"I sadden when thou smilest to my smile,Child of my love! I tremble to believeThat o'er the mirror of thine eye of blueThe shadow of my soul must always pass—That soul which from its conflicts with the worldComeseverto thy guarded cradle home,And careless of the staining dust it brings,Asks for its idol!"
"I sadden when thou smilest to my smile,Child of my love! I tremble to believeThat o'er the mirror of thine eye of blueThe shadow of my soul must always pass—That soul which from its conflicts with the worldComeseverto thy guarded cradle home,And careless of the staining dust it brings,Asks for its idol!"
And you dwell on them. You bless the author first, and truly think how cruelly unjust are they who can call into torturing question the loyalty as husband and father of him whose soul could plan and whose pen could write such holy lines. And then you think deeper of the sentiments. And then the profit-tempter hides himself in the farthest corner of the money-drawer; and you begin to think your clerk a very clever manager: and wonder ifhisremaining will not do as well—poor fellow, he'sonlya bachelor. And then you decide that he will, and so yourself, "careless of the staining dust" your coming brings, fly to "the guarded cradle home."
You have been in Italy. Or you have studied the pictures in theLouvre. But the hours which you passed before the canvas whereon was embodied Madonna and child never seemed so agreeable in their realization as they now appear in the glass of memory, as you see the child of your love in the arms of your life companion whose eyes, always bright to yours, and brighter still at your coming after absence, grow brightest when they are lifted from the slumbering innocence beneath them. Men call you rough in your bearing, perhaps. What would they say to see how gently your arms receive the sleeping burthen and transfer it softly to its snowy couch? Your step abroad is heavy and impetuous: how noiselessly it falls upon the floor—now!And how the modulated voice accords with every present thought!
You cannot give the child a sweeter sleep by watching over him so intently: and yet you choose to stay. Moments are not so precious to you that at this one household shrine they will become valueless in some most chastened heart-worship! Your infant does not when awake understand the language which your affection addresses: and yet you look with rapture to the future, when the now inquiring eye will become one of understanding; when the cautiously put forth arms will clasp in loving confidence; when the fond endearing name now half intelligibly and doubtingly lisped forth will be uttered in the boldness of love.
The shadowy form in the distant cloud over the lake has been listening intently. It listens still; and the face of it bends towards me as if to say, there's a hidden truth and mysterious sympathy in all you say; and yet the language soundeth strangely in these bachelor ears—
Bachelor ears!
Listless and deaf, as yet, to all the sweeter human music of our nature. Deafer yet to the clarion call of emulation in the race of life and struggles for power, rank, and fame. Deafest of all to that which spurreth on man to be a king of kings among the great men of his race.
You are a father, then, I say; and working in your mental toil by night and day, in the severest and darkest frowning of all professions. But in the crowded senate-room, and in the close committee-chamber; and in the court-room among the multitudes of faces all about, (some of these anticipating in their changing features defeat and disgrace,) there is asomethingwhich overrides all agitation: clears the heavy brain, and oils the tongue with every pungency of rhetoric.
What is that "something?"
Were I home and in my library the downturned leaf of the duodecimo biography in the left corner of the first shelf would tell it you at a glance. The biography of Lord Erskine; marked at the page which speaks of his dauntless legal debut in the Sandwich case, when not the necessity of speaking in a crowded court-room from the obscure back benches: when not the sarcastic eyes of a hundred (etiquette-ly termed) brethren; when not the awful presence of Lord Mansfield nor his rebuking interruption at a critical sentence frightened the self-possession ofthe enthusiastic advocate, or stopped the current of his eloquent invective. The biography, which goes on to tell how, when the speech was ended, all the attorneys in the room flocked around the debutant with retainers—needed, more than all the smiles and congratulations to be drawn from earnest heart-wells: and how the advocate replied—(when some one, timid of the judge, asked how the barrister had the courage to stand the rebuking interruption, and never to quail with embarrassment before it)—I felt my little children tugging at my gown and crying, now is the time, father, to get us bread.
How eloquent!
How worthy of a father's heart! And in the reference, the dullest mind cannot fail to read the "something" which, to every father in a like position, nerves the will, disarms all agitation, clears the heavy brain, and oils the tongue with every pungency of rhetoric.
—The shadowy form turns closer towards me as my reverie yet chains me to the lake side, where the mountain breezes still are freshening all the August air.—
You have a purpose now in life, which, like the messenger of the king, that every morning knocked at his bedroom door to say, "Oh king, remember all this day that you are mortal," hourly brings to mind the bright reward of every toil and every aspiration. Besides a physical frame there is a mental constitution hinging on your own. There's a long life far beyond your own brief years of breath to provide for. Your name is to be perpetuated. In the very evening of your life there is to be a star that is now in its morning of existence, which will cheer and enliven. You feel all this as in some sad hour of the sickly night; you pace your room with the little sufferer wrestling with disease, and you feel that in the future will be found ample rewards for all your present bitter draughts of anxiety.
Wrestling with disease!
The thought is ugly to the mental sight. I pause to brush its cobweb from my August Reverie as an idle vaporish thing. But the shadowy form, in the edge of the distant cloud, over the far off waters of the lake, hisses the words back into my brain. And then it comes nearer. And then the atmosphere grows more dreamy and hazy about. And I half feel the mountain breezes, and half miss them from off my temples. And next I feel my thoughts less concentrate, as the shadowy form I know so well seems to be looking under my half-closed lids, and dwelling on the words I brushed like cob-webs—"wrestling with disease."
And I think of the still chamber, with the blue edge of the bracket, as it is rimmed with the faintest glimmer of the turned-down gas. And I see the half-closed shutters. And the tumbler with its significant spoon on the mantel. And the pale watcher by the ghostly curtains of the bed. And I am bending silently and almost pulseless over the sleeping boy, upon whose face each minute the fever-flushes play like summer lightning under a satin cloud.
And days go by. There is a strange hush in the household, with a horridly sensitive jarring from the vehicles in the street, which never, never were before so noisy, neither have the thronging passengers from the pavements ever gossipped so discordantly, as they go under the windows of the silent house. There's a strange echo of infantile prattle by the niches on the landings of the stairs, and from the couches, and behind the curtains; but the substantive music, whence the conjured-up echo came, is nowhere found. Then the echo itself becomes but an illusion. And Memory is strangely and impassionately chid for its creation.
I pass into a little room scarcely wide enough to wheel a sofa within. It seems as boundless in its desolation as an untenanted temple-ruin. There are mournful spirits in the little atmosphere which sting me to the heart—not to be torn away. The little cotton-dog, and morocco-ball, and jingling-bells, and coral-toys, so strangely scattered all about, are prodigious ruins to the sight. There's a gleeful laugh, a cunning smile, an artless waving of the hands, which should be here as tenants of the room. All gone! all gone into that hushed and silent chamber where yet the patient-watcher is by the snowy curtains; and the sickly blue still edges the rim of the bracket light, and the fever-flushes still play about the wasted cheek.
How long to last? What next to come? And the shadowy form no longer can peep under the all-closed eyelids, but enters its whisperings through the delicate passages of the ear into the brain, which tortures in a maze of bitter conjecture and horrid contemplation. And my reverie becomes a painful nightmare dream.
But the mountain-breezes, and the uprising-to-meridian sun, are merciful. The shadowy form my reverie hinged itself upon is blown away. The open eyes once more glance upon the glassy waters of the lake close by the shore, and onward to the dancing ripples far away. And a merry prattling voice, from out of loving arms, is coming nearer and nearer over the velvety lawn—a voice so full of spirit, and life, and health, and sparkling innocence of care, that in a moment the frightful nightmare-dream is quite forgotten.
More—
My reverie turns itself into a lesson of bright reality; a present study of budding mind; a jealous watch of care encroaching upon innocence; a kindly outpouring of the father's manly heart upon the shrine of his idol.
Could such a reverie better end?
Laura, rendered immortal by the love and lyre of Petrarch, was the daughter of Audibert de Noves, who was of thehaute noblesseof Avignon. He died in the infancy of Laura, leaving her a dowry of one thousand gold crowns, (about fifty thousand dollars,) a magnificent portion for those times. She was married at the age of eighteen to Hugh de Sade, a young noble only a few years older than his bride, but not distinguished by any advantages either of person or mind. The marriage contract is dated in January, 1325, two years before her first meeting with Petrarch; and in it her mother, the Lady Ermessende, and her brother, John de Noves, stipulate to pay the dower left by her father; and also to bestow on the bride two magnificent dresses for state occasions; one of green, embroidered with violets; the other of crimson, trimmed with feathers. In all the portraits of Laura now extant, she is represented in one of these two dresses, and they are frequently alluded to by Petrarch. He tells us expressly that when he first met her at matins in the church of Saint Claire, she was habited in a robe of green spotted with violets. Mention is also made of a coronal of silver with which she wreathed her hair; of her necklaces and ornaments of pearls. Diamonds are not once alluded to because the art of cutting them had not then been invented. From all which it appears that Laura was opulent, and moved in the first class of society. It was customary for women of rank in those times to dress with extreme simplicity on ordinary occasions, but with the most gorgeous splendor when they appeared in public.
There are some beautiful descriptions of Laura surrounded by her young female companions, divested of all her splendid apparel, in a simple white robe and a few flowers in her hair, but still preëminent over all by her superior loveliness.
She was in person a fair, Madonna-like beauty, with soft dark eyes, and a profusion of pale golden hair parted on her brow, and falling in rich curls over her neck. The general character of her beauty must have been pensive, soft, unobtrusive, and even somewhat languid. This softness and repose must nave been far removed from insipidity, for Petrarch dwells on the rare and varying expression of her loveliness, the lightning of her smile, and the tender magic of her voice, which was felt in the inmost heart. He dwells on the celestial grace of her figure and movements, and describes the beauty of her hand and the loveliness of her mouth. She had a habit of veiling her eyes with her hand, and her looks were generally bent on the earth.
In a portrait of Laura, in the Laurentinian library at Florence, the eyes have this characteristic downcast look.
Laura was distinguished, then, by her rank and fortune, but more by her loveliness, her sweetness, and the untainted purity of her life and manners in the midst of a society noted for its licentiousness. Now she is known as the subject of Petrarch's verses, as the woman who inspired an immortal passion, and, kindling into living fire the dormant sensibility of the poet, gave origin to the most beautiful and refined, the most passionate, and yet the most delicate amatory poetry that exists in the world.
Petrarch was twenty-three years of age when he first felt the power of a violent and inextinguishable passion. At six in the morning on the sixth of April,A. D.1327, (he often fondly records the exact year, day and hour,) on the occasion of the festival of Easter, he visited the church of Saint Claire at Avignon, and beheld, for the first time, Laura de Sade. She was just twenty years of age, and in the bloom of beauty—a beauty so touching and heavenly, so irradiated by purity and smiling innocence, and so adorned by gentleness and modesty, that the first sight stamped the image in the poet's heart, never thereafter to be erased.
Petrarch beheld the loveliness and sweetness of the young beauty, and was transfixed. He sought acquaintance with her, and while the manners of the times prevented his entering her house, he enjoyed many opportunities of meeting her in society, and of conversing with her. He would have declared his love, but her reserve enforced silence. "She opened my breast and took my heart into her hand, saying 'speak no word of this,'" he writes. Yet the reverence inspired by her modesty and dignity was not always sufficient to restrain her lover. Being alone with her on one occasion, and she appearing more gracious than usual, Petrarch tremblingly and fearfully confessed his passion; but she, with altered looks, replied, "I am not the person you take me for!" Her displeasure froze the very heart of the poet, so that he fled from her presence in grief and dismay.
No attentions on his part could make any impression on her steady and virtuous mind. While love and youth drove him on, she remained impregnable and firm; and when she found that he still rushed wildly forward, she preferred forsaking to following him to the precipice down which he would have hurried her. Meanwhile, as he gazed on her angelic countenance, and saw purity painted on it, his love grew spotless as herself. Love transforms the true lover into a resemblance of the object of his passion. In a town, which was the asylum of vice, calumny never breathed a taint upon Laura's name: her actions, her words, the very expression of her countenance, and her slightest gestures were replete with a modest reservecombined with sweetness, and won the applause of all.
Francesco Petrarch was of Florentine extraction, and the son of a notary, who, being held in great esteem by his fellow-citizens, had filled several public offices.
When the Ghibelines were banished Florence, in 1302, Petraccolo was included in the number of exiles; his property was confiscated, and he retired with his wife, Eletta Canigiani, whom he had lately married, to the town of Arrezzo, in Tuscany. And here on the night of the 20th of July, 1304, Petrarch first saw the light. When the child was seven months old his mother was permitted to return from banishment, and she established herself at a country house belonging to her husband near Ancisa, a small town fifteen miles from Florence. The infant who, at his birth, it was supposed would not survive, was exposed to imminent peril during this journey. In fording a rapid stream, the man who had charge of him carried him, wrapped in swaddling clothes, at the end of a stick; he fell from his horse, and the babe slipped from the fastenings into the water; but he was saved, for how could Petrarch die until he had seen his Laura?
The youth of Petrarch was obscure in point of fortune, but it was attended by all the happiness that springs from family concord, and the excellent character of his parents. At the age of fifteen he was sent to study in the university of Montpellier, then frequented by a vast concourse of students. His father intended his son to pursue the study of the law, as the profession best suited to ensure his reputation and fortune; but to this pursuit Francesco was invincibly repugnant. He was soon after sent to Bologna, where, as at Montpellier, he continued to display great taste for literature, much to his father's dissatisfaction.
At Bologna, Petrarch made considerable progress in the study of the law, moved thereto, doubtless, by the entreaties of his excellent parent.
After three years spent at Bologna, Petrarch was recalled to France by the death of his father. Soon after his mother died also, and he and his brother were left entirely to their own guidance, with very slender means, and those diminished by the dishonesty of those whom his father named as trustees to their fortune. Under these circumstances Petrarch entirely abandoned the profession of the law, as it occurred to both him and his brother that the clerical profession was their best resource in a city where the priesthood reigned supreme. They resided at Avignon, and became the favorites and companions of the ecclesiastical and lay nobles who formed the papal court. His talents and accomplishments were of course the cause of this distinction; besides that his personal advantages were such as to prepossess every one in his favor. He was so handsome as frequently to attract observation when he passed along the streets. When, to the utmost simplicity and singleness of mind, were added splendid talents, the charm of poetry, so highly valued in the country of the Troubadours, an affectionate and generous disposition, vivacious and pleasing manners, an engaging and attractive exterior; we cannot wonder that Petrarch was the darling of his age, the associate of its greatest men, and the man whom princes delighted to honor.
The passion of Petrarch for Laura was purified and exalted at the same time. She filled him with noble aspirations, and divided him from the common herd. He felt that her influence made him superior to vulgar ambition, and rendered him wise, true, and great. She saved him in the dangerous period of youth, and gave a worthy aim to all his endeavors. The manners of his age permitted one solace; a Platonic attachment was the fashion of the day. The Troubadours had each a lady to adore, to wait upon, and to celebrate in song; without its being supposed that she made him any return beyond a gracious acceptance of his devoirs, and allowing him to make her the heroine of his verses. Petrarch endeavored to merge the living passion of his soul into this airy and unsubstantial devotion. Laura permitted the homage: she perceived his merit and was proud of his admiration; she felt the truth of his affection, and indulged the wish of preserving it and her own honor at the same time. Without her inflexibility, this had been a dangerous experiment: but she always kept her lover distant from her; rewarding his reserve with smiles, and repressing by frowns all the overflowings of his heart.
By her resolute severity, she incurred the danger of ceasing to be the object of his attachment, and of losing the gift of an immortal name, which he has conferred upon her. But Petrarch's constancy was proof against hopelessness and time. He had too fervent an admiration of her qualities ever to change: he controlled the vivacity of his feelings, and they became deeper rooted. "Untouched by my prayers," he says, "unvanquished by my arguments, unmoved by my flattery, she remained faithful to her sex's honor; she resisted her own young heart, and mine, and a thousand, thousand things, which must have conquered any other. She remained unshaken. A woman taught me the duty of a man! to persuade me to keep the path of virtue, her conduct was at once an example and a reproach."
But whether, in this long conflict, Laura preserved her heart untouched, as well as her virtue immaculate; whether she shared the love she inspired; or whether she escaped from the captivating assiduities and intoxicating homage of her lover, "fancy free;" whether coldness, or prudence, or pride, orvirtue, or the mere heartless love of admiration, or a mixture of all together, dictated her conduct, is at least as well worth inquiry as the color of her eyes, or the form of her nose, upon which we have pages of grave discussion. She might have beencoquette par instinct, if notpar calent; she might have felt, with femininetacte, that to preserve her influence over Petrarch, it was necessary to preserve his respect. She was evidently proud of her conquest: she had else been more or less than woman; and at every hazard, but that of self-respect, she was resolved to retain him. If Petrarch absented himself for a few days, he was generally better treated on his return. If he avoided her, then her eye followed him with a softer expression. When he looked pale from sickness of heart and agitation of spirits, Laura would address him with a few words of pitying tenderness. When he presumed on this benignity, he was again repulsed with frowns. He flew to solitude,—solitude! Never let the proud and torn heart, wrung with the sense of injury, and sick with unrequited passion, seek that worst resource against pain, for there grief grows by contemplating itself, and every feeling is sharpened by collision. Petrarch sought to "mitigate the fever of his heart" amid the shades of Vaucluse, a spot so gloomy, and so solitary, that his very servants forsook him; and Vaucluse, its fountains, its forests, and its hanging cliffs, reflected only the image of Laura.
He passed several years thus, cut off from society; his books were his great resource; he was never without one in his hand. Often he remained in silence from morning till night, wandering among the hills when the sun was yet low; and taking refuge, during the heat of the day, in his shady garden. At night, after performing his clerical duties (for he was canon of Lombes), he rambled among the hills; often entering, at midnight, the cavern, whose gloom, even during the day, struck his soul with awe. "Fool that I was!" he exclaims in after life, "not to have remembered the first school-boy lesson—that solitude is the nurse of love!"
While living at Vaucluse, Petrarch, invited to Rome by the Roman Senate, repaired thither to receive the laurel crown of poesy. The ceremony was performed in the Capitol with great solemnity, in presence of all the nobles and high-born ladies of the city. Leaving Rome soon after his coronation, he repaired to Parma, where Clement VI. rewarded him for subsequent political services by naming him prior of Migliarino in the diocese of Pisa.
Petrarch returned to Avignon. The sight of Laura gave fresh energy to a passion which had survived the lapse of fifteen years. She was no longer the blooming girl who had first charmed him. The cares of life had dimmed her beauty. She was the mother of many children, and had been afflicted at various times by illness. Her home was not happy. Her husband, without loving or appreciating her, was ill-tempered and jealous. Petrarch acknowledged that if her personal charms had been her sole attraction he had already ceased to love her. But his passion was nourished by sympathy and esteem; and, above all, by that mysterious tyranny of love, which, while it exists, the mind of man seems to have no power of resisting, though in feebler minds it sometimes vanishes like a dream. Petrarch was also changed in personal appearance. His hair was sprinkled with gray, and lines of care and sorrow trenched his face. On both sides the tenderness of affection began to replace, in him the violence of passion, in her the coyness and severity she had found necessary to check his pursuit. The jealousy of her husband opposed obstacles to their seeing each other. They met as they could in public walks and assemblies. Laura sang to him, and a soothing familiarity grew up between them as her fears became allayed, and he looked forward to the time when they might sit together and converse without dread.
At length he resolved to leave Laura and Avignon forever; and instead of plunging into solitude, to seek the wiser resource of travel and society. Laura saw him depart with regret. When he went to take leave of her, he found her surrounded by a circle of her ladies. Her mien was dejected; a cloud overcast her face, whose expression seemed to say, "Who takes my faithful friend from me?" Petrarch was struck to the heart by a sad presentiment: the emotion was mutual; they both seemed to feel that they should never meet again.
Petrarch departed. The plague, which had been extending its ravages over Asia, entered Europe. It spread far and wide: nearly one half the population of the world became its prey. Petrarch saw thousands die around him, and he trembled for his friends. He heard that it was at Avignon. A thousand sad presentiments haunted his mind. At last the fatal truth reached him, Laura was dead! By a singular coincidence, she died on the anniversary of the day when he first saw her. She was taken ill on the third of April, and languished but three days. As soon as the symptoms of the plague declared themselves, she prepared to die: she made her will, which is dated on the third of April, and received the sacraments of the church. On the sixth she died, surrounded by her friends and the noble ladies of Avignon, who braved the dangers of infection to attend on one so lovely and so beloved. On the evening of the same day on which she died, she was interred in the chapel of the Cross which her husband had lately built in the church of the Minor Friars at Avignon.
Her tomb was discovered and opened in 1533, in the presence of Francis the First, whose celebrated stanzas on the occasion are well known.
Of the fame which, even in her lifetime, love and poetical adoration of Petrarch had thrown around his Laura, a curious instance is given which will characterize the manners of the age. When Charles of Luxembourg (afterwards Emperor) was at Avignon, a grand fête was given, in his honor, at which all the noblesse were present. He desired that Petrarch's Laura should be pointed out to him; and when she was introduced, he made a sign with his hand that the other ladies present should fall back; then going up to Laura, and for a moment contemplating her with interest, he kissed her respectively on the forehead and on the eyelids.
Petrarch survived her twenty-six years, dying in 1374. He was found lifeless one morning in his study, his hand resting on a book.
Robin Hood was a gentleman,An outlaw bold was he;He lost his Earldom and his land,And took to the greenwood tree.The king had just come home from warWith the Soldan over sea;And Robin dwelt in merry Sherwood,And lived by archerie.Five bucks as fat as fat could be,Were bleeding on the ground,When up there came a hunter bright,With a horn and leashéd hound."Who's this, who's this, i' th' merry greenwood?Who's this with horn and hound?We'll hang him, an' he pay not downFor his life a thousand pound."Come hither, hither, Friar John,And count your rosarie,And shrive this sinful gentleman,Under the greenwood tree!""Stand back, stand back, thou wicked Friar,Nor dare to stop my way;I'll tear your cowl and cassock off,And hurl your beads away!""Nay! hold your hands, my merry man!I like his gallant mood;Sir Hunter pray you take a staff,And play with Robin Hood."They played an hour with quarter staffs,A good long hour or more,And Robin Hood was beat at the game,That never was beat before."Hold off, hold off," he said at length,And wiped the blood away;"Thou art a noble gentleman,Come dine with me to-day.""With the quarter staff, as a yeoman might,For love I played with thee;Now draw thy sword, as fits a knight,And play awhile with me."They fought an hour with rapiers keen,A weary hour or more,And Robin Hood began to fail,That never failed before.But still he fought as best he might,In the summer's burning heat,Till he sank at last with loss of blood,And fell at the Stranger's feet.He brought him water from the spring,And took him by the hand;"Rise up!" he said, "my good old Earl,The best man in the land!"Rise up, rise up, Earl Huntington,No longer Robin Hood;I will be king in London town,And you in green Sherwood!"
Robin Hood was a gentleman,An outlaw bold was he;He lost his Earldom and his land,And took to the greenwood tree.
The king had just come home from warWith the Soldan over sea;And Robin dwelt in merry Sherwood,And lived by archerie.
Five bucks as fat as fat could be,Were bleeding on the ground,When up there came a hunter bright,With a horn and leashéd hound.
"Who's this, who's this, i' th' merry greenwood?Who's this with horn and hound?We'll hang him, an' he pay not downFor his life a thousand pound.
"Come hither, hither, Friar John,And count your rosarie,And shrive this sinful gentleman,Under the greenwood tree!"
"Stand back, stand back, thou wicked Friar,Nor dare to stop my way;I'll tear your cowl and cassock off,And hurl your beads away!"
"Nay! hold your hands, my merry man!I like his gallant mood;Sir Hunter pray you take a staff,And play with Robin Hood."
They played an hour with quarter staffs,A good long hour or more,And Robin Hood was beat at the game,That never was beat before.
"Hold off, hold off," he said at length,And wiped the blood away;"Thou art a noble gentleman,Come dine with me to-day."
"With the quarter staff, as a yeoman might,For love I played with thee;Now draw thy sword, as fits a knight,And play awhile with me."
They fought an hour with rapiers keen,A weary hour or more,And Robin Hood began to fail,That never failed before.
But still he fought as best he might,In the summer's burning heat,Till he sank at last with loss of blood,And fell at the Stranger's feet.
He brought him water from the spring,And took him by the hand;"Rise up!" he said, "my good old Earl,The best man in the land!
"Rise up, rise up, Earl Huntington,No longer Robin Hood;I will be king in London town,And you in green Sherwood!"
Upon a fine May morning in the year 1585, a Spanish vessel lay at anchor in the Port of St. Jago, in the island of Cuba. She was about to sail for Cadiz, the passengers were on board, and the sailors at their several stations, awaiting the word of command. The captain, a small, tight-built, shrewd-looking man, with the voice and manner of a naval officer, which, indeed, he had formerly been, was brave and experienced, and although somewhat wild and daring, he was a good fellow at heart, but now and then violent and headstrong to a fault, in short, Captain Perez was the terror of his men.
He was walking the deck with rapid strides, and exhibiting the greatest impatience, now stopping to observe the direction of the wind, and casting a glance at the shore, then resuming his walk with a preliminary stamp of disappointment and vexation; no one, in the meanwhile, daring to ask why he delayed getting under way.
At length strains of church music at a distance are heard on board the vessel, and all eyes are directed to the shore. A long procession of monks, holding crosses and lighted wax tapers, and singing, is seen approaching the beach opposite the vessel. The procession moves slowly and solemnly to the cadence of the music. Between two rows of monks dressed in deep black is a coffin richly decorated with all the symbols of the Catholic faith, and covered with garlands and chaplets, and, what is singular, the coffin is carried with difficulty by six stout negroes. Four venerable Jesuits support the corners of the pall, and, immediately behind the coffin, walks alone, with a grave and dignified step, the Right Reverend Father Antonio, superior of the Jesuit missionaries of the island of Cuba. An immense crowd of citizens, the garrison of the island, and the military and civil authorities, piously form the escort.
Suddenly the singing ceases, the procession halts, the coffin is placed on elevated supporters. Father Antonio approaches it, and, kissing the pall with reverence, exclaims, with a solemnity befitting the occasion,
"Adieu! Saint Escarpacio, thou worthy model of our order, adieu! In separating myself from thy holy remains, I fulfil thy last wishes; may they piously repose in our happy Spain, and may thy saintly vows and aspirations be thus accomplished. But before their departure from our shores, we conjure thee, holy saint, to look down from thy holy place of rest in heaven, and deign to bless this people, and us, thy mourning friends on earth."
The whole assembly then knelt upon the ground, after which the negroes, resuming their heavy burden, carried it on board a boat, closely followed by Father Antonio. Withvigorous rowing the boat soon reached the vessel's side, and the coffin was hoisted on board.
"You are very late, reverend father," said Captain Perez, "and you knowwind and tide wait for no man. I ought to have been far on my way long before this hour."
"We could not get ready sooner, my son," the holy father replied, "but fear not, God will reward you for the delay, and these precious remains will speed you on your voyage. I hope you have made your own private cabin, as you promised, worthy of their reception?"
"Yes, certainly, I have."
"You must not for a moment lose sight of the coffin."
"Make yourself easy on that point, holy father; I shall watch over it as if it were my own. Hollo there forward, bear a hand aft," the captain cried.
Four sailors place themselves at the corners of the coffin, but they can hardly raise it from the deck; two more are called, and the six, bending under its weight, succeed in carrying it down into the cabin, followed by the Captain and by Father Antonio.
When the coffin was properly bestowed, the reverend father addressed Captain Perez in the most earnest and solemn manner:
"I hope you will be found worthy of the great confidence and trust I now repose in you. These precious remains should occupy your every moment, and you will sacredly and faithfully account to me for their safety—the smallest negligence will cost you dear. On your arrival at Cadiz, you will deliver the coffin to none other than Father Hieronimo, and not to him even, unless he shall first place in your hands a letter from me—you understand my instructions and commands? Now depart, and may God speed you on your way."
Father Antonio then came upon deck, and bestowed his benediction upon the vessel, and upon all it contained; after which, descending to the boat, he was rowed to the shore. As he placed himself at the head of the procession, the singing recommenced, the anchor was weighed, and, to the sound of music, the cheering of the people, and the roar of cannon, the vessel moved slowly on her destined voyage.
When fairly at sea, the wind was favorable, and all went well. The second evening out, Captain Perez was alone in his private cabin, and in a contemplative mood, when the feeble light of the single lamp glancing across the coffin, as the vessel rocked from side to side, attracted his attention, and led him to think about the singularity of its great weight.
"It is very strange," he said musingly, "six stout fellows to carry a man's dry bones!—it cannot be possible. But what does the coffin contain if it does not contain the saint's bones? Father Antonio was very,veryparticular. I should really like to know what there is in the coffin. It took a good half dozen strong healthy negroes, and then as many sailors, to carry it: what can there be in the coffin? Why, after all, Icanknow if I please. I have but to take out a few screws, it can be done without the slightest noise, and I am alone, and the cabin door is easily fastened."
Suiting the action to his soliloquy, he bolted the door of the cabin, took from his tool-chest a screw-driver, and, after a moment's indecision, began cautiously to loosen one of the screws in the lid of the coffin, his hands all the while trembling violently.
"If," thought he, "I am committing a heinous sin, if the saint should start up, and if, in his anger, he should in some appalling manner punish my sacrilegious meddling with his bones?"
A cold sweat overspread his bronzed visage, and he stood still a moment, hesitating as to whether he should go on. But curiosity conquered, and he rallied his energies with the reflection, that if he opened the coffin, Saint Escarpacio himself well knew it was only to find out what made his bones so heavy; there could be no impiety in that—quite the contrary. His conscience was by this time somewhat fortified, his superstitious fears gradually grew fainter, and keeping his eyes steadily fixed upon the lid of the coffin—to be sure the saint did not stir—he slowly and silently took out the first screw. He then stopped short: the saint showed no signs of anger.
"I knew it," said Perez, going to work more boldly upon the second screw, "I knew there was nothing sinful in opening the coffin, for the sin lies in the intention."
All the screws were soon drawn out, and to gratify his curiosity it only remained to raise the coffin lid, and here his heart beat violently—but courage—Perez did raise the lid,and, and, he saw—no saint, but hay—the hay is carefully removed—then strips of linen—they are removed—then hay again, but no saint, nothing like the bone of a saint—but a wooden box.
"Well, that is odd," thought Perez, "and what can there be in it? I must open the box, but how? there is no key, what is to be done? Shall I force the lock, or break the cover of the box? Either attempt would make a noise, which the passengers or sailors might hear, but what is to be done? Good Saint Escarpacio, take pity on me, and direct me how to open the box," whispered Perez, and there was perhaps a little irony in the supplication.
In feeling among the hay surrounding the box, Perez found a key at one of its corners secured by a small iron chain.
"Ah! ha! I have it at last" Perez cried, "the key, the key," and quickly putting it into the key-hole, he opened the Box—and he saw—what?Leathern bags filled to thetopaccording to the beautifully written tickets, withgold pistoles—silver crowns, closely ranged in shining piles—all in the most perfect order. "But what is this? a letter? I must read it," exclaimed the excited Perez—"by your leave, gentle wax," and he tears the letter open. It began thus:
"Father Antonio, of Cuba, to the reverend fathers in Cadiz, greeting.
"As agreed between us, Most Reverend Fathers, I send youthree hundred thousand livres, in the name, and under the semblance of Father Escarpacio, whose bones I am supposed to be sending to Spain. The annexed memorandum of accounts will show that this sum comprises the whole of our little gleanings and savings up to this time, for the benefit of our Holy Order. You will pardon I am sure this innocent artifice on our part, Most Reverend Fathers, as it will prove a safeguard to the treasure, and avoid awakening the avarice and cupidity of the person to whom I am obliged to intrust it. (Signed)Antonio, of Cuba."
"Three hundred thousand livres! there are, then, three hundred thousand livres," exclaimed Perez in amazement, as he realized that this immense sum lay in real gold and silver coin before his eyes. "Oh, reverend, right reverend and worthy fellows of the crafty Ignatius! you are indeed cunning foxes! a hundred to one your trick was not discovered, for who but a Jesuit could have imagined it, and who could have guessed that the coffin containedmoney? And so these bags of gold are yourholy remains, and I too, old sea shark as I am, to be humbugged like a land lubber, with your procession and your mummery—but I am deceived no longer, my eyes are opened; and by my patron saint, trick for trick my pious masters—bones you shall have, and burn me for a heretic, if you get any thing better than bones;" and he began to untie and examine the contents of the money-bags. "Let me consider" said he, "I want some bones, and where the devil shall I find them?"
He was on his knees, his body bent over the box, with his hands in the open gold-bags. His agitated countenance expressed with energy the mingled emotions, of desire to keep the rich booty all to himself, and of fear that in some mysterious manner it might elude his grasp—but he must, hemusthave it.
"A lucky thought strikes me," said he; "what a fool I am to give myself any trouble about it. What says my bill of lading? 'Received from the Reverend Father Antonio, a coffin containing bones, said to be those of Saint Escarpacio.' A coffin containing bones, said to be those, &c.—very good, and have I seen the bones,saidto be delivered to me, andsaidto be the saint's bones? certainly not, and the coffin might contain—any thing else—the said coffin containing—what you please—how should I know?said to be the bones of Saint Escarpacio," &c. &c.
In short, Captain Perez began noiselessly and methodically to empty the box of its bags of gold and piles of silver, taking care to stow the treasure away in a chest, to which he alone had access. He then filled the box with whatever was at hand, bits of rusty iron, lead, stones, shells, old junk, hay, &c., substituting as nearly as possible pound for pound in weight if not in value, conscientiously adding some bones which were far removed fromcanonisation, and at last carefully screwing down the lid, the right reverend father Antonio himself, had he been on board, could not have discovered that the coffin had been touched by mortal hand.
In about a month the vessel arrived at the port of Cadiz. The quarantine for some unexplained reason was much shorter than usual, and had hardly expired, when a venerable Jesuit was the first person who stood before the captain, a few minutes only after he had taken possession of his lodgings on shore.
"I would speak with Captain Perez," said the Jesuit, gravely.
"I am he," the captain replied, somewhat disconcerted at the abruptness of the inquiry. Quickly recovering his presence of mind, however, he added, with perfect calmness, "You have probably come, holy father, to take charge of the precious remains intrusted to my care by Father Antonio, of Cuba?" The Jesuit bowed his head, in token of assent.
"And I have the honor of addressing Father Hieronimo?"
"You have," was the reply.
"You are no doubt the bearer of a letter for me, from Father Antonio?"
"Here it is," said Father Hieronimo, handing Captain Perez a letter.
"I beg a thousand pardons, holy father," the captain said, with much humility, "but I hope you will not take offence at these necessary precautions?"
"On the contrary they speak in your favor."
"I see all is right," said the captain, "and I will go myself and order the coffin brought on shore."
The captain went immediately on board, Father Hieronimo meanwhile placing himself at an open window whence he could over-look the vessel and watch every movement. The coffin was brought on shore by eight sailors, who, bending under its weight, slowly approach the captain's quarters.
"How heavy it is, howveryheavy," said the Jesuit, rubbing his hands in exultation.
Captain Perez had of course accompanied the coffin from the vessel, and now that he was about to deliver it into Father Hieronimo's keeping, he said to him, in a solemn and impressive manner,
"I place in your hands, holy father, the precious remains intrusted to my care."
"I receive them with pious joy."
"The responsibility was great."
"It will henceforth be mine."
"It was a precious treasure."
"Very precious."
"I have watched over it with vigilance."
"God will reward you."
"I hope so."
"From this hour every thing will prosper with you."
"Do you think so, holy father?"
"I am sure of it. I must now bid you adieu."
"You have forgotten, holy father, to give me a receipt; but if—"
"You are right," said the Jesuit, "it had escaped me." And he seated himself at a table on which lay writing materials, first sending a servant for his carriage.
The receipt spoke of the piety and zeal of Captain Perez in the most flattering terms; and, while the captain was reading it with becoming humility, the carriage drew up opposite to the coffin, which was soon resting upon the cushioned seats within the vehicle.
"I go immediately to Madrid," said Father Hieronimo. "You can no doubt imagine the impatience of the holy fathers to possess the sacred relics; they have waited so long. Once more adieu, believe me we shall never forget you."
With these words, and a parting benediction on Perez, Father Hieronimo stepped into the carriage, and, with his holy remains by his side, started at a brisk trot of his well-fed mules on the road to Madrid. When fairly out of sight and hearing of Captain Perez, the good father laughed aloud. "The captain, poor simple soul," said he, "suspects nothing."
And Perez, he too would have laughed aloud if he had dared; indeed he could with difficulty restrain himself in presence of his crew. "The crafty old fox," he said exultingly, "he has got his holy remains—ha! ha!—and hesuspects nothing."
A day or two after the delivery of the coffin, Captain Perez sailed for Mexico.
After an interval of ten years, during which period, according to the Jesuit's prediction, prosperity had constantly waited upon Perez, he became weary of successful enterprise, and tired of the roving and laborious life he was leading. Worth a million, and a bachelor, he wisely resolved to give the remainder of his days to enjoyment. Seville was judiciously selected for his residence, where a magnificent mansion, extensive grounds, a well furnished cellar, good cooks, chosen friends, with all the other et ceteras which riches can bring, enabled him to pass his days and nights joyously. Captain Perez was indeed ahappy dog.
One night he was at table, surrounded by his friends of both sexes. The cook had done his duty; there were excellent fruits from the tropics; there were wines in abundance and variety, and with songs and laughter the very windows rattled, when Perez, the jolly Perez,half seas over, begged a moment's silence.
"I say, my worthy friends, I have something to tell you better than all your singing. I must tell you a story that will make you split your sides—a real good one, about a capital trick I served them poor devils the Jesuits. You must know I was lying at anchor in Cuba, and—"
Suddenly the door of the apartment is thrown open with great violence, and a monk, clothed in deep black, enters, followed by a guard ofalguazilsarmed to the teeth.
"Profane impious wretches!" he cried, in a voice of appalling harshness, "is it thus you do penance for your sins? Is it in riotous feasting and drunkenness you spend the holy season of Lent?" Then, turning to Captain Perez, he said, "Follow me to the palace of the Holy Inquisition. Before that tribunal you must answer for your sacrilegious conduct."
The guests were stupefied with fear, and Perez, now completely sobered, stared in affright at the monk.
"Do you recollect me, Captain Perez?" said the monk.
"No—but—it appears to me I have somewhere seen—"
"I am Father Antonio, of Cuba," cried the monk, fixing his eyes, sparkling with savage fury, upon Perez.
"And you are a member of the Holy Inquisition?" Perez faltered out in trembling accents.
"I am. Again I say, follow me on the instant."
Poor Captain Perez, or rather rich Captain Perez, at the early day in which he lived had, perhaps, never heard the avowal made by a man who, in speaking of honesty and dishonesty, declaredhonesty to be the best policy, for, said he,I have tried both.
That the captain was not born to be hanged is certain; and although from childhood a sojourner upon the ocean, it was not his destiny to be drowned. There is a tradition handed down, that had it not been for very considerable donations, under his hand and seal, to a religious community in Spain, a method of bidding adieu to this life more in accordance with the pious notions prevalent three hundred years ago, would certainly have been chosen for our hero. Indeed, there were not wanting many heretic-hating persons who affirmed that anauto-da-fewas got up expressly for the occasion. But we have ascertained beyond a doubt that he reformed in his manner of living, that he secured to the Holy Order the donations already mentioned, that the reverend fathers kindly took from his legal heirs all trouble in the division of his riches, and that he died in his bed at last, as a pious Catholic should die, and was buried in consecrated ground, with every rite and ceremony belonging to the community he had so munificently contributed to enrich.