arrest the eye upon either side

of the nave and within the dome, commemorating the four companions of

the Prophet, Abu-bekr, Omar, Osman, and Ali.

But there is one characteristic of St. Sophia which neither time nor

the revolutions which time has brought have been able to efface or

even substantially to modify--the strikingly graceful and elegant,

although far from classically correct, grouping of the pillars which

support the lesser semidomes and the women's choir. It would be

impossible, without the aid of a plan, to convey any idea of the

arrangement of this matchless assemblage of columns, which, as we have

already observed, are even less precious for the intrinsic richness

and beauty of their material than for the interesting associations

which their presence in a Christian temple involves. Most of these may

still be identified. The eight red porphyry pillars standing, two and

two, under the semi-domes at either end of the nave, are the

celebrated columns from the Temple of the Sun, already recorded as the

gift of Marcia, offered by her "for the salvation of her soul." The

eight pillars of green serpentine which support the women's choir, at

either side of the nave, are from the Temple of Diana at Ephesus; and

among the remaining pillars on the ground floor, twenty-four in

number, arranged in groups of four, are still pointed out

representatives of almost every form of the olden worship of the Roman

empire--spoils of the pagan temples of Athens, Delos, Troas, Cyzicus,

and other sanctuaries of the heathen gods.

Less grand, but hardly less graceful, are the groups of pillars,

sixty-seven in number, in the women's choir above the aisles and the

inner porch. The occasional absence of uniformity which they present,

differing from each other in material, in color, in style, and even in

height, although it may offend the rules of art, is by no means

ungrateful to the eye. In the total number of the pillars of St.

Sophia, which is the broken number one hundred and seven, there is

supposed to be a mystic allusion to the seven pillars of the House of

Wisdom. [Footnote 145]

[Footnote 145: Proverbs ix. 1.]

Such was St. Sophia in the days of its early glory--a fitting theatre

for the stately ceremonial which constituted the peculiar

characteristic of the Byzantine court and Church. On all the great

festivals of the year--Christmas, Epiphany, Palm Sunday, Easter,

Pentecost, and the Ascension; at the ceremony of the emperor's

coronation; at imperial marriages; and on occasions, more rare in the

inglorious annals of the Lower Empire, of imperial triumphs,--the

emperor, attended by the full array of his family I and court, went in

state to St. Sophia and assisted at the celebration of the divine

mysteries. The emperor himself, with his distinctive purple buskins

and close tiara; the Caesar, {655} and, in later times, the

Sebastocrator, in green buskins and open tiara; the Despots, the

Panhypersebastos, and the Protosebastos; the long and carefully

graduated line of functionaries, civil and military--the Curopalata,

the Logothete and Great Logothete, the Domestic and Great Domestic,

the Prostostrator, the Stratospedarch, the Protospatharius, the Great

AEteriarch, and the Acolyth, with the several trains of attendants in

appropriate costume which belonged to each department,--combined to

form an array for which it would be difficult to find a parallel in

the history of ceremonial; and when to these are added the purely

ecclesiastical functionaries, for whose number even the munificent

provision of space allotted by Justinian's architect was found at

times insufficient, some idea may be formed of the grandeur of the

service, which, for so many ages, lent to that lofty dome and these

stately colonnades a life and a significance now utterly lost in the

worship which has usurped its place. As a purely ecclesiastical

ceremony, probably some of the great functions at St. Peter's in Rome

surpass in splendor such a ceremonial as the "Great Entrance" at St.

Sophia on one of the emperor's days. But the latter had the additional

element of grandeur derived from the presence of a court unrivalled

for the elaborate stateliness and splendor of its ceremonial code.

We have said that the church of Justinian is, in all substantial

particulars, the St. Sophia of the present day. In an architectural

view the later history of the building is hardly worth recording. The

eastern half of the dome, in consequence of some settling of the

foundation of the buttresses, having shown indications of a tendency

to give way, it became necessary in the reign of Basil the Macedonian,

toward the end of the ninth century, to support it by four exterior

buttresses, which still form a conspicuous object from the Seraglio

Place. The Emperor Michael, in 896, erected the tower still standing

at the western entrance, to receive a set of bells which were

presented by the doge of Venice, but which the Turks have melted down

into cannon. About half a century later, a further work for the

purpose of strengthening the dome was undertaken by the Emperor

Romanus; and in the year 987 a complete reparation and

re-strengthening of the dome, within and without, was executed under

Basil the Bulgaricide, in which work the cost of the scaffolding alone

amounted to ten hundred weight of gold.

No further reparations are recorded for upward of two centuries. But,

to the shame of the founders of the Latin empire of Constantinople,

the church of St. Sophia suffered so much in their hands, that, after

the recovery of the city by the Greeks, more than one of the later

Greek emperors is found engaged in repairing the injuries of the

building. Andronicus the Elder, Cantacuzenus, and John IV.

Palaeologus, each had a share in the work; and, by a curious though

fortuitous coincidence, Palaeologus, the last of the Christian

emperors who are recorded as restorers of St. Sophia, appears to be

the only one admitted to the same honor which was accorded to its

first founder Justinian--that of having his portrait introduced into

the mosaic decorations of the building. John Palaeologus, as we saw,

is represented in the group which adorned the eastern arch supporting

the great dome. The figures, however, are now much defaced.

How much of the injury which, from whatever cause, the mosaic and

other decorations of St. Sophia have suffered, is due to the

fanaticism of the Turkish conquerors of Constantinople it is

impossible to say with certainty. Probably, however, it was far less

considerable than might at first be supposed. Owing to the peculiar

discipline of the Greek Church, which, while it freely admits painted

images, endures no sculptured Christian representations except that of

the cross itself, there was little in the marble or bronze of St.

Sophia to provoke Moslem {656} fanaticism. The crosses throughout

the building, and especially in the women's choir, have been modified,

rather than completely destroyed; the mutilator being generally

satisfied with merely chiselling off _the head of the cross_ (the

cruciform character being thus destroyed), sparing the other three

arms of the Christian emblem. For the rest, as we have already said,

the change consisted in simply denuding the church of all its

Christian furniture and appliances, whether movable objects or

permanent structures, and in covering up from view all the purely

Christian decorations of the walls, roof, and domes. The mosaic work,

where it has perished, seems to have fallen, less from intentional

outrage or direct and voluntary defacement, than from the

long-continued neglect under which the building had suffered for

generations, down to the restoration by the late sultan.

The alterations of the exterior under Moslem rule are far more

striking, as well as more considerable. Much of the undoubtedly heavy

and inelegant appearance of the exterior of St. Sophia is owing to the

absence of several groups of statues and other artistic objects which

were designed to relieve the massive and ungraceful proportions of the

buttresses and supports of the building as seen from without. Of these

groups the most important was that of the celebrated horses now at St.

Mark's in Venice. On the other hand, the addition of the four minarets

has, in a different way, contributed to produce the same effect of

heaviness and incongruity of proportion. Of these minarets, the first,

that at the south-east angle, was built by Mahomet II. The second, at

the north-east, was erected by Selim, to whose care the mosque was

indebted for many important works, intended as well for its actual

restoration as for its prospective maintenance and preservation. The

north-western and south-western minarets are both the work of Amurath

III. These structures, although exceedingly light and elegant in

themselves, are altogether out of keeping with the massive structure

to which they were intended as an appendage, and the pretentious style

of their decoration only heightens by the contrast the bald and

unarchitectural appearance of the exterior of the church. It is not

too much to say that the effect of these peculiarly Mohammedan

additions to the structure is externally to destroy its Christian

character.

But whatever may be said of the works of former sultans, it is

impossible not to regard the late Sultan Abdul Medjid as a benefactor

to Christian art, even in the works which he undertook directly in the

interest of his own worship. From the time of Amurath III. the

building had been entirely neglected. Dangerous cracks had appeared in

the dome, as well as in several of the semi-domes. The lead covering

of all was in a ruinous condition; and the apertures not only admitted

the rain and snow, but permitted free entrance to flocks of pigeons

and even more destructive birds. The arches of the gynaeconitis were

in many places split and in a tottering condition The pillars,

especially on the upper floor, were displaced and thrown out of the

perpendicular; and the whole structure, in all its parts and in all

its appointments, presented painful evidence of gross and

long-continued neglect. M. Louis Haghe has represented, in two

contrasted lithographed sketches, the interior of the mosque such as

it was and such as it now is since the restoration. The contrast in

appearance, even on paper, is very striking; although this can only be

realized by those who have had the actual opportunity of comparing the

new with the old. But the substantial repairs are far more important,

as tending to the security of a pile so venerable and the object of so

many precious associations. The great dome, while it is relieved from

the four heavy and unsightly buttresses, is made more permanently

secure by a double girder of wrought iron around the base. The lead of

the dome and the roof has been {657} renewed throughout. The tottering

pillars of the women's choir have been replaced in the perpendicular,

and the arches which they sustain are now shored up and strengthened.

The mosaic work throughout the building has been thoroughly cleaned

and restored, the defective portions being replaced by a skilful

imitation of the original. All the fittings and furniture of the

mosque--the sultan's gallery, the pulpits, the mihrab, and other

appurtenances of its worship--have been renewed in a style of great

splendor. The work of reparation extended over two years, and owed

much of its success, as well as of the spirit in which it was

executed, to the enlightened liberality of Redschid Pacha. An effort

is said to have been made by the fanatical party in Constantinople to

induce the sultan to order the complete demolition of the mosaic

pictures on the walls, as being utterly prohibited by the Koran. But

he firmly refused to accede to the demand; and it was with his express

permission that the king of Prussia commissioned M. Salzenberg to

avail himself of the occasion of their being uncovered, in order to

secure for the students of the Christian art of Byzantium the

advantage of accurate copies of every detail of its most ancient as

well as most characteristic monument.

------

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER VII.

Here it was that the real fun was going on! From the centre of the

veiling hung a strong piece of cord, with cross sticks, about eighteen

inches long, at the end. On each end of one of these sticks was stuck

a short piece of lighted candle, while on the ends of the other were

stuck small apples of a peculiarly good kind. The cross was then set

turning, when some plucky hero snapped at the apples as they went

round, but as often caught the lighted candle in his mouth, when a

hearty laugh from the circle of spectators proclaimed his

discomfiture. On the other hand, if fortunate enough to secure one of

the apples, a clapping of hands, and shouts of "Well done!" proclaimed

his victory.

A little to one side of this "merry-go-round" was a huge tub of

spring-water, fresh from the pump, and as clear as crystal. It was

intended that the performers at this portion of the fun should,

stripped to the waist, dive for pence or whatever silver the

by-standers chose to throw in. Up to this it had not come into play,

for until their "betthers came down from the parlor" no silver was

thrown in; and the youngsters were "loth to wet theirsel's for

nothin'." Now, however, a _tenpenny-bit_ from Tom Murdock soon

glittered on the bottom of the tub, a full foot and a half under

water. Forthwith two or three young fellows "peeled off," to prove

their abilities as divers. The first, a black-haired fellow, with a

head as round as a cannon-ball, after struggling and bubbling until

the people began to think he was smothering, came up without the

prize. He was handed a kitchen towel to rub himself with; while one of

the other young gladiators adjusted the tenpenny-bit in the middle of

the tub, drew {658} in a long breath, and down he went like a duck. He

was not nearly so long down as the other had been; he neither

struggled nor bubbled, and came up with the money between his teeth.

"It wasn't your first time, Jamesy, anyhow," said one.

"How did you get a hoult of it, Jamesy avic?" said another.

But he kept drying his head, and never minding them.

Another tenpenny was then thrown in by old Ned Cavana; it withstood

repeated efforts, but was at last fairly brought up. Jamesy seemed to

be the most expert, for having lifted this second tenpenny, his

abilities were finally tested with a _fippenny-bit_, which after one

or two failures he brought up triumphantly in his teeth; all the other

divers having declined to try their powers upon it.

By this time the kitchen floor was very wet, and it was thought,

particularly by the contributors to the tub, that there had been

enough of that sort of fun. The girls, who were standing in whatever

dry spots of the flags they could find, thought so too; they, did not

wish to wet their shoes before the dance, and there was another move

back to the parlor.

Here the scene was completely changed, as if indeed by magic, as

nobody had been missed for the performance. The long table was no

where to be seen, while the chairs and forms were ranged along the

walls, and old Murrin the piper greeted their entrance with an

enlivening jig.

Partners were of course selected at once, and as young Lennon _happened_

to be coming in from the kitchen with Winny Cavana at the moment, they

were soon with arms akimbo footing it to admiration opposite each

other. Not far from them another couple were exhibiting in like

manner. They were Tom Murdock and Kate Mulvey; while several other

pairs were "footing it" through the room. To judge from the

self-satisfied smile upon Kate Mulvey's handsome lips, she was not a

little proud or well pleased at having taken Tom Murdock from the

belle of the party; for she had too much self-esteem to think that it

was the belle of the party had been taken from Tom Murdock.

I need not pursue the several sets which were danced, nor

particularize the pairs who were partners on the occasion. Of course

Tom Murdock took the first opportunity possible to claim the hand of

Winifred Cavana for a dance. Indeed, he was ill-pleased that in his

own house he had permitted any chance circumstance to prevent his

having opened the dance with her, and apologized for it--"but it

happened in a manner over which he had no control." He had picked up

that expression at a race-course.

With all his bitterness he had the good sense not to make a scene by

endeavoring to frustrate that which he had not the tact to obviate by

pre-arrangement. Winny had made no reply to his apology, and he

continued, "I did not ask Kate Mulvey to dance until I saw you led out

by young Lennon."

"That is a bad compliment to Kate," she observed.

"I can't help that," said he gruffly; "some people take time d-mn-bly

by the forelock."

"That cannot apply to either him or me in this case; there were two

pairs dancing before he asked me."

Now although this was certainly not said by way of reproach to Tom for

not himself being sooner, it was unanswerable, and he did not try to

answer it. He was not however in such good humor as to forward himself

much in Winny's good opinion, and Emon-a-knock, who watched him

closely, was content that he should be her sole beau for the rest of

the evening.

Refreshments were now brought in; cold punch for the boys and "nagus"

for the girls; for old Murdock could afford to make a splash, and this

he thought "was his time to do it. If any one was hungry, there was

plenty {659} of cold mate and bread on the kitchen dresser." But after

the calcannon and tea, nobody seemed to hear him.

After the liquor on the first tray was disposed of, and the glasses

collected for a replenish, a solo jig was universally called for. The

two best dancers in the province were present--Tom Murdock and Edward

Lennon, so there could be no failure.

Old Murdock had never seen young Lennon dance until that night, and so

far as he could judge, "he was not the man that Tom need be afraid

of." He had often seen Tom's best dancing, and certainly nothing which

young Lennon had exhibited there up to that time could at all touch

it.

"Come, Tom," said he, "give the girls a specimen of what you can do,

your lone," and he laid the poker and tongs across each other in the

middle of the floor.

Paddy Murrin struck up a spirit-stirring jig, which no one could

resist. The girls were all dancing it "to themselves," and young

Lennon's feet were dying to be at it, but of course he must wait.

Indeed he was not anxious to exhibit in opposition to his host's son,

but feared his reputation as a dancer would put him in for it.

Tom Murdock having been thus called on, was tightening the fung of one

of his pumps, to begin. Turning then to Murrin, he called for "the

fox-hunter's jig."

He now commenced, and like a knowing professor of his art "took it

easy" at the commencement, determined however to astonish them ere he

had done. He felt that he was dancing well, but knew that he could

dance much better, and would presently do so. He had often tried the

"poker and tongs jig," but hitherto never quite to his satisfaction.

He had sometimes come off perfectly victorious, without touching them,

but as often managed to kick them about the floor. He was now on his

mettle, not only on account of Winny Cavana, but also because "that

whelp, Lennon, was looking on, which he had no right to be." For a

while he succeeded admirably. He had tipped each division of the cross

with both heel and toe, several times with rapid and successful

precision; but becoming enthusiastic, as the plaudits passed round, he

called to Murrin "to play faster," when after a few moments of

increased speed, he tripped in the tongs, and came flat on his back

upon the floor. He was soon up again, and a few touches of the

clothes-brush set all to rights, except the irrepressible titter that

ran round the room.

Of course there was an excuse one of the fungs of his pump had again

loosened and caught in the tongs. This was not merely an excuse, but a

fact, upon which Tom Murdock built much consolation for his "partial

failure," as he himself jocosely called it; but he was savage at

heart.

There was a general call now from the girls for young Lennon, and

"Emon-a-knock, Emon-a-knock," resounded on all sides. He would not

rise, however; he was now more unwilling than ever to "dance a match,"

as he called it to himself, with his host's son.

The "partial failure" of his rival--and he was honest enough to admit

that it was but partial, and could not have been avoided--gave him

well-founded hopes of a triumph. He too had tried his powers of

agility by the poker and tongs test, and oftener with success than

otherwise. It was some time now since he had tried it, as latterly he

had not much time to spare for such amusements. He was unwilling, but

not from fear of failure, to get up; but no excuse would be taken; he

was caught by the collar of his coat by two sturdy handsome girls, and

dragged into the middle of the room. Thus placed before the

spectators, he could not refuse the ordeal, as it might be called.

He had his wits about him, however. He had seen Tom Murdock whisper

something to the piper when he was first called on to stand up, and it

{660} proved that he was not astray as to its purport.

Recollecting the jig he was in the habit of dancing the poker and

tongs to, he asked the piper to play it. Murrin hesitated, and at last

came out with a stammer that "he hadn't it, but he'd give him one as

good," striking up the most difficult jig in the Irish catalogue to

dance to.

"No," said Lennon stoutly, "I heard you play the jig I called for a

hundred times, and no later than last night, Pat, at Jemmy Mullarky's,

as I passed home from work, and I'll have no other."

"I took whatever jig he happened to strike up," said Tom with a sneer.

"You might have had your choice, for that matter, and I daresay you

had," replied Lennon, "and I'll have mine! It is my right."

"If a man can dance," continued Tom, "he ought to be able to dance to

any jig that's given him; it's like a man that can only say his

prayers out of his own book." And there was a suppressed smile at

Lennon's expense.

He saw it, and his blood was up in a moment.

"He may play any jig he chooses now," exclaimed Lennon, "except one,

and that is the one _you_ told him to play," taking his chance that his

suspicions were correct as to the purport of the whisper.

"I'll play the one I pled for the young masther himself; an' if that

doesn't shoot you, you needn't dance at all," said Murrin, apparently

prompted again by Tom Murdock.

This was a decision from which no impartial person could dissent, and

Lennon seemed perfectly satisfied, but after all this jaw and

interruption he felt in no great humor to dance, and almost feared the

result.

As he stood up he caught a glance from Winny's eye which banished

every thought save that of complying with that look. If ever a look

planted an undying resolve in a man's heart it was that. It called him

"Emon" as plain as if she had spoken it, and said, "Don't let _that

fellow_ put you down," and quick as the glance was it added, "he's a

nasty fellow."

To it now Emon went with his whole heart. He cared not what jig Pat

Murrin played, "or any other piper," he was able for them.

At first the quiet tipping of his heel and toe upon the floor, with

now and then a flat stamp which threw up the dust, was inimitable. As

he got into the "merits of the thing," the music was obliged to vie

with him in activity. It seemed as much as if he was dancing for the

piper to play to, as that the piper was playing for him to dance.

Those who were up to the merits of an Irish jig, could have told the

one he was dancing to if there had been no music at all. There was a

tip, a curl, or a stamp for every note in the tune. In fact he played

the jig upon the floor with his feet. He now closed the poker and

tongs with confidence, while Tom Murdock looked on with a malicious

hope that he too would bungle the business; and Winny Cavana looked on

with a timid fear of the same result. But he danced through and

amongst them as if by magic--a toe here, and a heel there, in each

compartment of the crossed irons with the rapidity of lightning, but

he never touched one of them.

"Quicker! quicker," cried Murdock to the piper, seeing that Lennon was

perfect master of his position.

"Aye, as quick as you like," stammered Lennon, almost out of breath;

and the increased speed of the music brought forth more striking

performance, testified to by the applause which greeted his finishing

bow.

He caught a short glance again from Winny's eye, as he passed to a

vacant seat. "Thank you, Emon, from my heart," it said, as plainly as

the other had spoken when he stood up.

It was now well on in the small hours, and as old Murdock and his son

had both ceased in a manner to do any more honors, their silence was

accepted as a sort of "notice to quit," {661} and there was a general

move in search of bonnets and cloaks. Tom Murdock knew that he was in

the dumps, and wisely left Winny to her father's escort. Lennon's way

lay by the Mulveys, and he was "that far" with Kate and some others.

Indeed, all the branch roads and pathways were echoing to the noisy

chat and opinions of the scattered party on their several ways home.

CHAPTER VIII.

The after-reflections of those most interested in the above gathering

were various, and it must be admitted to some extent unsatisfactory.

First of all, old Murdock was keen enough to perceive that he had not

furthered his object in the least by having given the party at all.

From what Tom had told him he had kept a close watch upon young

Lennon, of whose aspirations toward Winny Cavana he had now no doubt,

and if he was not sure of a preference upon her part toward him, he

was quite certain that she had none toward Tom. This was the natural

result of old Murdock's observations of Winny's conduct during the

evening,--who, while she could and did hide the one, could not, and

did not, hide the other.

Tom Murdock was the least satisfied of them all with the whole

business, and sullenly told his father, who had done it all to serve

him, that "he had done more harm than good, and that he knew he would,

by asking that whelp Lennon; and he hoped he might never die till he

broke every bone in his body. By hook or by crook, by fair means or

foul, he must put a stop to his hopes in that quarter."

His father was silent. He felt that he had not advanced matters by his

party. Old Cavana was not the sharp old man in these matters, either

to mind or divine from how many points the wind blew, and quietly

supposed all had gone on smoothly, as he and old Murdock wished.

Winifred had been more than confirmed in her dislike to Tom Murdock,

while her secret preference for Emon-a-knock had been in no respect

diminished. She had depth enough also to perceive that Kate Mulvey was

anxious enough to propitiate the good opinion, to which she had taken

no pains to hide her indifference. She was aware that Kate Mulvey's

name had been associated with young Lennon's by the village gossips,

but she had seen nothing on that night to justify any apprehension, if

she chose to set herself to work. She would take an opportunity of

sounding her friend upon this momentous subject, and finding out how

the land really lay. If that was the side of her head Kate's cap was

inclined to lean to, might they not strike a quiet and confidential

little bargain between them, as regarded these two young men?

Kate Mulvey's thoughts were not very much at variance with those of

her friend Winny. She, not having the same penetration into the

probable results of sinister looks and scowling brows; or not,

perhaps, having ever perceived them, had thrown one of the nicest caps

that ever came from a smoothing-iron at Tom Murdock, but she feared he

had not yet picked it up. She was afraid, until the night of the

party, that her friend and rival--yes, it is only in the higher ranks

of society that the two cannot be united--had thrown a still more

richly trimmed one at him; but on that night, and she had watched

closely, she had formed a reasonable belief that her fear was totally

unfounded. She was not quite sure that it had not been let drop in

Emon-a-knock's way, if not actually thrown at him. These girls, in

such cases, are so sharp!

The very same thought had struck her. She also had determined upon

sounding her friend Winny, and would {662} take the first favorable

opportunity of having a confidential chat with her upon the subject.

The girls were very intimate, and were not rivals, only they did not

know it. We shall see by-and-by how they "sounded" each other.

Young Lennon's after-thoughts, upon the whole, were more satisfactory

than perhaps those of any of the other principal persons concerned. If

Winny Cavana had not shown him a decided preference over the general

set of young men there, she had certainly been still less particular

in her conduct and manner toward Tom Murdock. These matters, no doubt,

are managed pretty much the same in all ranks of society, though, of

course, not with the same refinement; and to young Lennon, whose heart

was on the watch, as well as his eyes, one or two little incidents

during the night gave him some faint hopes that, as yet at least, his

rich rival had not made much way against him. Hitherto, young Lennon

had looked upon the rich heiress of Rathcash as a fruit too high for

him to reach from the low ground upon which he stood, and had given

more of his attention to her poorer neighbor Kate Mulvey. He, however,

met with decided reluctance in that quarter, and being neither

cowardly, ignorant, nor shy, he had improved one or two favorable

occasions with Winny Cavana at the party, whom he now had some,

perhaps delusive, notion was not so far above his reach after all.

These are the only persons with whose after-thoughts we are concerned.

There may have been some other by-play on the part of two or three

fine young men and handsome girls, who burned themselves upon the bar,

and danced together after they became cinders, but as they are in no

respect mixed up with our story, we may pass them by without

investigating their thoughts, further than to declare that they were

all well pleased, and that the praises of old Murdock's munificence

rang from one end of the parish to the other.

CHAPTER IX.

I must now describe a portion of the garden which stretched out from

the back of old Ned Cavana's premises. A large well-enclosed farmyard,

almost immediately at the rear of the house, gave evidence of the

comfort and plenty belonging not only to the old man himself, but to

everything living and dead about the place; and as we shall be obliged

to pass through this farm-yard to get into the garden, we may as well

describe it first. Stacks of corn, wheat, oats, and barley, in great

variety of size, pointed the pinnacles of their finishing touch to the

sky. Sticking up from some of these were sham weather-cocks, made of

straw, in the shape of fish, fowl, dogs, and cats, the handiwork of

Jamesy Doyle, the servant boy,--the same black-headed urchin who lifted

the tenpenny-bit out of the tub at old Murdock's party. They were

fastened upon sticks, which did not turn round, and were therefore put

up more to frighten away the sparrows than for the purpose of

indicating which way the wind blew, or, more likely still, as mere

specimens of Jamesy Doyle's ingenuity. The whole yard was covered a

foot deep with loose straw, for the double purpose of giving comfort

to two or three litters of young pigs, and that of being used up, by

the constant tramping, into manure for the farm; for cows, heifers,

and calves strayed about it without interruption. A grand flock of

geese, as white as snow and as large nearly as swans, marched in from

the fields, headed by their gander, every evening about the same hour,

to spend their night gaggling and watching and sleeping by turns under

the stacks of corn, which were raised upon stone pillars with mushroom

metal-caps, to keep out the rats and mice. A big black cock, with a

hanging red comb and white jowls, and innumerable hens belonging to

him, something on the Brigham Young system, marched triumphantly

about, calling his favorites {663} every now and then with a quick

melancholy little chuckle as often as he found a tit-bit amongst the

straw. Ducks, half as large as the geese, coming home without a

feather raffled, in a mottled string of all colors, from the stream

below the hill, diving, for variety, into the clean straw, emerging

now and then, and smattering with their flat bills in any little

puddle of water that lay between the pavement in the bare part of the

yard. "Bullydhu," the watch-dog, as evening closed, taking possession

of a small wooden house upon wheels,--Jamesy Doyle's handiwork

too,--that it might be turned to the shelter, whichever way the wind

blew. It was a miracle to see Bully getting into it, the door was so

low; another piece of consideration of Jamesy's for the dog's comfort.

You could only know when he was in it by seeing his large soft paws

under the arch of the low door.

Beyond this farm-yard--farm in all its appearance and realities--was

the garden. A thick, high, furze hedge, about sixty yards long, ran

down one side of it, from the corner of the farmyard wall; and at the

further end of this hedge, which was the square of the garden, and

facing the sun, was certainly the most complete and beautiful

summer-house in the parish of Rathcash, or Jamesy Doyle was very much

mistaken. It also was his handiwork. In fact, there was nothing Jamesy

could not turn his hands to, and his heart was as ready as his hands,

so that he was always successful, but here he had outstripped all his

former ingenuity. The bower was now of four years' standing, and every

summer Jamesy was proud to see that nature had approved of his plan by

endorsing it with a hundred different signatures. With the other

portions of the garden or its several crops, we have nothing to do; we

will therefore linger for a while about the furze hedge and in

"Jamesy's bower" to see what may turn up. But I must describe another

item in the locality.

Immediately outside the hedge there was a lane, common to a certain

extent to both farms. It might be said to divide them. It lay quite

close to the furze hedge, which ran in a straight line a long distance

beyond where "Jamesy's bower" formed one of the angles of the garden.

There was a gate across the lane precisely outside the corner where

the bower had been made, and this was the extent of Murdock's right or

title to the commonalty of the lane. Passing through this gate,

Murdock branched off to the left with the produce of his farm. It is a

long lane, they say, that has no turning, and although the portion of

this one with which we are concerned was only sixty yards long, I have

not, perhaps, brought the reader to the spot so quickly as I might. I

certainly could have brought him through the yard without putting even

the word "farm" before it, or without saying a word about the stacks

of corn and the weather-cocks, the pigs, cows, heifers, and calves,

the geese, ducks, cock, and hens, "Bullydhu" and his house, etc., and

with a hop, step, and a leap I might have placed him in "Jamesy's

bower" if he had been the person to occupy it--but he was not. With

every twig, however, of the hedge and the bower it is necessary that

my readers should be well acquainted; and I hope I have succeeded in

making them so.

Winny Cavana was a thoughtful, thrifty girl, an experienced

housekeeper, never allowing one job to overtake another where it could

be avoided. Of course incidental difficulties would sometimes arise;

but in general she managed everything so nicely and systematically

that matters fell into their own time and place as regularly as

possible.

When Winny got the invitation for Mick Murdock's party, which was only

in the forenoon of the day before it came off, her first thought was,

that she would be very tired and ill-fitted for business the day after

it was over. She therefore called Jamesy Doyle to her assistance, and

on that day and {664} the next, she got through whatever household

jobs would bear performance in advance, and instructed Jamesy as to

some little matters which she used to oversee herself, but which on

this occasion she would entrust solely to his own intelligence and

judgment for the day after the party. She could not have committed

them to a more competent or conscientious lad. Anything Jamesy

undertook to do, he did it well, as we have already seen both in the

haggard, the garden, and the tub--for it was he who brought up the

fippenny-bit at Murdock's, and he would lay down his life to serve or

even to oblige Winny Cavana.

Having thus purchased an idle day after the party, Winny was

determined to enjoy it, and after a very late breakfast, for her

father, poor soul, was dead tired, she called Jamesy, and examined him

as to what he had done or left undone. Finding that, notwithstanding

he had been up as late as she had been herself the night before, he

had been faithful to the trust reposed in him, and that everything was

in trim order, she then complimented him upon his snapping and diving

abilities.

"How much did you take up out of the tub, Jamesy?" she asked.

"Be gorra, Miss Winny, I took up two tenpenny-bits an' a fippenny."

"And what will you do with all that money, Jamesy? it is nearly a

month's wages."

"Be gorra, my mother has it afore this, Miss Winny."

"That is a good boy, Jamesy, but you shouldn't curse."

"Be gorra, I won't, miss; but I didn't think that was cursing, at all,

at all."

"Well, it is swearing, Jamesy, and that is just as bad."

"Well, Miss Winny, you'll never hear me say it agen."

"That's right, James. Is the garden open?

"It is, miss; I'm afther bringing out an armful of leaves to bile for

the pigs."

Winny passed on through the yard into the garden. It was a fine, mild

day for the time of year, and she was soon sitting in the bower with

an unopened story-book in her lap. It was a piece of idle folly her

bringing the book there at all. In the first place, she had it by

heart--for books were scarce in that locality, and were often

read--and in the next, she was more in a humor to think than to read.

It was no strange thing, under the circumstances, if, like some

heroines of a higher stamp, "she fell into a reverie." "How long she

remained thus," to use the patent phrase in such a case, must be a

mere matter of surmise; but a step at the gate outside the hedge, and

her own name distinctly pronounced, caused her to start.

Eaves-dropping has been universally condemned, and "listeners," they

say, "never hear good of themselves." But where is the young girl, or

indeed any person, hearing their own name pronounced, and being in a

position to listen unobserved, who would not do so? Our heroine, at

all events, was not "above that sort of thing," and instead of

hemming, or coughing, or shuffling her feet in the gravel, she cocked

her ears and held her breath. We would be a little indulgent to a

person so sorely tempted, whatever our readers may think.

"If Winny Cavana," she heard, "was twice as proud, an' twice as great

a lady, you may believe me, Tom, she wouldn't refuse you. She'll have

six hundred pounds as round as the crown of your hat; an' that fine

farm we're afther walkin' over; like her, or not like her, take my

advice an' don't lose the fortune an' the farm."

"Not if I can help it, father. There's more reason than you know of

why I should secure the ready money of her fortune at any rate; as to

herself, if it wasn't for that, she might marry Tom Naddy _th'

aumadhawn_ if she had a mind."

"Had you any chat with her last night, Tom? Oh then, wasn't she

lookin' elegant!"

{665}

"As elegant as you please, father, but as proud as a peacock. No, I

had no chat with her, except what the whole room could hear; she was

determined on that, and I'm still of opinion that you did more harm

than good."

"Not if you were worth a _thrawncen_, Tom. Arrah avic machree, you

don't undherstand her; that was all put on, man alive. I'm afeerd

she'll think you haven't the pluck in you; she's a sperited girl

herself, and depend upon it she expects you to spake, an' its what

she's vexed at, your dilly-dallyin'. Why did you let that fellow take

her out for the first dance? I heerd Mrs. Moran remark it to Kitty

Mulvey's mother."

"That was a mistake, father; he had her out before I got in from the

kitchen."

"They don't like them mistakes, Tom, an' that's the very thing I blame

you for; you should have stuck to her like a leech the whole night;

they like a man that's in earnest. Take my advice, Tom avic, an put

the question plump to her at wanst fore Shraftide. Tell her I'll lay

down a pound for you for every pound her father gives her, and I'll

make over this place to you out an out. Old Ned an I will live

together while we last, an that can't be long, Tom avic. I know he'll

settle Rathcash upon Winny, and he'll have the interest of her fortune

beside--"

"Interest be d--d!" interrupted Tom; "won't he pay the money down?"

"He might do that same, but I think not; he's afeerd it might be

dribbled away, but with Rathcash, an Rathcashmore joined, the devil's

in it and she can't live like a lady; at all events, Tom, you can live

like a gentleman; ould Ned's for you entirely, Tom, I can tell you

that."

"That is all very well, father, and I wish that you could make me

think that your words would come true, but I'm not come to

four-and-twenty years of age without knowing something of the way

girls get on; and if that one is not set on young Lennon, my name is

not Tom Murdock; and I'll tell you what's more, that if it wasn't for

her fortune and that farm, he might have her and welcome. There are

many girls in the parish as handsome, and handsomer for that matter,

than what she is, that would just jump at me."

"I know that, Tom agra, but maybe it's what you'll only fix her on

that whelp, as you call him, the stronger, if you be houldin' back the

way you do. They like pluck, Tom; they like pluck, I tell you, and in

my opinion she's only makin' b'lief, to dhraw you out. Try her, Tom,

try her."

"I will, father, and if I fail, and I find that that spalpeen Lennon

is at the bottom of it, let them both look out, that's all. For his

part, I have a way of dealing with him that he knows nothing about,

and as for her--"

Here Jamesy Doyle came out into the lane from the farm-yard, and

father and son immediately branched off in the direction of their own

house, leaving Tom Murdock's second part of the threat unfinished.

But Winny had heard enough. Her heart, which had been beating with

indignation the whole time, had nearly betrayed itself when she heard

Emon-a-knock called a spalpeen.

One thing she was now certain of, and the certainty gave her whole

soul relief,--that if ever Tom Murdock could have had any chance of

success through her father's influence, and her love for him, it was

now entirely at an end for ever. Should her father urge the match upon

her, she had, as a last remedy, but to reveal this conversation, to

gain him over indignantly to her side.

{666}

Winny was seldom very wrong in her likings or dislikings, although

perhaps both were formed in some instances rather hastily, and she

often knew not why. In Tom Murdock's case, she was glad, and now

rather "proud out of herself," that she had never liked him.

"I knew the dirt was in him," she said to herself as she returned to

the house. "I wish he did not live so near us, for I foresee nothing

but trouble and vexation before me on his account. I'm sorry Jamesy

Doyle came out so soon. I'd like to have heard what he was going to

say of myself, but sure he said enough. Em-on-a-knock may despise

himself and his threat." And she went into the house to prepare the

dinner.

Tom Murdock, notwithstanding his shortcomings, and they were neither

few nor far between, was a shrewd, clever fellow in most matters. It

was owing to this shrewdness that he resolved to watch for some

favorable opportunity, rather than seek a formal meeting with Winny

Cavana "_at wanst_" as had been 'advised by his father.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

------

From Once a Week.

SAINT DOROTHEA.

The sun blazed fiercely out of cloudless blue,

And the deep sea flung back the glare again,

As though there were indeed another sun

Within the mimic sky reflected there;

Not steadily and straight, as from above,

But all athwart the little rippling waves

The broken daybeams sparkling leapt aloft

In glittering ruin; scarce a breath of air

To stir the waters or to wave the trees;

The flowers hung drooping, and the leaves lay close

Against their branches, as if sick and faint

With the dull heat and needing strong support.

The city walls, the stones of every street,

The houses glow'd, you would have thought that none

Would venture forth, till that the gracious night

Should come with sable robe and wrap the earth

In softest folds, and shade men from the day.

But see, from every street the seething crowds

Pour out, and all along the way they stand,

And ribald jest and song resound aloud,

And light accost and careless revelry:

What means this, wherefore flock the people forth?

Ceases the hum, a sudden silence falls

On all around, the tramp of armed men

Rings through the air; and hark, what further sound?

A girl's fresh voice, a sad sweet song is heard

Above the clank of arms, men hold their breath;

Yet not all sadness is that wondrous chant,

That hushes the wild crowd with sudden awe.

As when the nightingale's mellifluous tones

Rise in the woodland, ere the other birds {667}

Have ceased their vesper hymn, that moment drops

Each fluttering songster's wild thanksgiving lay,

So for awhile did silence fall on all

Within the seething crowd at that sweet voice.

She comes, they bring her forth to die, for she

This day must win the martyr's palm, this day

Must witness for her faith, this day must reap

The fruit of all her pains, long rest in heaven!

Long had they spared her, for the governor

Was loth that she should suffer, and her race

Was noble, so they hoped to make her yield,

And waited still and waited; but at length

They grew enraged at her calm steadfastness,

They knew not whence a resolution such

As made a young maid baffle aged men,

So she must die.

Now as she went along

'Midst all her guards, again burst forth the mob

Into such bitter taunts, such foul wild words,

As sent the hot blood mantling to her cheek

For shame that she, a maid, must hear such things;

And yet was no remorse within their hearts,

No light of pity in their savage eyes,

Like hungry wolves that scent the blood from far

They howled with joy, expectant of their prey.

There was one there, he in old days had loved

Her fair young face, but he too now, with scorn

Written in his dark eyes and on his brow,

And in the curl of his short lip, stood by;

It 'seemed not such a face, that bitter smile,

For he was passing fair, in youth's heyday;

But if contemptuous was his mien, his words

Were worse for her to bear, for he cried out--

He, whom her heart yet own'd its only love!

He, whom she held first of all living men!

He, whom she honor'd yet, though left by him

In her distress and danger!--this man cried,

"Ho, Dorothea! doth the bridegroom wait?

And goest thou to his arms? Joy go with thee!

But yet when in his palace courts above,

Whereof thou tellest, fair one, think on us

Who toil in this sad world below; on me

Think thou before all others, thine old love,

And send me somewhat for a token, send

Of that same heavenly fruit and of those flowers

That fade not!"

Then she turn'd and answer'd him,

"As thou hast said, so be it, thy request

Is granted!" and she pass'd on to her death.

She died: her soul was rapt into the skies.

The vulgar horde who watch'd her torture, knew

Nought of the great unfathomable bliss {668}

Which waited her, and when her spirit fled

None saw the angel bands receive her, none

Heard the long jubilant sweet sound that burst

Through heaven's high gates, swept from ten thousand harps

By seraph choirs, for she had died on earth

Only to enter on the life above.

Night fell upon the earth, the city lay

Slumb'ring in cool repose, the restless sea,

Weary with dancing all day 'neath the sun,

Was hushed to sleep by the faint whisp'ring breeze

That, wanting force to sport, but rose and fell

With soothing murmur, like to pine boughs stirr'd

By the north wind: sleep held men's eyelids close.

And he, that youth, slept, aye, slept peacefully,

Nor reck'd of the vile insult he had pour'd

Upon the head of one whom once he swore

To love beyond all others. As he lay,

Wrapt in the dreamless slumber of young health,

Sudden a light unearthly clear hath fill'd

The chamber, and he starts up from his couch,

Gazing in troubled wonder: by his side

What sees he?

A young boy he deems him first,

But when had mortal such a calm pure smile

Since our first father lost his purity?

A radiant angel, rather, should he be,

Who stands all glorious, bearing in his hands

Such fruit and flowers as surely never grew

On this dull earth; their fragrance fill'd the air,

And smote the senses of Theophilus,

That a sad yearning rose within his heart,

Such as at times a strain of song will raise,

Or some chance word will bring (we know not why),

Flooding the inmost soul with that strange sense,

Half pain, half pleasure, of some bygone time--

Some far off and forgotten happiness,

We know not where nor what.

The stranger spoke,

And thus he said, "Rise up, Theophilus!

And take these gifts which I from heaven bring.

Fair Dorothea, mindful of her words,

Hath sent thee these, and bids thee that henceforth

Thou scoff not, but believe!"

With those same words

Vanish'd the cherub, and the room was dark,

Save where the moonbeams made uncertain light,

And where remain'd those blossoms and that fruit,

For from each leaf and stem there stream'd a ray

As of the morning.

Down upon his couch

Theophilus sank prone, with awe oppress'd; {669}

But for a moment. Starting wildly up,

He cried, "My love, my Dorothea, list!

If thou canst hear me in those starry halls

Where now thou dwellest, I accept thy gift.

Do thou take mine, for I do give myself

Up to the service of thy Lord; thy faith

Shall from this hour be mine, for I believe!"

------

Translated from Der Katholik.

THE TWO SIDES OF CATHOLICISM.

[Second Article.]

I. THE PROBLEM.

"Neither," says Jesus Christ, "do they put new wine into old bottles;

otherwise the bottles break, and the wine runneth out." The parable

teaches that the new spirit of Christianity requires a new form,

corresponding to its essence. The essence and the form of Christianity

are, therefore, intimately connected.

What is thus generally enunciated in regard to the essential

connection of the spirit of Christianity with the forms of its

expression, is equally true of the mutual relations subsisting between

the substance and the manifestation of the Church. Christianity and

the Church are virtually identical. The former, considered as a source

of union and brotherhood, constitutes the Church, In a former article

we have recognized Catholicism as the type of the Church Founded by

Christ. Hence the interdependence of the essence with the form of

Christianity in general is not more thorough than that of the spirit

of the Church with the historical development of Catholicism.

These remarks will be found to designate the object of the present

essay. An inquiry into the fundamental principle of Catholicism must

address itself to the elucidation of the cause of the necessary

connection between the spirit and the outer shape of the Church just

mentioned. The direction in which the light is to be sought appears by

the parable cited above.

The new wine requires new bottles, because they only correspond with

its nature. By the same induction it is affirmed that if the true

Church is realized only in the form of Catholicism, the reason is to

be found in the inmost nature of the Church, in the catholicity of her

spirit.

This idea of the inherent catholicity of the Church, as well as the

foregoing assertion of a necessary inter-dependence of the essence

with the image of Catholicism, is to be established on scriptural

authority by the following disquisition.

II. THE KINGDOM OF GOD ON EARTH.

The shape and form in which Catholicism appears in history has its

root in the papacy. It is certainly deserving of attention, that

precisely in the institution of the papacy the Church is designated by

a name which affords an insight into her inmost nature.

On that occasion the Church--meaning the Church as apparent in

history--is called the kingdom of heaven. [Footnote 146] The Lord

says to Peter, "I will give {670} unto thee the keys of the kingdom of

heaven;" a promise substantially the same with that given in the same

breath to the same apostle, though under a different metaphor, when

Jesus calls him the rock upon which he will build his Church. The

primate is the subject of both predictions. The apostle Peter is to be

the foundation of the Church, and he is to receive the keys of the

same edifice, that is to say, he is to be the master of the house.

[Footnote 146: Matt. xvi. 18, 19. ]

That the epithet of "kingdom of heaven" expresses the essential

character of the Church, is easily shown by a glance at the passages

of Scripture in which the Church is mentioned. Such is always the case

where the kingdom of God or of heaven is represented as in course of

realization on earth. In this respect the parables of Jesus are

especially significant. They address themselves principally to the

spirit, the organization, and the most essential peculiarities of the

new order of things which Jesus Christ had come into the world to

establish. In these discourses the new foundation is constantly

brought forward as the kingdom of God or of heaven. Thus we cannot but

recognize in this expression a designation of the inner essence of the

institution of Jesus.