"Thou who on the sixth day and hourDidst nail to the cross the sinWhich Adam dared in Paradise,Read also the handwriting at our transgressions,O Christ our Lord! and save us."
There is one on repentance, commencing:—
"Receive thy servant, my Saviour,Falling before thee with tears, my Saviour,And save, Jesus, me repenting."
And a simple doxology:—
"God is my hope,Christ is my refuge,The Holy Spirit is my vesture.Holy Trinity, glory to thee!"
The first name of a hymn-writer which has reached us is that of Clement of Alexandria, who lived toward. the close of the second century. One of his hymns is called, Hymn of the Saviour. But it is recorded by St. Basil that a hymn was well known in the first and second centuries, called, Hail, Gladdening Light! which was sung in the churches at the lighting of the lamps:—
"Hail, Jesus Christ! hail, gladdening lightOf the immortal father's glory bright!Blessed of all saints beneath the sky,And of the heavenly company!"Now, while the sun is setting,Now, while the light grows dim,To Father, Son, and Spirit,We raise our evening hymn."Worthy thou, while time shall dure,To be hymned by voices pure.Son of God, of life the giver,Thee the world shall praise forever!"
There were several Syriac hymns at this period. Ephraim Syrus, a{819}monk, and deacon of Mesopotamia. wrote, The Children in Paradise, On Palm Sunday, The Entry of Christ into Jerusalem, and another, called, The Lament of a Father on the death of his Son, which used to be sung at the funerals of children. Gregory of Nazianzen is the best known of the Greek hymn-writers. There are two hymns to Christ extant by him, and an evening hymn. In one of the hymns to Christ the following passage occurs:—
"Unfruitful, sinful, bearing weeds and thorns,Fruits of the curse—ah! whither shall I flee?O Christ, most blessed! bid my fleeting daysFlow heavenward, Christ, sole fount of hope to me!"The enemy is near—to thee I cling!Strengthen, oh! strengthen me by might divine;Let not the trembling bird be from thine altar driven—Save me—it is thy will, O Christ!—save me, for I am thine."
Gregory's life was spent in a continual conflict with Arianism. At the age of fifty he went to Constantinople, and as all the churches were in the hands of the Arians, he preached in the house of a relative. He was soon subject to persecution, was pelted in the streets, arrested, tried, and with much difficulty acquitted. Ultimately he succeeded; the Arian heresy passed away; the house where he had so faithfully preached became the Church of "Anastasia;" the truth had risen there. But time, though it brought success, had left him a sad, lonely old man. He was made Patriarch of Constantinople by the Emperor Theodosius; but he had lost all his dearest relatives, and he threw up his dignity and retired from the world. In that retirement he wrote a beautiful hymn, which sums up his life. We quote the first and last verses:—
"Where are the winged words? Lost in the air.Where the fresh flower of youth and glory? Gone!The strength of well-knit limbs? Brought low by care.Wealth? Plundered. None possess but God alone.Where those dear parents who my life first gave,And where that holy twain, brother and sister? In the grave."This as thou wilt, the Day will all unite,Wherever scattered, when thy word is said;Rivers of fire; abysses without light,Thy great tribunal, these alone are dread.And thou, O Christ my King, art fatherland to me—Strength, wealth, eternal rest, yea all, I find in thee." [Footnote 229]
[Footnote 229: These extracts from translations of Greek hymns are quoted from The Christian Life in Song, where the full versions may be seen.]
St. Andrew of Crete, St. John of Damascus, St. Cosmas, Bishop of Maiuma, and Chrysostom, were amongst the Greek hymn-writers. Their productions are characterized by the greatest simplicity and fervor, reliance upon Christ and love to God being the most prominent topics. We now come to the period of Latin hymns, and we begin with the first or Ambrosian division. The principal writers are Ambrose, Hilary, and St. Prudentius. Augustine, in his Confessions, quotes one of Ambrose's hymns, as having repeated it when lying awake in bed, "Atque ut eram in lecto meo solus, recordatus sum veridicos versus Ambrosii tui: Tu es enim. [Footnote 230 ]
[Footnote 230: August. Confess., lib. ix., c. 12.]
"Deus creator omniumPolique rector, vestiensDiem decoro lumineNoctem sopora gratia."Artus solutos ut quiesReddat laboris usul,Mentesque fessas adievetLactusque solvat anxios."
Ambrose was born about the year 340; his father was a prefect of Gaul, and belonged to a noble family. Before the age of thirty he himself was consul of Liguria, and dwelt in Milan. Up to this time he had no notion of becoming an ecclesiastic. But Anxentius, the Arian bishop, having died, a dispute arose between the citizens of Milan and the emperor, as to who should appoint the successor, each trying to evade the responsibility. It was left to the people; the city was in a state of great excitement, and a tumultuous assemblage filled the cathedral, in the midst of whom appeared Ambrose in his civil capacity, to command peace, and it is said that in the lull which ensued, a voice was heard crying, "Ambrose is bishop," which the whole mass of people, seized by a sudden impulse, repeated.{820}Soon afterward he was ordained and consecrated. The majority of the people were opposed to Arianism, and he was soon involved in a dispute with the Empress Justina, who required him to give up the Portian Basilica to the Arians. He refused, and accompanied by a multitude of people, took possession of the church, and fastened the doors. The imperial troops besieged them for several days, during which time the people kept singing the hymns of Ambrose. Monica, the mother of Augustine, is said to have been amongst the crowd in the church. One of Ambrose's hymns was used for centuries as a morning hymn, called Hymn at the Cock-crowing; another Advent hymn, Veni Creator gentium; one for Easter, Hic est dies verus Dei. St. Hilary, Bishop of Arles in the sixth century, is the next of the Ambrosian period; the best known of his hymns is that to the morning, Lucis largitor splendide. But the most prominent name of the period after Ambrose is Prudentius, who was born about 348, practised in the courts as a pleader, and in his fifty-seventh year forsook the world, and spent the rest of his days in religious exercises. One of his great hymns is for Epiphany, O sola magnarum urbium, another on the Innocents, Salvete flores martyrum; but the hymn most known is a very beautiful, perhaps his most beautiful composition, a funeral hymn, beginning Jam maesta quiesce querela. After the reformation, this hymn was adopted by the German Protestants as their favorite funeral hymn, their version beginning "Hört auf mil Trauern und Klagen."
The resurrection of the body is thus expressed—
"Non si cariosa vetustasDissolverit ossa favillisFueritque cinisculus arensMinimi mensura pugilli:"Nec si vaga flamina et auraeVacuum per inane volantesTulerint cum pulvere nervosHominem periisse licebit""For though, through the slow lapse of ages,These mouldering bones should grow old,Reduced to a handful of ashes.A child in its hands may enfold."Though flames should consume it and breezesInvisibly float it away,Yet the body of man cannot perish,Indestructible through its decay."
The next period of hymnology is what we have termed the barbarian, because it began at the time when the northern invaders were settling down in the various parts of Europe, which had fallen to their arms. Though not so fertile in hymns, yet some beautiful things were produced in this period. We shall only mention three hymn-writers—Gregory the Great, Venantius Fortunatus, and Bede. The principal hymn of Gregory's is the Veni Creator Spiritus; but the most distinguished hymn-writer of this era is Fortunatus; he was an Italian, born about 530; a gay poet, the delight of society, until Queen Radegunda persuaded him to be ordained, and to settle at Poictiers, where she, having left her husband, was presiding over a monastic establishment. There is a beautiful hymn of his, which commences—
"Pange lingua gloriosiPraelium certaminis."
We quote two verses (v. i. and viii.) of the late Dr. Neale's translation:
I."Sing, my tongue, the glorious battle,With completed victory rife.And above the cross's trophy,Tell the triumph of the strife;How the world's Redeemer conquered,By surrendering of his life.VIII."Faithful cross, above all other,One and only noble tree,None in foliage, none in blossom,None in fruit, compares with thee;Sweetest wood and sweetest iron,Sweetest weight sustaining free."
A portion of one of his poems, on the resurrection of our Lord, was sung in the Church for ten centuries as an Easter hymn. It commences, Salve festa dies toto venerabilis aevo. [Footnote 231] In another of his poems, De Cruce Christi, there occurs a beautiful image of the Cross as the tree around which the True Vine is clinging:
"Appensa est vitis inter tua brachia, de quaDulcia sanguineo vina rubore fluunt." [Footnote 232]
[Footnote 231: Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry, p. 152.][Footnote 232: For the whole see Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry, p.130.]
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But his most celebrated hymn is the one written on the occasion of the sending the true cross by the emperor to Radegunda, at the consecration of a church at Poictiers. It is called Vexilla Regis prodeunt:
I."The royal banners forward go,The cross shines forth with mystic glow,Where he in flesh, our flesh who made,Our sentence bore, our ransom paid.VI."With fragrance dropping from each bough,Sweeter than sweetest nectar thou:Decked with the fruit of peace and praise,And glorious with triumphant lays.VIl."Hall, altar! hail, O Victim! TheeDecks now thy passion's victory,Where life for sinners death endured,And life by death for man procured." [Footnote 233]
[Footnote 233: Dr. Neale's Mediaeval Hymns.]
Bede the Venerable wrote hymns also; the two best known are the Hymnum canamus gloriae, and Hymnum canentes martyrum.
We now advance to the last and richest of all the periods of hymnology, the mediaeval. The list is headed with the royal name of Robert II. of France, who wrote, hymns, one of which is a Veni Sancte Spiritus. Peter Damian, the cardinal bishop of Ostia, who died in 1072, wrote many hymns, but the two greatest are De Die Mortis and Ad perennis vitae fontem. [Footnote 234] Adam of St. Victor was another prolific hymn-writer; thirty-six of his productions are extant, and well known. [Footnote 235]
[Footnote 234: Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry, pp. 278, 315. ][Footnote 235: Ibid., pp. 53. 111, 160, 202, 212, 227.]
Peter the Venerable and Thomas à Kempis have also left hymns behind them. But it was reserved for Archbishop Trench to dig out of the mouldering relics of the past a hymn written by a monk of Clugny, one Bernard de Morlaix, the translation of which, by Dr. Neale, has supplied the church of every denomination with favorite hymns; The most general name by which it is known is Jerusalem the Golden. The original is a poem of about three thousand lines, called De Contemptu Mundi, a melancholy satire upon the corruptions of the times. The first appearance of it in print, is in a collection of poems, De Corrupto Ecclesiae Statu, by Flacius Illyricus. We cannot speak too highly of this poem of Bernard, nor of the merits of Dr. Neale's translation. The original is written in one of the most difficult of all metres, technically called "leonini cristati trilices daetylici," a dactylic hexameter, divided into three parts, with a tailed rhyme and rhymes between the two first clauses. Dr. Neale gives a specimen of this verse in English:
"Time will beending soon, heaven will berendingsoon, fast we and pray we;Come the most merciful; comes the most terrible,watch we while may we."
The imagery in the original poem is gorgeous; but Dr. Neale has exceeded the original [Footnote 236] in many parts of his translation'. We add a few gems. The opening lines are—
"Hora novissima, tempora pessima sunt vigilemus!Ecce minaciter imminet arbiter ille supremus.Imminet, imminet, ut mala terminet, aequa coronetRecta remuneret, anxia liberet aethera donet.""The world is very evil,The times are waxing late,Be sober and keep vigil,The Judge is at the gate;The Judge that comes in mercy,The Judge that comes with might,To terminate the evil,To diadem the right."
[Footnote 236: The best edition of this poem is the little shilling volume by Dr. Neale, called the Rhythm of Bernard de Morlaix, published by Hayes, Lyall-place, Eaton-square. It contains between two and three hundred of the original lines, with Dr. Neale's complete translation.]
Dr. Neale has proved himself a true poet in this translation; the rendering is most happy, and the whole version forms one of the finest sacred poems in the language. The lines—
"Patria luminis, inscia turbinis, inscia litis.Cive replebitur amplificabitur lsraelitisPatria splendida, terraque florida, libera spinisDanda fidelibus est ibi civibus, hic peregrinis,"
are thus happily rendered—
"And the sunlit land that reeks notOf tempest nor of fightShall fold within its bosomEach happy Israelite;The home of fadeless splendor,Of flowers that fear no thorn,Where they shall dwell as children,Who here as exiles mourn."
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Then the episode—
"Sunt radiantia jaspide moenia clara pyropo.""With jaspers glow thy bulwarks,Thy streets with emeralds blaze,The sardius and the topazUnite in thee their rays;Thine ageless walls are bondedWith amethyst unpriced;The saints build up its fabric,And the corner·stone is Christ.* * * * *Thou hast no shore, fair ocean!Thou hast no time, bright day!Dear fountain of refreshment.To pilgrims far away.* * * * *They stand, those halls of Sion,Conjubilant with song,And bright with many an angelAnd all the martyr throng;The Prince is ever in them,Their daylight is serene;The pastures of the blessedAre decked in glorious sheen.There is the throne of David,And there, from care released,The song of them that triumph,The shout of them that feast;And they who, with their leader,Have conquered in the fight,For ever and for everAre clad in robes of white."
But we must pause, for to give all the beauties of this poem would be to transcribe the whole. Another St. Bernard, the well-known abbot of Clairvaux, was a contemporary with him of Clugny. He was one of the most influential men of his age, a man far in advance of it; the adviser of popes and the confidant of kings. Many hymns are attributed to him, one of the most beautiful being that known as Jesu Dulcis Memoria. In Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry there is a selection of fifteen verses, but the original consists of forty-eight verses. [Footnote 237] It is a fine specimen of the ardent loving poetry so characteristic of the period. A very beautiful version, or rather imitation of this poem, is extant in the Harleian MSS., written in the reign of Edward I., and as it is a very good specimen of the English of the period, and represents the spirit of the original, we venture to quote a verse or two. [Footnote 238]
[Footnote 237: Sti. Bernardi Clarae Vallensis Opp: Benedictine edition, vol. ii., p. 895.][Footnote 238: Printed also in the Percy Society's Publications, vol. iv., p. 68.]
I."Jesu, suete is the love of thee,Nothing so suete may be;Al that may with eyen seHaveth no suetnesse ageynes the.XIV."Jhesu, when ich thenke on the,And loke upon the rode tre;Thi suete body to-toren se,Hit maketh heorte to smerte me.XVIII."Jhesu, my saule drah the to,Min heorte opene ant wyde undo;This hure of love to drynke so,That fleysshliche lust be al for-do.XLV."Jesut thin help at myn endyng,Ant ine that dredful out-wendyngSend mi soule god weryying,That y ne drede non eovel thing."
We can only notice one other grand hymn, selected also from a long poem of Bernard, addressed to the different portions of the body of Christ on the cross. This is from the Ad Faciem, and commences— [Footnote 239]
[Footnote 239: For the Latin, see Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry, p. 139.]
"Salve caput cruentatumTotum spinis coronatum."
As it is one of the finest mediaeval hymns, and has been translated into nearly all European languages, we give the translation:—
"Hail! thou head so bruised and wounded,With the crown of thorns surrounded;Smitten with the mocking reed,Wounds which may not cease to bleed,Trickling faint and slow.Hail! from whose most blessed browNone can wipe the blood drops now.All the flower of life has fled;Mortal paleness there instead.Thou, before whose presence dread,Angels trembling bow."All thy vigor and thy lifeFading in this bitter strife;Death his stamp on thee has set,Hollow and emaciate,Faint and drooping there.Thou, this agony and scorn,Hast for me a sinner borne;Me, unworthy—all for me,With those signs of love on thee.Glorious face appear!"Yet in this thine agony,Faithful shepherd, think of me;From whose lips of love divineSweetest draughts of life are mine,Purest honey flows,All unworthy of thy thought,Guilty, yet reject me not;Unto me thy head incline.Let that dying head of thineIn mine arms repose."Let me true communion knowWith thee in thy sacred woe,Counting all beside but dross,Dying with thee on the cross;'Neath it will I die.Thanks to thee with every breath.Jesus, for thy bitter death;Grant thy guilty one this prayer—When my dying hour is near, tGracious God, be nigh.{823}"When my dying hour must be,Be not absent then from me;In that dreadful hour I prayJesus come without delay,See and set me free.When thou biddest me depart,Whom I cleave to with my heart,Lover of my soul be near,With thy saving cross appear;Show thyself to me," [Footnote 240]
[Footnote 240: Quoted in Christian Life in Song.]
There is an excellent version of this in German in the Passion Hymn of Paul Gerhard, beginning—
"O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden,Voll Schmerz und voller Hohn!"
But the grandest of all the mediaeval hymns is that attributed to Thomas of Celano, known as the Dies Irae. Its authorship is uncertain; it burst upon the world after a long silence in the church, like some strain wafted over the earth on the winds of heaven. It has always been the favorite hymn for solemnities in every country. In Germany upward of sixty translations have been made of it. Goethe has effectively introduced it into the "Faust" in the cathedral scene, where Marguerite is tempted by the evil spirit, who, when the choir chanted the words—
"Dies irae, dies illa,Solvet saeclum in favilla,"
whispers sardonically into her ear—
"Grimm fasst dich!Die Posaune tönt!Die Gräber beben!Und dein Herz,Aus AschenruhZu FlammenquallenWieder aufgeschaffenBebt auf;"
and so on through the whole scene, corrupting the meaning of the hymn in the mind of the broken-hearted girl. It was muttered by the dying lips of Walter Scott, and has employed the genius of such men as Schlegel, Fichte, and Herder. We give one passage—
"Recordare, Jesu pie,Quod sum causa tuae viae,Ne me perdas illa die."Querens me sedisti lassus,Redemisti crucem passus,Tantus labor non sit cassus.""Think of me, good Lord, I pray,Who troddest for me the bitter way,Nor forsake me in that day."Weary sat'st thou seeking me,Diedst redeeming in the tree,Not in vain such toil can be."
The mediaeval period was one rich in art and active in intellectual work. The great difference between that age and this is, that in mediaeval times intellectual life was concentrated, and now it is spread abroad; we get more books and readers, but less great books and thinkers. Perhaps there has never been a time of such vigorous intellectual effort in England, unless we except the Elizabethan age, than that of the scholastic controversies of the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries. It was in this age, too, that the essentially mediaeval art of illumination flourished in all the lettered monasteries of Europe, the age when all the great cathedrals were built; and when that enchanting song whose notes we have just been listening to was improvised and sung. The God who presides over the economy of nature presides also over that of life. His hand is in both, upholding, protecting, guiding. We take up a phase of human history like this mediaeval phase, and to us it appears contradictory, objectless, useless; but we must remember that it is but one part of the great economy, that as every phase of nature has its separate use, so every period in the history of humanity contributes its share to the general result. There are no arid dark wastes in history any more than in nature. Progressing geographical science is gradually revealing to our minds the fact that Central Africa is not the deadly useless desert of our imagination, but is probably belted and intersected with rivers, whose fertilizing power has only to be applied. So a progressive historical science is rapidly clearing away the darkness of these dark ages, revealing to us treasures which have long lain hidden. We speak of the past as antiquity, and we are apt to associate the idea of age with it, just as we look{824}toward the present as youthful and new. But we must remember that antiquity really belongs to the present as the result of time, and that the past was the youth. So when we go back into these past ages of the church we must regard them as her youth, and instead of quarrelling with the follies and wantonness inseparable from immaturity, endeavour to do our best to help on the great consummation of her mission in the world, knowing well that although the hey-day of her youth is past, she has not yet attained her full maturity; and in times of despair, when schism is rife, when the sons of her bosom desert her, when men harden themselves against her love and forsake her, ever bear in mind the promise of her great head and founder, "Upon this rock I build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it."
"O Paris! gulf of evils, on each of thy stones we could drop a tear, red with blood, if the sorrows, which thy walls enclose, could appear before us."—J.J. ROUSSEAU.
The city of innumerable wonders, of shining domes, and colossal towers, with its enchanting gardens, palaces, and gigantic monuments, which one sees in the distance—the first glimpse he gets of Paris through the blue haze—now appeared to the astonished gaze of the little mountaineer, and was like a dream of the Arabian Nights. "O Paris! Paris!" shouted he joyously, clapping his hands, and looking eagerly through the misty veil that still enveloped the city. And, as he approached nearer, his emotions redoubled; for it was there that his mother predicted he would one day be happy. Oh! sweet security, blissful trust of childhood, why must it pass away with advancing years? Why is it that devouring inquietude and mental restlessness then comes to our souls, and tortures them without ceasing? It is a sad condition of our probation here, that we must see all the bright delusions of early life disappear one by one; and submit unmurmuringly to the different phases of life and the different ideas and feelings to which time leads us all. And so it may perhaps be for little Robert, who now trusts so confidently in the future, and in his mother's prediction being fulfilled. Have confidence, like him, dear readers—like him hope, without trying to draw aside the veil which hides your destiny—but follow him, step by step, in all the changing events of his life, and perhaps we shall see him fill an enviable position, as the fruit of his good conduct and perseverance. And since he is now radiant with hope, let us not efface, by our indiscreet words, this vision which sustains and comforts all.
As the travellers neared Paris, the old man's forehead wrinkled, his brows contracted each moment, and flashes of rage burst from his eyes. The sight of the hordes of the enemy's soldiers who had established their bivouacs before the capital, put him in a transport of fury.
The detested uniforms of the English, Austrians, Russians, and Prussians which he saw before him, made him think he was the victim of some dreadful hallucination, but the insolent air of the conquerors awakened him to the frightful reality that the emperor could no longer expel them. In his terrible rage he beat his breast with his fists, swore, and uttered words that sounded like distant thunder, gnashing his teeth at the same time most{825}convulsively. Then he walked on with a resolute and hasty step, so that Robert was obliged to run, rather than walk, at his side to keep up with him. He was very taciturn, but the boy at once comprehended the reason of his stubborn silence, and he respected the holy indignation of the old warrior, wounded, in his national pride and his deepest feelings, when he saw all his dreams of glory vanish with the shadow of the great man who had made the fame and splendor of all France. To the ex-soldier of the guard there was nothing left but cruel discontent. In Paris there was militia of all ranks and grades and countries; but there were no brave leaders, the old soldiers thought, and most of them were young men who had yet to see the field of battle. The white stripes had replaced the three colors, which disappeared with the glorious exile, Napoleon. The despair of poor Cyprien was as great as his love for his emperor, and nothing could soften his rage, so violent was the hatred he felt for the new order of things.
Robert was much excited by the strange and picturesque spectacles which presented themselves to his view on every side—by the gay costumes of' the people, and the movements of this ocean of of human beings, but he did not address many questions to his sad companion, for he loved him already, and saw the deep sorrow that filled his soul, and it made him timid and reserved.
It was now time to think of getting lodgings, and Cyprien wanted to go into the most modest quarter of the city, where he was born, and for which naturally he had the strongest affection. But in the twenty-five years that he had been a wanderer, vast changes had taken place, and most of his family had gone to rest. He found himself alone, separated for ever from his old comrades of glory; but of this he thought little, so completely was his heart filled with the adored image of his emperor. The most extraordinary thing was that amidst his grave thoughts he had found a place for the little orphan, whom chance had thrown in his way, and for whom he evinced the strongest attachment, which grew day by day, for Cyprien did nothing by halves; and when he could for a moment forget his emperor, it was to bestow almost paternal care upon his youngprotégé. One day, when they had been having a long talk, and he had said things which charmed the sensible and loving boy, he asked him to take him to the Church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, for it was there that he was to find the curé to whom his letter was addressed. "Willingly," replied Cyprien, "I will take you there; but I cannot go in, it has been so long since I have made a visit of that kind, that I don't care to go, but I will wait for you." Robert presented himself alone at the door of the curé's house, and was received by him with grace and a touching cordiality. He was a man of fine address, with eyes that seemed to penetrate the depths of one's soul, but his scrutiny was accomplished by a smile so beneficent, that it drew you irresistibly toward the minister of' God. The virtues he had practised appeared in his person, his language was full of purity and goodness, and he appeared ever ready to pardon and bless. Such, in general terms, was the man to whom Robert was recommended. When he had read his friend's letter, he made the child sit down and tell him all about his journey and the manner in which he acquitted himself charmed the good curé, and his lively and intelligent face set him to reflecting. The purity of his eyes showed a generous and noble soul, and the good man knew that he was one of those natures that always remain pure, in the midst of corruption. These exiled angels have often sorrowful lives, before they reach the glorious end. Deprived of pecuniary means, they see the paths to fame closed for them, while it is open for the rich, and made wide and easy of access.
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The good curé, after making these observations mentally, recalled the illustrious men who have illumined the earth from time to time with the rays of their genius, and the traces of whose lives are still visible; but the road to fame has, alas! been sown for centuries with bitter tears, unknown sufferings, and cries of the despair of unrecognized genius. He recalled faces radiant with sublime thoughts, crowned with thorns, the only recompense of their work, and he said with agony, "O God! if this child should ever be one of the victims, if he should ever weep over lost hopes, would it not be better to leave him as he is, simple and natural, ignorant of the delights of a studious life; ignorant of knowledge, than to be initiated into the cruel deceptions of hope long deferred, and which may be finally lost? How often, like a beautiful dream, youth, glory, and mind fade away in the awful struggle. But no," said he, fixing his eyes on the expressive face of Robert, "his future will not be so sad. Too much intelligence burns in his eyes, too much fire is lighted there, to be extinguished by the wearying labors of mind, or by hunger and frightful misery. If this diamond in the rough shows so much brilliancy, what will it not be when it is polished? Then will all its marvellous lustre appear, and I will have the holy joy of aiding to perfect this work." These were his reflections, and so had it always been with him; from the moment he was ordained to his saintly ministry, he was always looking for the means of doing good to others; and was a beautiful religious type of charity and goodness. It was so great a happiness to him to make others happy, that he looked upon his days as badly spent if he had not dried a tear, or given another joy; and his doing good was so sweet a duty, that he passed his days and nights in consoling the unfortunate. But for children especially was he most tenderly solicitous, He said with one who was all love and charity when among men, "Let little children come unto me." Like his divine Master, he drew them to him and pressed them to his heart, his hands rested on their young heads, and he called down upon them celestial benedictions. But he did not stop here. He gave them not only his prayers, but aid and protection. When his purse was exhausted, and his personal resources no longer sufficed, he had recourse to that of others. He was eloquent and persuasive when he pleaded the cause of children, and happy in receiving the offerings which were always deposited in his charitable hands. Thus he was the father of a large family, the benefactor of many children, who, becoming men, repaid his care by unlimited gratitude and irreproachable conduct, and by the constant practice of the virtues of which he had given them so noble an example. Robert found in him a tender and devoted protector, who was interested for him, and in whose future friendship he might trust. The day when this action was registered in heaven, the good man felt a happiness he had never known before in adopting before God the orphan that his friend, the curé of the village of Bains, had recommended to him in such warm terms. The vow which he made himself to protect him, was not like those men usually make, and forget as soon as made.
During the interview between the child and the curé, the old soldier was walking up and down outside, absorbed in reflections of quite an opposite nature. Sometimes hope colored his thoughts; oftener they were sombre and cold, like the clouds of the region to which memory transported him, to the fatal soil of Russia, where victory had abandoned the French flag. An hour was passed by him in recalling these days of sorrow, but at last he grew tired of waiting, and jerked at the bell string, which hung so modestly at the curé's door, most violently. In an instant a servant appeared with harsh words on the end of her tongue, but the severe face and long moustache of Cyprien induced her to withhold from speaking them. Scarcely was the door opened, when a voice, almost of thunder,{827}inquired for Robert. Hearing it, the curé opened the parlor door, and advancing toward the soldier, with an affable air, invited him in, saying, "I will be very glad to talk with you. You were, I suppose, uneasy about your little friend, whom I have detained a long time, I know, but it is not time lost; we have become acquainted and are now old friends, and you have a share of the affection I have avowed for this interesting child. You have a noble heart, and the Lord will bless you, my friend, you may be sure of that, for in the midst of your own sufferings you have had compassion on those of others, and above all you have protected an orphan!" The soldier was stunned by this benevolent speech; he, raised his hand mechanically to his forehead, following the curé and muttering the words "Pardon—excuse—do not pay any attention to me." Robert had not dared to move, but when Cyprien came near him, he threw himself into his arms. "There—that will do," said he to him—"pay attention, the curé speaks." "Why did you not come in with Robert? You have denied me the pleasure I should have had in talking with I a brave soldier. Ourprotégéhas spoken of you in most affectionate terms, but he did not tell me you were waiting for him, or I should not have suffered you to remain outside the door." "Thank you, M. Curé, but I cannot talk to you, I have so few words, and have not been accustomed to much, and all I know is how to use 'Arms.'" "Each of us has his profession, my friend," replied the curé, "and you have made yours glorious. Nevertheless you must allow me to think you know a great deal besides." "If that is your idea, kind father, I will not oppose it, but, with respect to you, I must tell you I have not seen a book since I knew, the 'Little Corporal,' and we are old acquaintances. Twenty-five years;" said he, "impossible to forget that"—wiping away a tear.
"Yes, my friend, you have reason to regret your emperor, and even to weep for him, for he was a great man, and loved you all as children."
"But, oh! how was he repaid?" and then he wept again.
"The love you bear your emperor honors you. Respect and devotion to misfortune fills noble souls, and I understand very well how your attachment is augmented in proportion to the sufferings which weigh down your chief; and it is not for me, a minister of peace and charity, to make a crime of your regrets and affection, or to denounce them. But let us leave this sad subject, until you know me better and have more confidence in me. For today we will talk about Robert and my plans for him. I am thankful to you for taking a father's place to him; without you he would have been lost in this great city, or might perhaps have met persons who would have placed him in contact with vice and wickedness. I rejoice that a kind Providence permitted this child to awaken an interest in you, and that he found you so affectionate a guide. You must continue your friendship, and I hope to gain his, by the care I will take of him."
"Oh! my dear father," said Robert, kissing respectfully the hand of his new protector, "you are too good to me, but I will try to repay your kindness by a full and entire submission to your least wishes."
"Well spoken, little one!" exclaimed the soldier, "this is the first duty of a conscript."
"I will try to find the mean s of aiding him to fill a high position some day," said the curé. "I have acquaintances and friends who will give me of their wealth, for," said he, in a tone of regret, "I am far from being rich. But no matter, God will help us; I have this sweet certainty, so you may take courage, my little friend, and whatever taste you may have for study, I promise you I will do all that I can to advance you. You are in such good hands that I shall have no cause for uneasiness as to how you pass your time; and I will leave you for a while,{828}and perhaps I may bring back some good news for you."
After calling at several houses without success, he chanced to see a wealthy widow who had but one child, a son. This boy was of a most vicious nature, and although young in years, he had every defect of character, without a single good quality. He made his poor mother despair, and she often reproached herself bitterly for her weakness toward him, but she knew no means that would reform his bad habits, which assumed the form of fatal and violent passion. When the curé spoke of Robert, she said: "O God! since he is possessed of so many amiable and virtuous qualities, entrust him to me. He will be treated as my own child, will share the studies of Gustave, and have the same masters; and perhaps God may pity a mother's sorrows, and that this child may have so good an influence over him, that Gustave may feel a desire to be good also. I pray you do not refuse me," said the mother in a supplicating tone; "I cling to this last hope, as a ship-wrecked man would cling to the plank he hopes will save him from perishing."
After long consideration of the chances of happiness and success in the future if Robert accepted it—of the great dissimilarity of the two persons who would thus be thrown together, and the disagreements and sufferings for Robert; and still worse, if the pure, rich nature of the orphan should be corrupted in the society of the wicked child, whom he knew only too well—he was still undecided. But an irresistible, though secret, argument spoke in favor of the mother of Gustave; so that at last her pressing solicitations were acceded to. He reserved for himself the right to watch closely over the precious trust that Providence had confided to him, and after this it was agreed that Robert should be presented to Madame de Vernanges (this was the name of Gustave's mother) as soon as he could be informed of it, and if he was willing to accept it.
"The heart of a wicked man sighs for evil, and no one can find pardon before him . . . . ."
Robert was willing to accede to any wish of the good man who had so generously charged himself with his destiny. We have said before, that he was gifted with noble qualities; he had a lively perception, his intellectual faculties were strong, and he seemed to have power to do all that was required of him. He had no knowledge of what was not good, and possessed one of those happy organizations which can only be a gift from God. He felt it his duty to obey all that his protector wished; and when he told him that his interest required that he should go to the house of' Madame de Vernanges, and share in the liberal education this lady gave her son, Robert replied: "If' it is your wish, I am ready to go."
'The curé was surprised and touched at this eagerness to fulfil his wishes, this entire self-abnegation in one who could not but prize the sweet liberty of acting for himself, which he had so long enjoyed on his native mountain; and a still further proof of his remarkable disposition was, that he knew, young as he was, the art of sacrificing his tastes to duty, and the necessity of making himself agreeable to those who interested themselves for him. The kind priest did not wish to spend Robert's money for things which could be dispensed with, but his clothes were unsuitable to his new position, so he had him a complete wardrobe prepared, and a woman could not have been more careful about the minutest details.
'When all was in readiness he conducted him to the house of Madame de Vernanges. As soon as she saw him, she felt as if he was a regenerating angel to be placed near her son. She embraced him affectionately, and asked him if he "would love her like a mother?" "Oh!" said he, at once becoming serious at such a question, "I cannot promise you that, dear{829}madame, for it would be impossible for me to feel for any other woman the same degree of affection that I feel for my mother;" but, he added, smiling sweetly, "I think I can assure you that I will love you much."
Some author says that a child only loves his mother for the services she renders him. Can this be true? No—it is blasphemy against filial love; and were it so, alas for the happiness of mothers! Far sweeter is the idea that one loves the other for the other's sake alone; one is the consequence of the other, it is a love eternal like the soul, like its divine author, like God himself: There may be some selfish children who measure their love for their parents by the services they render them, but they are monsters—sad and rare exceptions—and deserve all our pity. The proof of what we affirm is found in the love that Robert always preserved in his heart for the dear and sacred remembrance of his mother. It is the strongest, most lively and unalterable of feelings, and has no rival in the other loves God has given to man in his short life. Who can hear the name of mother spoken without feeling a delicious sensation, and having a tear-drop moisten the eye?
Madame de Vernanges was so pleased with Robert's frankness, that she felt for him from that moment the most tender sympathy. After a few moments' conversation Gustave was sent for, but the reception he gave his future companion of play and study, was not very encouraging to the latter. At first, from the height of his grandeur he looked down upon him with disdain, and received with a very bad grace the amiable advances of Robert, who wished to conquer at once the friendship of his young comrade. He was astonished and sad at the coldness showed him, but little by little Gustave softened, and laid aside his insolent air. The acquaintances of this period of life are easily made. Robert gave himself up with perfect abandon to the new pleasure of playing and talking with a child of his own age. He was not distrustful, for he had no experience; and as his own thoughts were so good and pure, he never suspected others. The mother and the curé, though seemingly occupied in conversation, followed with observing and restless eyes the movements of the children. The latter feared, and not without reason, to see some awkward blunder made by a child raised so far from the world, and in the simple habits of a happy mediocrity. But to his inexpressible satisfaction he saw Robert as easy in his manners as in his language, and he acted as if he had been bred in a parlor. His rare intelligence displayed itself in his answers to Gustave, and he could not have been more sparkling in his repartees. His candor and good nature did not permit him to comprehend the perfidious intentions of his saucy interrogator, and it was a cruel mortification for the wicked Gustave, not to be able, in spite of hisruses, to find any fault with Robert. He had counted on a triumph, and received a complete humiliation; he thought to show his superiority to the child who was given him as a model, and his disappointment was that he felt before him his great defects.
During this time the good priest inwardly rejoiced at the success of the little orphan, while the poor mother sighed in making a sad comparison between the children of the same age, but so different in character; and in spite of her wish to the contrary, she could not but see the low and envious sentiments which ruled the conduct of Gustave, and the goodness contained in each word Robert uttered. Her heart was well-nigh broken, and in bitterness she exclaimed: "Wicked! always wicked! he has not one good thought, one blameless moment. I am cruelly punished for my guilty weakness toward him. O God! is it too late to reclaim him? Is there no remedy for his wickedness? and must I bear all the ills of such a child?"