Other country vehicles approach. The people are stopping to drink of this water, on their way to drink of the waters of life in church. They are smart and smiling in their Sunday clothes. I observe, that, far from being the old or diseased, they are mostly young men and pretty girls. The marble spring is a charming trysting-place!
There are swarms of children here all day long. This is the first time since I left Kate's apron-string at seven years old, that I have seen much of children. Boys, to be sure, I was with until I left college; but the hotel-life I afterwards led kept me quite out of the way of youngsters. Now, I am much amused at the funny little world that opens before my notice. They flirt like grown-up people! I heard a little chit of six say to a youth of five,—
"How dare you ask me to go to the spring with you, when you've been and asked Ellen already?Idon't have to put up with half a gentleman!"
A flashy would-be lady, bustling up to the spring with her little daughter, burst into a loud laugh at the remark of an acquaintance.
"Mamma!" said Miss, tempering severity with benign dignity,—"you must not laugh so loud. It's vulgar."
Her mother lowered her tone, and looked subdued. Miss turned to a companion, and said, gravely,—
"I have to speak to her about that, often. She don't like it,—but Imustcorrect her!"
A little girl—a charming, old-fashioned,realchild—came into the summer-house a few minutes ago, and I gave up my writing to watch her. After some coy manoeuvring about the door, she drew nearer and nearer to me, as if I were a snake fascinating a pretty bird. Her tongue seemed more bashful than the rest of her frame; for she came within arm's-length, let me catch her, draw her to me, and hold her close to my side. A novel sensation of fondness for the little thing made me venture—not without some timidity, I confess—to lay my hand upon her head, and pass it caressingly over her soft young cheek, meanwhile saying encouraging things to her, in hopes of hearing her voice and making her acquaintance. She would not speak, but played with my buttons, and hung her head. At last I asked,—
"Don't you want me to tell you a little story?"
Her head flew up, her great black eyes wide open, and she said, eagerly,"Oh, yes! that's what I came for."
"Did you? Well, what shall it be about?"
"Why, about yourself,—the prince who was half marble, and couldn't get up. And I want to see your black marble legs, please!"
If I had hugged an electrical eel, I could not have been more shocked! I don't know how I replied, or what became of the child. I was conscious only of a kind of bitter horror, and almost affright. But when Kate, a quarter of an hour afterwards, brought her book and sat down beside me, I could not tell her about it, for laughing.
The little girl is in sight now. She is standing near the porch, talking to some other children, gesticulating, and shaking her curls. Probably she was a deputy from them, to obtain a solution of the mystery of my motionless limbs. They half believe I am the veritable Prince of the Black Isles! They alternately listen to her and turn to stare at me; so I know that I am the subject of their confab.
Some one is passing them now,—a lady. She pauses to listen. She, too, glances this way with a sad smile. She comes slowly down the avenue. A graceful, queenly form, and lovely face! She has drunk of the waters, and is gone.
Mary, do you know that gentle girl has added the last drop of bitterness to my cup? My lot has become unbearable. I gnash my teeth with impotent rage and despair.
Iwillnot be the wreck I am! My awakening manhood scorns the thought of being forever a helpless burden to others. Idemandmy health, and all my rights and privileges as a man,—to work,—to support others,—to bear the burden and heat of the day! Never again can I be content in my easy couch and my sister's shady grove!
Ah, Dr. G., you have indeed roused me from apathy! I am in torture, and Heaven only knows whether on this side of the grave I shall ever find peace again!
Poor Kate reads my heart, and weeps daily in secret. Brave Kate, who shed so few tears over her own grief!
C—— Springs. August.
I so continually speak of my illness, Mary, that I fear you have good right to think me that worst kind of bore, a hypochondriac. But something is now going on with me that raises all my hopes and fears. I dare not speak of it to Kate, lest she should be too sanguine, and be doomed to suffer again the crush of all her hopes.
I really feel that I could not survive disappointment, should I ever entertain positive hope of cure. Neither can I endure this suspense without asking some one's opinion. There is no medical man here in whom I have confidence, and so I go to you, as a child does to its mother in its troubles, not knowing what she can do for it, but relying upon her to do something.
I will explain what it is that excites me to such an agony of dread and expectation. When the little girl asked me to let her see my marble limbs, supposing me the Prince of the Black Isles, she sprang forward in the eagerness of childish curiosity, and touched my knee with her hand. I was so amazed at this glimpse into her mind, that for some time I only tingled with astonishment. But while I was telling Kate about it, it all came back to me again,—her stunning words, her eager spring, her prompt grasp of my knee,—and I remembered that I had involuntarily started away from her childish hand, that is, moved mymotionlesslimb!
I tried to do it again, but it was impossible. Still I could not help thinking that I had done it once, under the influence of that electrical shock.
Then I have another source of hope. I have never suffered any pain in my limbs, and they might have been really marble, for all the feeling I have had in them. Now I begin to be sensible of a wearisome numbness and aching, which would be hard to bear, if it were not that it gives me the expectation of returning animation. Do you think I may expect it, and that I am not quite deluding myself?
August 14.
So I wrote two days ago, Mary, and I was right! Thatwasreturning sensation and motion. I can now move my feet. I cannot yet stand, or walk, or help myself, any more than before; but I can, by a voluntary effort,move.
Rejoice with me! I am a happy fellow this day! Dazzling daylight is peeping through this sma' hole! Remember what I wrote of a certain lady;—and Ben has hunted me up a law-book, which I am devouring. My profession, and other blessings, again almost within grasp! This is wildness, hope run riot, I know; but let me indulge to-day, for it is this day which has set me free. I never voluntarily stirred before since the accident,—I mean my lower limbs, of course. After writing a sentence, I look down at my feet, moving them this way and that, to make sure that I am not stricken again.
The day I began this letter I had proof that I had not merely fancied movement, when the little girl startled me. A clumsy boy stumbled over my couch, and I shrank, visibly, from receiving upon my feet the pitcher of water he was carrying. I was in the porch. The beautiful girl who formerly made my affliction so bitter to me was passing at the moment, with her arm drawn affectionately through her father's. She saw the stumble, and sprang forward with a cry of alarm. It looked, certainly, as if my defenceless feet must receive the crash, and I attempted instinctively to withdraw them,—partially succeeding! I saw this at the same time that I heard the sweetest words that ever fell into my heart, in the most joyful, self-forgetful tones of the sweetest voice!
"Oh, father! He moved! He moved!"
Mr. Winston turned to me with congratulations, shaking my hand with warmth; and then his daughter extended hers,—cordially! Of course my happiness was brimming!
I afterwards tried repeatedly to put my feet in motion. I could not do it. I could not think how to begin,—what power to bring to bear upon them. This annoyed me beyond measure, and I spent yesterday in wearisome effort to no purpose. My thinking, willing mind was of no use to me; but instinctive feeling, and a chapter of accidents, have brought me to my present state of activity. A wish to change an uncomfortable position in which Ben left me this morning restored me to voluntary action. I tried to turn away from the sun-glare, using my elbows, as usual, for motors. To my surprise, I found myself assisting with my feet,—and by force of will I persisted in the effort, and continued the action. Having got the clue to the mystery, I have now only to will and execute. My rebellious members are brought into subjection! I am king of myself! Hurrah!
Good-bye, dearest friend. I shake my foot to you,—an action more expressive of joyful good-will than my best bow.
I hope my return to health will not cost me dear. I begin to fear losing the sympathy and affection of those I have learned to love so dearly, and who have cherished me in their hearts simply because of my infirmities. When I am a vigorous man, will you care for me? will Kate centre her life in me? will Miss Ada Winston look at me so often and so gently?
Well, don't laugh at me for my grasping disposition! Affection is very grateful to me, and I should be sorry to do without it, after having lived in a loving atmosphere so long.
I believe Ben is as proud of me as he was of his Shanghai, but he has a proverb which he quotes whenever he sees me much elated: "When the cup's fu', carry't even." His own cautious Scotch head could do that, perhaps; but mine is more giddy, and I am afraid I shall spill some drops from my full cup of joy by too rash advancing.
Kate is not so wild with delight as I am. She still forbids herself to exult. Probably she dares not give way to unbounded hope, remembering the bitterness of her former trial, and dreading its recurrence. She says it makes her tremble to see my utter abandonment to joyful dreams.
August 20.
It is Kate's fault that you have not received this letter before now. She kept it to say a few words to you about my recovery, but has at last yielded to me the pleasure of telling of something far more interesting, which has occurred since,—not more interesting to me, but probably so to any one else.
One evening, Kate went, with everybody from the house, to see the sunset from the hills above this glen, and I lay alone in the back porch, in the twilight. A light wagon drove up, and in two minutes a little lady had run to me, thrown herself upon her knees beside me, and pressed her sweet lips to my forehead. It was our darling little Alice Wellspring.
Immediately following her came Mr. Ryerson, in a perfect ecstasy of laughter, and blushing.
"We've run away!" whispered she.
"And got married this morning!" said he.
"But where was the necessity of elopement?" I asked, bewildered,—Kate having told me that Alice's aunt was doing her best to "catch Ryerson for her niece," she having had certain information upon that point from a near relative.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed he, slapping his knees in intense enjoyment, as he sat in his old place by my feet. "It is a practical joke,—one that will have in it what somebody calls the first element of wit,—surprise. A more astonished and mystified old lady than she will be would be hard to find! She was so willing!"
"Don't say anything against Aunt, Harry. I'm safe from her now, and so are you. She wanted such an ostentatious wedding, Charlie, that I did not like it, and Harry declared positively that he would not submit to it. So I had just to go off quietly, and come here to Kate and you, my best friends in the world, except Walter. After you know Harry, you won't blame me."
It was very rash of the child, but really I cannot blame her, as I should, if she had chosen any one else. Ryerson is one who shows in his face and in every word and action that he is a kind and noble fellow.
Kate, to my surprise, is enchanted with this performance. It chimes with her independent notions, but not with my prudent ones. However, it is done, and I never saw a more satisfactorily mated couple. It would have been a cruel pity to see that light, good little heart quelled by a morose husband, or its timidity frightened into deceitfulness by a severe one. Now she is as fearless and courageous as a pet canary.
Ryerson has one grievous fault; he uses all sorts of slang phrases. It makes his conversation very funny, but Alice don't like it, especially when he approaches the profane.
He told a very good story the other day, spiced a little in language.Everybody laughed outright. Alice looked grave.
"What is the matter, wifey?" he called out, anxiously; for with him there is no reserve before strangers. He seems to think the whole world kin, and himself always the centre of an attached and indulgent family.
"How could you say those bad words, with a child in the room?" she said, reproachfully,—pointing to my little black-eyed friend.
"I only said, 'The Devil,'—that's all! But now I remember,—if a story is ever so good, and 'the Devil' gets into it, it's no go with you! But, Allie, you shouldn't be a wet blanket to a fellow! When he is trying to be entertaining, you might help him out, instead of extinguishing him! Laugh just a little to set folks going, and make moral reflections afterwards, for the benefit of the children."
"You know, Harry, I can't make reflections!"
"No more you can,—ha! ha! If you could, there would be the Devil to pay—in curtain lectures, wouldn't there?"
"Again, Harry!"
"Pshaw, now, Allie, don't be hard upon me! That was a very little swear—for the occasion!"
She will refine him in time.
Ryerson has infused new spirit into this stiff place. The very day he came, I observed that various persons, who had held aloof from all others, drew near to him. The fellow seems the soul of geniality, and everybody likes him,—from old man to baby. The young girls gather round him for chat and repartee,—the young men are always calling to him to come boating, or gunning, or riding with them,—the old gentlemen go to him with their politics, and the old ladies with their aches. Young America calls him a "regular brick," for he lends himself to build up everybody's good-humor.
He is everything to me. Before he came, Mr. Winston was almost my only visitor, though other gentlemen occasionally sat with me a few minutes. But now everybody flocks to my couch, because Harry's head-quarters are there. He has broken down the shyness my unfortunate situation maintained between me and others. His cheery "Well, how are you to-day, old fellow?" sets everybody at ease with me. The ladies have come out from their pitying reserve. A glass of fresh water from the spring, a leaf-full of wild berries, a freshly pulled rose, and other little daily attentions, cheer me into fresh admiration of them "all in general, and one in particular," as Ryerson says.
Perhaps you think—I judge so from your letter—that I ought to describe Miss Winston to you. She is finely——Ah, I find that she is wrapped in some mysterious, ethereal veil, the folds of which I dare not disturb, even with reverent hand, and for your sake! Ah, Mary, I aspire!
C—— Springs. September.
The autumn scenery is gorgeous up among these misty hills, but I will not dwell upon it. I have too much to say of animated human nature, to more than glance out of doors. Nearly all the boarders are gone. Miss Winston left last week for her home in Boston. I am desolate indeed! The day after she went away, I stood upon my own feet without support, for the first time. Now I walk daily from the house to the spring, with the help of Kate's or Ben's arm and a cane, though I am still obliged to remain on my couch nearly all day long. I write this in direct reply to your question.
Now for the great exciting subject of the present time. I will give it in detail, as women like to have stories told.
The little wife, our Alice, came running into Kate's parlor one day, while we were both sitting there reading. She was in extreme excitement. We heard her laughing, just outside the door, in the most joyous manner; but she pulled a long face as she entered. She sank down upon the floor by my couch, so as to be on a level with me, took my hand and Kate's, and then, taking breath, said:
"Listen, Kate, and don't be agitated."
Kate was, of course, extremely agitated at once. She divined the subject about to be introduced, and her heart beat tumultuously.
"You remember I nearly betrayed Walter's secret once? Well, I am going to tell it to you now, really."
"He gave you leave, then!" said Kate, almost breathless.
"Yes, yes! This is it——Now, Kate, if you look so pale, I can't go on!"
I motioned to her to proceed at once.
"Well, he had some engineering to do in Russia, you know. They wanted to get him to undertake another job,—I don't know, nor care, what it was,—and he went out to see about it. For Charlie's sake, you let him go away almost in despair, you cruel girl! Well, when I was visiting you, he made a little spy of me. I was not to spy you, Kate, but Charlie here, and let Walter know of the slightest change for the better in him. Then he was to get some one to attend to his Russian work, and post right straight home to you, Kate! Well, my aunt wouldn't let me stay with you,—cross old thing! And she kept me so very close, that I couldn't watch Charlie at all. Then she went and threatened me with a long engagement with Harry, only to give me time to get heaps and heaps of sewing done! I knew the only chance I could get of gaining information for Walter was just to run off to you with Hal, and cut a long matter short. Well, so I came, and I wrote to Walter, the very night I arrived, that the doctor said, Charlie, that you would be quite well in a month or two! That was a month ago. But Walter had not waited for me. Perhaps he had other spies. At any rate"——
She paused.
"What? what? Be quick!" cried I, seeing that Kate was almost fainting from this suspense.
"He has come!"
Kate pressed her hand over the joyful cry that burst from her lips, and, turning away from us, sprang up, and walked to the window. There was a moment of perfect silence. Kate put her hand behind her, and motioned to the door. Alice went softly out and closed it. I could not rise, poor cripple, from intense agitation.
My sister drew one long, quivering, sobbing breath,—and then she had a good cry, as women say. It seemed to me enough to give one a headache for a week, but it refreshed her. After bathing her eyes with some iced water, she came and leaned over me.
"Thank God, Kate," I said, "for your sake and mine!"
"Can you spare me, after you are well again, Charlie,—if he"——
"Am I a monster of selfishness and ingratitude?"
She kissed me, took up her work, and sat down to sew.
"Kate!" said I, amazed, "what are you doing? Why don't you go down?"
"What for? To hunt him up at the bar-keeper's desk? or in the stables, perhaps?"
"Oh! Ah! Propriety,—yes! But how you can sit there and wait I cannot conceive."
There came a knock. I expected her to start up in rapture and admit Mr.Walter ——. She only said, "Come in!"—calmly.
Alice peeped in, and asked, "May he come?"
"Where is he?" I asked.
"In the parlor, waiting to know."
"Yes," said Kate, changing color rapidly.
"Stop, stop, Alice! You two give me each a hand, and help me into my room."
"Charlie," said Kate, "you need not go! you must not go!"
"Ah, my dear sister, I have stood between you and him long enough, I will do to him as I would be done by. Come, girls, your hands!"
They placed me in my easy-chair, both kissed me with agitated lips, and left me. Half an hour afterwards Kate and Mr. —— petitioned for admittance to my room. Of course I granted it, and immediately proceeded to a minute scrutiny of my future brother-in-law. He is a fine fellow, very scientific, clear in thought, decisive in action, quite reserved, and very good-looking. This reserve is to Kate his strongest attraction,—her own nature being so entirely destitute of it, and she so painfully conscious of her want of self-control. Yes,—he is just the one Kate would most respect, of all the men I ever saw.
Is not this happiness,—to find her future not wrecked, but blessed doubly? for her conduct has made Walter almost worship her. Iamhappy to think I have brought her good, rather than ill; but—selfish being that I am—I am not contented. I have a sigh in my heart yet!
Bosky Dell. December.
How it happened that this letter did not go I cannot imagine. I have just found it in Kate's work-basket; and I open it again, to add the grand climax. I have been so very minute in my accounts of Kate's love-affairs, that I feel it would not be fair to slur over mine. So, dear friend, I open my heart to you in this wise.
The rage for recovery which took such violent possession of me I believe effected my cure. In a month from the time I began to walk, I could go alone, without even a cane. Kate entreated me to remain as long as possible in the mountains, as she believed my recovery was attributable to the pure air and healing waters. It was consequently the first of this month before we arrived at her cottage, where we found good old Saide so much "frustrated" by delight as to be quite unable to "fly roun'." Indeed, she could hardly stand. When I walked up to shake hands with her, she bashfully looked at me out of the "tail of her eye," as Ben says. Her delicacy was quite shocked by my size!
"Saide," said I, "you positively look pale!" She really did. You have seen negroes do so, haven't you?
"Laws, Missr Charles," she answered, with a coquettish and deprecating twist, "call dat 'ere stove pale,—will yer?"
No sooner was Kate established at home, and I in my Walnut-Street office, than I undertook a trip to Boston. As I approached Miss Winston's home, all my courage left me. I walked up and down the Common, in sight of her door, for hours, thinking what a witless fool I was, to contemplate presenting my penniless self—with hope—before the millionnaire's daughter!
At last Mr. Winston came home to dinner and began to go up the steps. I sprang across the street to him, and my courage came back when I looked upon his good sensible face. When he recognized me, he seized my hand, grasped my shoulder, and gave me, with the tears actually in his eyes, a reception that honors human nature.
Such genuine friendliness, in an old, distinguished man, to a young fellow like me, shows that man's heart is noble, with all its depravity.
When he had gazed some time, almost in amazement, at my tall proportions, (he never saw them perpendicular before, you know,) he said,—
"Come in, come in, my boy! Some one else must see you! But she can't be more glad than I am, to see you so well,—that is, I don't see how she can,—for Iamglad, I amglad, my boy!"
Was not this heart-warming?
When we entered, he stopped before the hat-rack, and told me "just to walk into the parlor;—his daughter might be there." I could not rush in impetuously, I had to steady my color. Besides, ought I not to speak to him first?
Mr. Winston took off his hat,—hung it up; then his overcoat, and hung it up. I still stood pondering, with my hand upon the door-knob. Surprised at my tardiness in entering, he turned and looked at me. I could not face him. He was silent a minute. I felt that he looked right through me, and saw my daring intentions. He cleared his throat. I quailed. He began to speak in a low, agitated voice, that I thought very ominous in tone.
"You want to speak to me, perhaps. I think I see that you do. If so, speak now. A word will explain enough. No need to defer."
"I want your consent, Sir, to speak to your daughter," I stammered out.
"My dear boy," said he, clapping me on the shoulder, "she is motherless and brotherless, and I am an old man. Nothing would give me more pleasure; for I know you well enough to trust her with you. There,—go in. I hear her touch the piano."
He went up stairs. I entered. My eyes swept the long, dim apartment. In the confusion of profuse luxury I could not distinguish anything at first,—but soon saw the grand piano at the extreme end of the rooms. I impetuously strode the whole length of the two parlors,—and she rose before me with chilling dignity!
Ah, Mary, that moment's blank dismay! But it was because she thought me some bold, intruding stranger. When she saw my face, she came to me, and gave me both her hands, saying,—
"Mr. ——! Is it possible? I am happy that you are so well!"
It was genuine joy; and for a moment we were both simply glad for that one reason,—that I was well.
"You seem so tall!" she said, with a rather more conscious tone. She began to infer what my recovery and presence imported toher. I felt thrilling all over me what they were to me!
But I must say something. It is not customary to call upon young ladies, of whom you have never dared to consider yourself other than an acquaintance merely, and hold their hands while you listen to their hearts beating. This I must refrain from doing,—and that instantly.
"Yes," I stammered, "I am well,—I am quite well." Then, losing all remembrance of etiquette——But you must divine what followed. Truly
"God's gifts put man's best dreams toshame!"
P.S.—Kate will send you her cards, and Ada ours, together with the proper ceremonious invitations to the weddings, as soon as things are arranged.
[Continued.]
Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotonda,Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican walls,Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above usGathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner aroundus;Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.—Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles,Or amid cotton and maize peasants their waterworks ply,Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—Ah, that I were, far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
I.—MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER,—on the way to Florence.
Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.—We don't know.You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual reason,—He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change soSuddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,—Not quite right. I declare, I really am almost offended:I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctlyWishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, myPen will not write any more;—let us say nothing further about it.
* * * * *
Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expressionQuite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas,That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.—When does he make advances?—He thinks that women should woo him;Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.She that should love him must look for small love in return,—likethe ivyOn the stone wall, must expect but rigid and niggard support, andEven to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.
II.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE,—from Rome.
Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in thefurrow,Did it not truly accept as itssummum et ultimum bonumThat mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in?Would it have force to develope and open its young cotyledons,Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another?Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functions,Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence?While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyaged to Civita Vecchia,Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel,Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows,"This is Nature," I said: "we are born as it were from her waters,Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for,Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge,Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed."This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of thesteamer;And as unthinking I sat in the ball of the famed Ariadne,Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble.It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer.Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannotFight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although IGnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers,What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters?Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle;No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it.Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what's theRoman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic?Why not fight?—In the first place, I haven't so much as a musket.In the next, if I had, I shouldn't know how I should use it.In the third, just at present I'm studying ancient marbles.In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country.In the fifth,—I forget; but four good reasons are ample.Meantime, pray, let 'em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion.So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs!Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiae; though it would seem thisChurch is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-Come kind:Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere!Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother!
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration,Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in;But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden,Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever,Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,—
Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless, unfruitful blossom.Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine,Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike ProtesilausRose, sympathetic in grief, to his lovelorn Laodamia,Evermore growing, and, when in their growth to the prospect attaining,Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,Withering still at the sight which still they upgrew to encounter.Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces,Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions,Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not,Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow,Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shallreturn to,Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination!Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
V.—MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER,—from Florence.
Dearest Miss Roper,—Alas, we are all at Florence quite safe, andYou, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing!We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from thetroubles.Now you are really besieged! They tell us it soon will be over;Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city.Do you see Mr. Claude?—I thought he might do something for you.I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful.What is he doing? I wonder;—still studying Vatican marbles?Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage, or steamer,And,pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended,Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one;And,pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but inprospect,Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion!Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only!Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion,Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of ourknowledge!But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance,Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage-procession?But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service?But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract?But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?—Ah, but the bride, meantime,—do you think she sees it as he does?But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action?But for assurance within of a limitless ocean divine, o'erWhose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surfaceBreaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,—But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it,Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here?Ah, but the women,—God bless them!—they don't think at all about it.
Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beingsScarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding,Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not,Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,—Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided.Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.Ah, but the women, alas, they don't look at it in that way!Juxtaposition is great;—but, my friend, I fear me, the maidenHardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her,Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put upwith,—Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told herThat she is but for a space, anad-interimsolace andpleasure,—That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,—Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not.Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving and so exacting,Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you?Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and—leave you?
Juxtaposition is great,—but, you tell me, affinity greater.Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favor of juxtaposition,Potent, efficient, in force,—for a time; but none, let me tell you,Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,—Vir sum, nihil faeminei,—and e'en to the uttermost circle,All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are Nature's.Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,Here on the stones of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint, but a faithful assurance,E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of theforest,Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greet me,And, to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, andperversions,Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.
And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful;And I proceed on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,As is a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate onlyThis vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase aTribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honor.But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of drumming andshouting,Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetingsYield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o'erMild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters.Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,No, you should not have used it. But, O great Heavens, I repel it!Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate whollyEvery debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonor,Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signature! Ah, no!I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;Bind and engage myself deep;—and lo, on the following morningIt was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performanceAt the first step breaking down in its pitiful rôle of evasion,When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—Stood unexpecting, unconscious.Shespoke not of obligations,Knew not of debt,—ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.
Hang this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man's chamber,Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumberpursuing.What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of Men? Have compassion!Be favorable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge!Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the field, my brothers,Tranquilly, happily lie,—and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the AnioFalling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me.[A]Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair under Monte Gennaro,(Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wonder and gaze, of the shadows,Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,)Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sung; so now,—nor seeing, nor hearing,Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, theCupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,Which, by the grace of the Tiber, proclaim themselves Rome of theRomans,—But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapory mountains,Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,—But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by me,Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.
[Footnote A:
——domus Albuneae resonantis,Et praeceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et udaMobilibus pomaria rivis.]
Dear Miss Roper,—It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, saidSomething to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.It issodisagreeable, and so annoying, to think of!If it could only be known, though we never may meet him again, thatIt was all George's doing and we were entirely unconscious,It would extremely relieve—Your ever affectionate Mary.
P.S. (1).Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.So you have seen him,—indeed,—and guessed,—how dreadfully clever!What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?Charming!—but wait for a moment, I have not read through the letter.
P.S. (2).Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled for.Do as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it.
P.S. (3).I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday.Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manageNot to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactlyAs if it had not occurred; and I do not think he would like it.I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is overWe shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan,There to meet friends of Papa's, I am told, at the Croce di Malta;Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England.
Yes, on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city,—So it appears; though then I was quite uncertain about it.So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding.I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to Florence.Only the day before, the foolish family VernonMade some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging together,As to intentions, forsooth, and so forth. I was astounded,Horrified quite; and obtaining just then, as it chanced, an offer(No common favor) of seeing the great Ludovisi collection,Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must excuse me.How could I go? Great Heaven! to conduct a permitted flirtationUnder those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers!Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic inquiries,Find from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman,Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for removal,That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown,—not, I think, by Georgina:She, however, ere this,—and that is the best of the story,—She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and gone—honey-mooning.So—on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city.Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had dreamt of;Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio's waters, nor deep en-Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace;Tibur I shall not see;—but something better I shall see.Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the horses;Twice I have tried and failed: this time it shall not be a failure.
* * * * *
Therefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envineyarded ruins!Therefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, and domes!Therefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic Albano,Seen from Montorio's height, Tibur and Aesula's hills!Ah, could we once, ere we go, could we stand, while, to oceandescending,Sinks o'er the yellow dark plain slowly the yellow broad sun,Stand, from the forest emerging at sunset, at once in the champaign,Open, but studded with trees, chestnuts umbrageous and old,E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy beautiful hollow,Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the hill!—Therefore farewell, ye plains, and ye hills, and the City Eternal!Therefore farewell! We depart, but to behold you again!
[To be continued.]
[Continued.]
Vix fama nota est, abditisQuam plena sancti Roma sit;Quam dives urbanum solumSacris sepulchris floreat.PRUDENTIUS.
Mille victoriose chiare palme.PETRARCH.
The results of the investigations in the catacombs during the last three or four years have well rewarded the zeal of their explorers. Since the great work of the French government was published, in 1851-55, very curious and important discoveries have been made, and many new minor facts brought to light. The interest in the investigations has become more general, and no visit to Rome is now complete without a visit to one at least of the catacombs. Strangely enough, however, the Romans themselves, for the most part, feel less concern in these new revelations of their underground city than the strangers who come from year to year to make their pilgrimages to Rome. It is an old complaint, that the Romans care little for their city. "Who are there to-day," says Petrarch, in one of his letters, "more ignorant of Roman things than the Roman citizens? And nowhere is Rome less known than in Rome itself." It is, however, to the Cavaliere de Rossi, himself a Roman, that the most important of these discoveries are due,—the result of his marvellous learning and sagacity, and of his hard-working and unwearied energy. The discovery of the ancient entrance to the Catacombs of St. Callixtus, and of the chapel within, where St. Cecilia was originally buried, is a piece of the very romance of Archaeology. The whole history of St. Cecilia, the glorious Virgin Martyr and the Saint of Music, as connected with the catacombs, is, indeed, one of the most curious to be found in the annals of the Church. Legend and fact are strangely mingled in it, and over it hangs a perplexing mist of doubt, but not so dense as wholly to conceal all certainty. It is a story of suffering, of piety, of enthusiasm, of superstition, and of science;—it connects itself in many points with the progress of corruption in the Church, and it has been a favorite subject for Art in all ages. The story is at last finished. Begun sixteen hundred years ago, it has just reached its last chapter. In order to understand it, we must go back almost to its introduction.
According to the legend of the Roman Church, as preserved in the "Acts of St. Cecilia," this young and beautiful saint was martyred in the year of our Lord 230.[A] She had devoted herself to perpetual virginity, but her parents had insisted upon marrying her to a youthful and noble Roman, named Valerian. On the night of her marriage, she succeeded in so far prevailing upon her husband as to induce him to visit the pope, Urban, who was lying concealed from his persecutors in the catacombs which were called after and still bear the name of his predecessor, Callixtus,[B] on the Appian Way, about two miles from the present walls of the city. The young man was converted to the Christian faith. The next day witnessed the conversion of his brother, Tiburtius. Their lives soon gave evidence of the change in their religion; they were brought before the prefect, and, refusing to sacrifice to the heathen gods, were condemned to death. Maximus, an officer of the prefect, was converted by the young men on the way to execution. They suffered death with constancy, and Maximus soon underwent the same fate. Nor was Cecilia long spared. The prefect ordered that she should be put to death in her own house, by being stifled in thecaldarium, or hot-air chamber of her baths. The order was obeyed, and Cecilia entered the place of death; but a heavenly air and cooling dews filled the chamber, and the fire built up around it produced no effect. For a whole day and night the flames were kept up, but the Saint was unharmed. Then Almachius sent an order that she should be beheaded. The executioner struck her neck three times with his sword, and left her bleeding, but not dead, upon the pavement of the bathroom. For three days she lived, attended by faithful friends, whose hearts were cheered by her courageous constancy; "for she did not cease to comfort those whom she had nurtured in the faith of the Lord, and divided among them everything which she had." To Pope Urban, who visited her as she lay dying, she left in charge the poor whom she had cared for, and her house, that it might be consecrated as a church. With this her life ended.[C] Her wasted body was reverently lifted, its position undisturbed, and laid in the attitude and clothing of life within a coffin of cypress-wood. The linen cloths with which the blood of the Martyr had been soaked up were placed at her feet, with that care that no precious drop should be lost,—a care, of which many evidences are afforded in the catacombs. In the night, the coffin was carried out of the city secretly to the Cemetery of Callixtus, and there deposited by Urban in a grave near to a chamber destined for the graves of the popes themselves. Here the "Acts of St. Cecilia" close, and, leaving her pure body to repose for centuries in its tomb hollowed out of the rock, we trace the history of the catacombs during those centuries in other sources and by other ways.
[Footnote A:The Acts of St. Ceciliaare generally regarded by the best Roman Catholic authorities as apochryphal. They bear internal evidence of their want of correctness, and, in the condition in which they have come down to us, the date of their compilation cannot be set before the beginning of the fifth century. At the very outset two facts stand in open opposition to their statements. The martyrdom of St. Cecilia is placed in the reign of Alexander Severus, whose mildness of disposition and whose liberality towards the Christians are well authenticated. Again, the prefect who condemns her to death, Turchius Almachius, bears a name unknown to the profane historians of Rome. Many statements of not less difficulty to reconcile with fact occur in the course of theActs. But, although their authority in particulars be thus destroyed, we see no reason for questioning the reality of the chief events upon which they are founded. The date of the martyrdom of St. Cecilia may be wrong, the reports of her conversations may be as fictitious as the speeches ascribed by grave historians to their heroes, the stories of her miracles may have only that small basis of reality which is to be found in the effects of superstition and excited imagination,—but the essential truth of the martyrdom of a young, beautiful, and rich Roman girl, of her suffering and her serene faith, and of the veneration and honor in which her memory was held by those who had known her, may be accepted without reserve. At least, it is certain, that as early as the beginning of the fourth century the name of St. Cecilia was reverenced in Rome, and that from that time she has been one of the chief saints of the Roman calendar.]
[Footnote B: The Catacombs of St. Callixtus are among the most important of the underground cemeteries. They were begun before the time of Callixtus, but were greatly enlarged under his pontificate [A.D. 219-223]. Saint though he be, the character of Callixtus, if we may judge by the testimony of another saint, Hippolytus, stood greatly in need of purification. His story is an amusing illustration of the state of the Roman episcopacy in those times. He had been a slave of a rich Christian, Carpophorus. His master set him up as a money-dealer in the Piscina Publica, a much frequented quarter of the city. The Christian brethren (and widows also are mentioned by Hippolytus) placed their moneys in his hands for safe-keeping, his credit as the slave of Carpophorus being good. He appropriated these deposits, ran away to sea, was pursued, threw himself into the water, was rescued, brought back to Rome, and condemned to hard labor. Carpophorus bailed him out of the workhouse,—but he was a bad fellow, got into a riot in a Jewish synagogue, and was sent to work in the Sardinian mines. By cheating he got a ticket of leave and returned to Rome. After some years, he was placed in charge of the cemetery by the bishop or pope, Zephyrinus, and at his death, some time later, by skilful intrigues he succeeded in obtaining the bishopric itself. The cemetery is now called that ofSaintCallixtus,—and in the saint the swindler is forgotten.]
[Footnote C: The passage in theActs of St. Ceciliawhich led to her being esteemed the patroness of music is perhaps the following, which occurs in the description of the wedding ceremonies: "Cantantibus organis, Caecilia in corde suo soli Domino decantabat, dicens: 'Fiat cor meum et corpus meum immaculatum, ut non confundar.'"]
The consequences of the conversion of Constantine exhibited themselves not more in the internal character and spirit of the Church than in its outward forms and arrangements. The period of worldly prosperity succeeded speedily to a period of severest suffering, and many who had been exposed to the persecution of Diocletian now rejoiced in the imperial favor shown to their religion. Such contrasts in life are not favorable to the growth of the finer spiritual qualities; and the sunshine of state and court is not that which is needed for quickening faith or developing simplicity and purity of heart. Churches above ground could now be frequented without risk, and were the means by which the wealth and the piety of Christians were to be displayed. The newly imperialized religion must have its imperial temples, and the little dark chapels of the catacombs were exchanged for the vast and ornamental spaces of the new basilicas. It was no longer needful that the dead should be laid in the secret paths of the rock, and the luxury of magnificent Christian tombs began to rival that of the sepulchres of the earlier Romans. The body of St. Peter, which had long, according to popular tradition, rested in the catacombs of the Vatican, was now transferred to the great basilica which Constantine, despoiling for the purpose the tomb of Hadrian of its marbles, erected over the entrance to the underground cemetery. So, too, the Basilica of St. Paul, on the way to Ostia, was built over his old grave; and the Catacombs of St. Agnes were marked by a beautiful church in honor of the Saint, built in part beneath the soil, that its pavement might be on a level with the upper story of the catacombs and the faithful might enter them from the church.
The older catacombs, whose narrow graves had been filled during the last quarter of the third century with the bodies of many new martyrs, were now less used for the purposes of burial, and more for those of worship. New chapels were hollowed out in their walls; new paintings adorned the brown rock; the bodies of martyrs were often removed from their original graves to new and more elaborate tombs; the entrances to the cemeteries were no longer concealed, but new and ampler ones were made; new stairways, lined with marble, led down to the streets beneath;luminaria, or passages for light and air, were opened from the surface of the ground to the most frequented places; and at almost every entrance a church or an oratory of more or less size was built, for the shelter of those who might assemble to go down into the catacombs, and for the performance of the sacred services upon ground hallowed by so many sacred memories. The worship of the saints began to take form, at first, in simple, natural, and pious ways, in the fourth century; and as it grew stronger and stronger with the continually increasing predominance of the material element in the Roman Church, so the catacombs, the burial-places of the saints, were more and more visited by those who desired the protection or the intercession of their occupants. St. Jerome, who was born about this time in Rome, [A.D. 331,] has a curious passage concerning his own experiences in the catacombs. He says: "When I was a boy at Rome, being instructed in liberal studies, I was accustomed, with others of the same age and disposition, to go on Sundays to the tombs of the apostles and martyrs, and often to go into the crypts, which, being dug out in the depths of the earth, have for walls, on either side of those who enter, the bodies of the buried; and they are so dark, that the saying of the prophet seems almost fulfilled,The living descend into hell." But as the chapels and sacred tombs in the catacombs became thus more and more resorted to as places for worship, the number of burials within them was continually growing less,—and the change in the spirit of the religion was marked by the change of character in the paintings and inscriptions on their walls. By the middle of the fifth century the extension of the catacombs had ceased, and nearly about the same time the assemblies in them fell off. The desolation of the Campagna had already begun; Rome had sunk rapidly; and the churches and burial-places within the walls afforded all the space that was needed for the assemblies of the living or the dead.
When the Goths descended upon Italy, ravaging the country as they passed over it, and sat down before Rome, not content with stripping the land, they forced their way into the catacombs, searching for treasure, and seeking also, it seems likely, for the bodies of the martyrs, whom their imperfect creed did not prevent them from honoring. After they retired, in the short breathing-space that was given to the unhappy city, various popes undertook to do something to restore the catacombs,[D]—and one of them, John III., [A.D. 560-574,] ordered that service should be performed at certain underground shrines, and that candles and all else needful for this purpose should be furnished from the Basilica of St. John Lateran. Just at the close of the sixth century, Gregory the Great [590-604] again appointed stations in the catacombs at which service should be held on special days in the course of the year, and a curious illustration of the veneration in which the relics of the saints were then held is afforded by a gift which he sent to Theodelinda, queen of the Lombards. At this time the Lombards were laying all Italy waste. Their Arian zeal ranged them in religious hate against the Roman Church,—but Theodelinda was an orthodox believer, and through her Gregory hoped to secure the conversion of her husband and his subjects. It was to her that he addressed his famous Dialogues, filled with the most marvellous stories of holy men and the strangest notions of religion. Wishing to satisfy her pious desires, and to make her a very precious gift, he sent to her many phials of oil taken from the lamps that were kept burning at the shrines of the martyrs in the catacombs. It was the custom of those who visited these shrines to dip handkerchiefs, or other bits of cloth, in the reservoirs of oil, to which a sacred virtue was supposed to be imparted by the neighborhood of the saints; and even now may often be seen the places where the lamps were kept lighted.[E]
[Footnote D: An inscription set up by Vigilius, pope from A.D. 538 to 555, and preserved by Gruter, contains the following lines:—
"Dum peritura Getae posuissent castra sub urbe,Moverunt sanctis bella nefunda prius,Istaque sacrilego verterunt corde sepulchraMartyribus quondam rite sacrata piis.Diruta Vigilius nam mox haec Papa gemiscens,Hostibus expulsis, omne novavit opus."]
[Footnote E: The phials sent by Gregory to Queen Theodelinda were accompanied by a list of the shrines from which they were taken; among them was that of St. Cecilia. The document closes with the words, "Quae olea sca temporibus Domini Gregorii Papae adduxit Johannes indignus et peccator Dominae Theodelindae reginae de Roma." The oils are still preserved in the treasury of the cathedral at Monza,—and the list accompanying them has afforded some important facts to the students of the early martyrology of Rome. A similar belief in the efficacy of oils burned in lamps before noted images, or at noted shrines, still prevails in the Papal City. In a little pamphlet lying before us, entitledHistoric Notices of Maria SSma del Parto, venerated in St. Augustine's Church in Rome, published in 1853, is the following passage: "Many who visited Mary dipped their fingers in the lamps to cross themselves with the holy oil, by the droppings from which the base of the statue was so dirtied, that hanging-lamps were substituted in the place of those that stood around. But that the people might not be deprived of the trust which they reposed in the holy oil, bits of cotton dipped in it were wrapped up in paper, and there was a constant demand for them among the devout." This passage refers to late years, and the custom still exists. Superstition flourishes at Rome now not less than it did thirteen hundred years ago; and superstitious practices have a wonderful vitality in the close air of Romanism.]
But although the memory of those who had been buried within them was thus preserved, the catacombs themselves and the churches at their entrances were falling more and more into decay. Shortly after Gregory's death, Pope Boniface IV. illustrated his otherwise obscure pontificate by seeking from the mean and dissolute Emperor Phocas the gift of the Pantheon for the purpose of consecrating it for a Christian church. The glorious temple of all the gods was now dedicated [A.D. 608, Sept. 15] to those who had displaced them, the Virgin and all the Martyrs. Its new name was S. Maria ad Martyres,—and in order to sanctify its precincts, the Pope brought into the city and placed under the altars of his new church twenty-eight wagon-loads of bones, collected from the different catacombs, and said to be those of martyrs. This is the first notice that has been preserved of the practice that became very general in later times of transferring bodies and bones from their graves in the rock to new ones under the city churches.
Little more is known of the history of the catacombs during the next two centuries, but that for them it was a period of desolation and desertion. The Lombard hordes often ravaged and devastated the Campagna up to the very gates of the city, and descended into the underground passages of the cemeteries in search of treasure, of relics, and of shelter. Paul III., about the middle of the eighth century, took many bones and much ashes from graves yet unrifled, and distributed them to the churches. He has left a record of the motives that led him to disturb dust that had rested so long in quiet. "In the lapse of centuries," he says, "many cemeteries of the holy martyrs and confessors of Christ have been neglected and fallen to decay. The impious Lombards utterly ruined them,—and now among the faithful themselves the old piety has been replaced by negligence, which has gone so far that even animals have been allowed to enter them, and cattle have been stalled within them." Still, although thus desecrated, the graves of the martyrs continued to be an object of interest to the pilgrims, who, even in these dangerous times, from year to year came to visit the holy places of Rome; and itineraries, describing the localities of the catacombs and of the noted tombs within them, prepared for the guidance of such pilgrims, not later than the beginning of the ninth century, have been preserved to us, and have afforded essential and most important assistance in the recent investigations.[F]
[Footnote F: Four of these itineraries are known. One of them is preserved in William of Malmesbury'sChronicle. The differences and the correspondences between them have been of almost equal assistance in modern days in the determination of doubtful names and localities.]
About the same time, Pope Paschal I. [A.D. 817-824] greatly interested himself in searching in the catacombs for such bodies of the saints as might yet remain in them, and in transferring these relics to churches and monasteries within the city. A contemporary inscription, still preserved in the crypt of the ancient church of St. Prassede, (a church which all lovers of Roman legend and art take delight in,) tells of the two thousand three hundred martyrs whose remains Paschal had placed beneath its altars. Nor was this the only church so richly endowed. One day, in the year 821, Paschal was praying in the church that stood on the site of the house in which St. Cecilia had suffered martyrdom, and which was dedicated to her honor. It was now one of the oldest churches in Rome. Two centuries before, Gregory the Great, St. Gregory, had restored it,—for it even then stood in need of repairs, and now it was in greater need than ever. Paschal determined, while praying, that he would rebuild it from its foundations; but with this determination came the desire to find the body of the Saint, that her new church might not want its most precious possession. It was reported that the Lombards had sought for it and carried it away, and the knowledge of the exact place of the grave, even, was lost. But Paschal entered vigorously on the search. He knew that she had been buried in the Cemetery of St. Callixtus, and tradition declared that her sepulchre had been made near the Chamber of the Popes. There he sought, but his seeking was vain.
On a certain day, however,—and here he begins his own story,—in the Church of St. Peter, as he sat listening to the harmony of the morning service, drowsiness overcame him, and he fell asleep.[G] As he was sleeping, a very beautiful maiden of virginal aspect, and in a rich dress, stood before him, and, looking at him, said,—"We return thee many thanks; but why without cause, trusting to false reports, hast thou given up the search for me? Thou hast been so near me that we might have spoken together."