CHAPTER XVIII.

When at last I entered the house I sought Mistress Ward; for I desired to hear what assistance she had procured for the escape of the prisoners, and to inform her of my father's resolved purpose not himself to attempt this flight, albeit commending her for moving Mr. Watson to it and assisting him therein. Not finding her in the parlor, nor in her bed-chamber, I opened the door of my aunt's room, who was now very weak, and yet more so in mind than in body. She was lying with her eyes shut, and Mistress Ward standing by her bedside. I marked her intent gaze on the aged, placid face of the poor lady, and one tear I saw roll down her cheek. Then she stooped to kiss her forehead. A noise I made with the handle of the door caused her to turn round, and hastening toward me, she took me by the hand and led me to her chamber, where Muriel was folding some biscuits and cakes in paper and stowing them in a basket. The thought came to me of the first day I had arrived in London, and the comfort I had found in this room, when all except her were strangers to me in that house. She sat down betwixt Muriel and me, and smiling, said: "Now, mine own dear children, for such my heart holds you both to be, and ever will whilst I live, I am come here for to tell you that I purpose not to return to this house to-night, nor can I foresee when, if ever, I shall be free to do so."

"O, what dismal news!" I exclaimed, "and more sad than I did expect."

Muriel said nothing, but lifting her hand to her lips kissed it.

"You both know," she continued, "that in order to save one in cruel risk and temptation of apostasy, and others perhaps, also, whom his possible speaking should imperil, I be about to put myself in some kind of danger, who of all persons in the world possess the best right to do so, as having neither parents, or husband, or children, or any on earth who depend on my care. Yea, it is true," she added, fixing her eyes on Muriel's composed, but oh how sorrowful, countenance, "none dependent on my care, albeit some very dear to me, and which hang on me, and I on them, in the way of fond affection. God knoweth my heart, and that it is very closely and tenderly entwined about each one in this house. Good Mr. Congleton and your dear mother, who hath clung to me so long, though I thank God not so much of late by reason of the weakening of her mind, which hath ceased greatly to notice changes about her, and you, Constance, my good child, since your coming hither a little lass commended to my keeping. . . . ." There she stopped; and I felt she could not name Muriel, or then so much as look on her; for if ever two souls were bound together by an unperishable bond of affection, begun on earth to last in heaven, theirs were so united. I ween Muriel was already acquainted with her purpose, for she asked no questions thereon; whereas I exclaimed, "I do very well know, good Mistress Ward, what perils you do run in this charitable enterprise; but wherefore, I pray you, this final manner of parting? God's providence may shield you from harm in this passage, and, indeed, human probability should lead us to hope for your safety if becoming precautions be observed. Then why, I say, this certain farewell?"

"Because," she answered, "whatever comes of this night's enterprise, I return not to this house."

"And wherefore not?" I cried; "this is indeed a cruel resolve, a hard misfortune."

"Heretofore," she answered, "I had noways offended against the laws of the country, except in respect {316} of recusancy, wherein all here are alike involved; but by mine act tonight I do expose myself to so serious a charge (conscience obliging me to prefer the law of divine charity to that of human authority), that I may at any time and without the least hope of mercy be exposed to detection and apprehension; and so am resolved not to draw down sorrow and obloquy on the gray hairs of my closest friends and on your young years such perils as I do willingly in mine own person incur, but would not have others to be involved in. Therefore I will lodge, leastwise for a time, with one who feareth not any more than I do persecution, who hath no ties and little or nothing on earth to lose, and if she had would willingly yield it a thousand times over for to save a soul for whom Christ died. Nor will I have you privy, my dear children, to the place of mine abode, that if questioned on it you may with truth aver yourselves to be ignorant thereof. And now," she said, turning to me, "is Mr. Sherwood willing for to try to escape by the same means as Mr. Watson? for methinks I have found a way to convey to him a cord, and, by means of the management he knoweth of instructions how to use it."

"Nay," I answered, "he will not himself avail himself of this means, albeit he is much rejoiced you have it in hand for Mr. Watson's deliverance from his tormentors; and he doth pray fervently for it to succeed."

"Everything promiseth well," she replied. "I dealt this day with an honest Catholic boatman, a servant of Mr. Hodgson, who is willing to assist in it. Two men are needed for to row the boat with so much speed as shall be necessary to carry it quickly beyond reach of pursuers. He knoweth none of his own craft which should be reliable or else disposed to risk the enterprise; but he says at a house of resort for Catholics which he doth frequent, he chanced to fall in with a young gentleman, lately landed from France, whom he doth make sure will lend his aid in it. As dextrous a man," he saith, "to handle an oar, and of as courageous a spirit, as can be found in England."

As soon as she had uttered these words, I thought of what Hubert had said touching a report of Basil being in London and of his rashness in plunging into dangers; a cold shiver ran through me. "Did he tell you this gentleman's name?" I asked.

"No," she answered, "he would not mention it; but only that he was one who could be trusted with the lives of ten thousand persons, and so zealous a Catholic he would any day risk his life to do some good service to a priest."

"And hath this boatman promised," I inquired, "to wait for Mr. Watson and convey him away?"

"Yea, most strictly," she answered, "at twelve o'clock of the night he and his companion shall approach a boat to the side of some scaffolding which lieth under the wall of the prison; and when the clock of the tower striketh, Mr. Watson shall open his window, the bars of which he hath found it possible to remove, and by means of the cord, which is of the length he measured should be necessary, he will let himself down on the planks, whence he can step into the boat, and be carried to a place of concealment in a close part of the city till it shall be convenient for him to cross the sea to France."

"Must you go?" I said, seeing her rise, and feeling a dull hard heaviness at my heart which did well-nigh impede my utterance. I was not willing to let her know the fear I had conceived; "of what use should it be," I inwardly argued, "to disturb her in the discharge of her perilous task by a surmise which might prove groundless; and, indeed, were it certainly true, could she, nay, would she, alter her intent, or could I so much as ask her to do it?" Whilst, with Muriel's assistance, she concluded the packing of her basket, wherein the weighty cord was concealed in an ingenious {317} manner, I stood by watching the doing of it, fearing to see her depart, yet unable to think of any means by which to delay that which I could not, even if I had willed it, prevent. When the last contents were placed in the basket, and Muriel was pressing down the lid, I said: "Do you, peradventure, know the name of the inn where you said that gentleman doth tarry which the boatman spake of?"

"No," she replied; "nor so much as where the good boatman himself lodgeth. I met with him at Mr. Hodgson's house, and there made this agreement."

"But if," I said, "it should happen by any reason that Mr. Watson changed his mind, how should you, then, inform him of it?"

"In that case," she answered, "he would hang a white kerchief outside his window, by which they should be advertised to withdraw themselves. And now," she added, "I have always been of the way of thinking that farewells should be brief; and 'God speed you,' and 'God bless you,' enough for those which do hope, if it shall please God, on earth, but for a surety in heaven, to meet again."

So, kissing us both somewhat hurriedly, she took up her basket on her arm, and said she should send a messenger on the morrow for her clothes; at which Muriel, for the first time, shed some tears, which was an instance of what I have often noticed, that grief, howsoever heavy, doth not always overflow in the eyes unless some familiar words or homely circumstance doth substantiate the verity of a sorrow known indeed, but not wholly apparent till its common effects be seen. Then we two sat awhile alone in that empty chamber--empty of her which for so long years had tenanted it to our no small comfort and benefit. When the light waned, Muriel lit a candle, and said she must go for to attend on her mother, for that duty did now devolve chiefly on her; and I could see in her sad but composed face the conquering peace which doth exceed all human consolation.

For mine own part, I was so unhinged by doubtful suspense that I lacked ability to employ my mind in reading or my fingers in stitch-work; and so descended for relief into the garden, where I wandered to and fro like an uneasy ghost, seeking rest but finding none. The dried shaking leaves made a light noise in falling, which caused me each time to think I heard a footstep behind me. And despite the increasing darkness, after I had paced up and down for near unto an hour, some one verily did come walking along the alley where I was, seeking to overtake me. Turning round I perceived it to be mine own dear aged friend, Mr. Roper. Oh, what great comfort I experienced in the sight of this good man! How eager was my greeting of him! How full my heart as I poured into his ear the narrative of the passages which had befallen me since we had met! Of the most weighty he knew somewhat; but nothing of the last haunting fear I had lest my dear Basil should be in London, and this very night engaged in the perilous attempt to carry off Mr. Watson. When I told him of it, he started and exclaimed:

"God defend it!" but quickly corrected himself and cried, "God's mercy, that my first feeling should have led me to think rather of Basil's safety than of the fine spirit he showed in all instances where a good action had to be done, or a service rendered to those in affliction."

"Indeed, Mr. Roper," I said, as he led me back to the house and into the solitary parlor (where my uncle now seldom came, but remained sitting alone in his library, chiefly engaged in praying and reading), "I do condemn mine own weakness in this, and pray God to give me strength for what may come upon us; but I do promise you 'tis no easy matter to carry always so high a heart that it shall not sink with human fears and griefs in such passages as these."

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"My dear," the good man answered, "God knoweth 'tis no easy matter to attain to the courage you speak of. I have myself seen the sweetest, the lovingest, and the most brave creature which ever did breathe give marks of extraordinary sorrow when her father, that generous martyr of Christ, was to die."

"I pray you tell me," I answered, "what her behavior was like in that trial; for to converse on such themes doth allay somewhat the torment of suspense, and I may learn lessons from her example, who, you say, joined to natural weakness so courageous a spirit in like straits."

Upon which he, willing to divert and yet not violently change the current of my thoughts, spake as followeth:

"On the day when Sir Thomas More came from Westminster to the Tower-ward, my wife, desirous to see her father, whom she thought she should never see in this world after, and also to have his final blessing, gave attendance about the wharf where she knew he should pass before he could enter into the Tower. As soon as she saw him, after his blessing upon her knees reverently received, hastening toward him without care or consideration of herself, passing in amongst the throng and company of the guard, she ran to him and took him about the neck and kissed him; who, well liking her most natural and dear daughterly affection toward him, gave her his fatherly blessing and godly words of comfort beside; from whom, after she was departed, not satisfied with the former sight of him, and like one that had forgotten herself, being all ravished with the entire love of her father, suddenly turned back again, ran to him as before, took him about the neck, and divers times kissed him lovingly, till at last, with a full and heavy heart, she was fain to depart from him; the beholding thereof was to many that were present so lamentable, and mostly so to me, that for very sorrow we could not forbear to weep with her. The wife of John Harris, Sir Thomas's secretary, was moved to such a transport of grief, that she suddenly flew to his neck and kissed him, as he had reclined his head on his daughter's shoulder; and he who, in the midst of the greatest straits, had ever a merry manner of speaking, cried, 'This is kind, albeit rather unpolitely done.'"

"And the day he suffered," I asked, "what was this good daughter's behavior?"

"She went," quoth he, "to the different churches, and distributed abundant alms to the poor. When she had given all her money away, she withdrew to pray in a certain church, where she on a sudden did remember she had no linen in which to wrap up her father's body. She had heard that the remains of the Bishop of Rochester had been thrown into the ground, without priest, cross, lights, or shroud, for the dread of the king had prevented his relations from attempting to bury him. But Margaret resolved her father's body should not meet with such unchristian treatment. Her maid advised her to buy some linen in the next shop, albeit having given away all her money to the poor, there was no likelihood she should get credit from strangers. She ventured, howsoever, and having agreed about the price, she put her hand in her pocket, which she knew was empty, to show she forgot the money, and ask credit under that pretence. But to her surprise, she found in her purse the exact price of the linen, neither more or less; and so buried the martyr of Christ with honor, nor was there any one so inhuman found as to hinder her."

"Mr. Roper," I said, when he had ended his recital, "methinks this angelic lady's trial was most hard: but how much harder should it yet have been if you, her husband, had been in a like peril at that time as her father?"

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A half kind of melancholy, half smiling look came into the good old man's face as he answered:

"Her father was Sir Thomas More, and he so worthy of a daughter's passionate love, and the affection betwixt them so entire and absolute, compounded of filial love on her part, unmitigated reverence, and unrestrained confidence, that there was left in her heart no great space for wifely doating. But to be moderately affectioned by such a woman, and to stand next in her esteem to her incomparable father, was of greater honor and worth to her unworthy husband, than should have been the undivided, yea idolatrous, love of one not so perfect as herself."

After a pause, during which his thoughts, I ween, reverted to the past, and mine investigated mine own soul, I said to Mr. Roper:

"Think you, sir, that love to be idolatrous which is indeed so absolute that it should be no difficulty to die for him who doth inspire it; which would prefer a prison in his company, howsoever dark and loathsome (yea consider it a very paradise), to the beautifullest palace in the world, which without him would seem nothing but a vile dungeon; which should with a good-will suffer all the torments in the world for to see the object of its affection enjoy good men's esteem on earth, and a noble place in heaven; but which should be, nevertheless, founded and so wholly built up on a high estimate of his virtues; on the quality he holdeth of God's servant; on the likeness of Christ stamped on his soul, and each day exemplified in his manner of living, that albeit to lose his love or his company in this world should be like the uprooting of all happiness and turning the brightness of noonday to the darkness of the night, it should a thousand times rather endure this mishap than that the least shade or approach of a stain should alter the unsullied opinion till then held of his perfections?"

Mr. Roper smiled, and said that was a too weighty question to answer at once; for he should be loth to condemn or yet altogether to absolve from some degree of overweeningness such an affection as I described, which did seem indeed to savor somewhat of excess; but yet if noble in its uses and held in subjection to the higher claims of the Creator, whose perfections the creature doth at best only imperfectly mirror, it might be commendable and a means of attaining ourselves to the like virtues we doated on in another.

As he did utter these words a servant came into the parlor, and whispered in mine ear:

"Master Basil Rookwood is outside the door, and craves--"

I suffered him not to finish his speech, but bounded into the hall, where Basil was indeed standing with a traveller's cloak on him, and a slouched hat over his face. After such a greeting as may be conceived (alas, all greetings then did seem to combine strange admixtures of joy and pain!), I led him into the parlor, where Mr. Roper in his turn received him with fatherly words of kindness mixed with amazement at his return.

"And whence," he exclaimed, "so sudden a coming, my good Basil? Verily, you do appear to have descended from the skies!"

Basil looked at me and replied: "I heard in Paris, Mr. Roper, that a gentleman in whom I do take a very lively interest, one Mr. Tunstall, was in prison at London; and I bethought me I could be of some service to him by coming over at this time."

"O Basil," I cried, "do you then know he is my father?"

"Yea," he joyfully answered, "and I am right glad you do know it also, for then there is no occasion for any feigning, which, albeit I deny it not to be sometimes useful and necessary, doth so ill agree with my bluntness, that it keepeth me in constant fear of stumbling in my speech. I was in a manner forced to come over secretly; because if Sir Henry Stafford, who willeth me to remain abroad till I have {320} got out of my wardship, should hear of my being in London, and gain scent of the object of my coming, he should have dealt in all sorts of ways to send me out of it. But, prithee, dearest love, is Mrs. Ward in this house?"

"Alas!" I said, "she is gone hence. Her mind is set on a very dangerous enterprise."

"I know it," he saith (at which word my heart began to sink); "but, verily, I see not much danger to be in it; and methinks if we do succeed in carrying off your good father and that other priest to-night in the ingenious manner she hath devised, it will be the best night's work done by good heads, good arms, and good oars which can be thought of."

"Oh, then," I exclaimed, "it is even as I feared, and you, Basil, have engaged in this rash enterprise. O woe the day you came to London, and met with that boatman!"

"Constance," he said reproachfully, "should it be a woful day to thee the one on which, even at some great risk, which I deny doth exist in this instance, I should aid in thy father's rescue?"

"Oh, but, my dear Basil," I cried, "he doth altogether refuse to stir in this matter. I have had speech with him to-day, and he will by no means attempt to escape again from prison. He hath done it once for the sake of a soul in jeopardy; but only to save his life, he is resolved not to involve others in peril of theirs. And oh, how confirmed he would be in his purpose if he knew who it was who doth throw himself into so great a risk! I' faith, I cannot and will not suffer it!" I exclaimed impetuously, for the sudden joy of his presence, the sight of his beloved countenance, lighted up with an inexpressible look of love and kindness, more beautiful than my poor words can describe, worked in me a rebellion against the thought of more suffering, further parting, greater fears than I had hitherto sustained.

He said, "He could wish my father had been otherwise disposed, for to have aided in his escape should have been to him the greatest joy he could think of; but that having promised likewise to assist in Mr. Watson's flight, he would never fail to do so, if he was to die for it."

"'Tis very easy," I cried, "to speak of dying, Basil, nor do I doubt that to one of your courage and faith the doing of it should have nothing very terrible in it. But I pray you remember that that life, which you make so little account of, is not now yours alone to dispose of as you list. Mine, dear Basil, is wrapped up with it; for if I lose you, I care not to live, or what becomes of me, any more."

Mr. Roper said he should think on it well before he made this venture; for, as I had truly urged, I had a right over him now, and he should not dispose of himself as one wholly free might do.

"Dear sir," quoth he in answer, "my sweet Constance and you also might perhaps have prevailed with me some hours ago to forego this intention, before I had given a promise to Mr. Hodgson's boatman, and through him to Mistress Ward and Mr. Watson; I should then have been free to refuse my assistance if I had listed; and albeit methinks in so doing I should have played a pitiful part, none could justly have condemned me. But I am assured neither her great heart nor your honorable spirit would desire me so much as to place in doubt the fulfilment of a promise wherein the safety of a man, and he one of God's priests, is concerned. I pray thee, sweetheart, say thou wouldst not have me do it."

Alas! this was the second time that day my poor heart had been called upon to raise itself higher than nature can afford to reach. But the present struggle was harder than the first. My father had long been to me as a distant angel, severed from my daily life and any future hope in this world. His was an expectant martyrdom, an exile from his true home, a daily {321} dying on earth, tending but to one desired end. Nature could be more easily reconciled in the one case than in the other to thoughts of parting. Basil was my all, my second self, my sole treasure,--the prop on which rested youth's hopes, earth's joys, life's sole comfort; and chance (as it seemed, and men would have called it), not a determined seeking, had thrust on him this danger, and I must needs see him plunged into it, and not so much as say a word to stay him or prevent it. . . . . I was striving to constrain my lips to utter the words my rebelling heart disavowed, and he kneeling before me, with his dear eyes fixed on mine, awaiting my consent, when a loud noise of laughter in the hall caused us both to start up, and then the door was thrown open, and Kate and Polly ran into the room so gaily attired, the one in a yellow and the other in a crimson gown bedecked with lace and jewels, that nothing finer could be seen.

"Lackaday!" Polly cried, when she perceived Basil; "who have we here? I scarce can credit mine eyes! Why, Sir Lover, methought you were in France. By what magic come you here? Mr. Roper, your humble servant. 'Tis like you did not expect so much good company to-night, Con, for you have but one poor candle or two to light up this dingy room, and I fear there will not be light enough for these gentlemen to see our fine dresses, which we do wear for the first time at Mrs. Yates's house this evening."

"I thought you were both in the country," I said, striving to disguise how much their coming did discompose me.

"Methinks," answered Polly, laughing, "your wish was father to that thought, Con, and that you desired to have the company of this fine gentleman to yourself alone, and Mr. Roper's also, and no one else for to disturb you. But, in good sooth, we were both at Mr. Benham's seat in Berkshire when we heard of this good entertainment at so great a friend's house, and so prevailed on our lords and governors for to hire a coach and bring us to London for one night. We lie at Kate's house, and she and I have supped on a cold capon and a veal pie we brought with us, and Sir Ralph and Mr. Lacy do sup at a tavern in the Strand, and shall fetch us here when it shall be convenient to them to carry us to this grand ball, which I would not have missed, no, not for all the world. So I pray you let us be merry till they do come, and pass the time pleasantly."

"Ay," said Kate, in a lamentable voice, "you would force me to dress and go abroad, when I would sooner be at home; for John's stomach is disordered, and baby doth cut her teeth, and he pulled at my ribbons and said I should not leave him; and beshrew me if I would have done so, but for your overpersuading me. But you are always so absolute! I wonder you love not more to stay at home, Polly."

Basil smiled with a better heart than I could do, and said he would promise her John should sleep never the less well for her absence, and she should find baby's tooth through on the morrow; and sitting down by her side, talked to her of her children with a kindliness which never did forsake him. Mr. Roper set himself to converse with Polly; I ween for to shield me from the torrent of her words, which, as I sat between them, seemed to buzz in mine ear without any meaning; and yet I must needs have heard them, for to this day I remember what they talked of;--that Polly said, "Have you seen the ingenious poesy which the queen's saucy godson, the merry wit Harrington, left behind her cushion on Wednesday, and now 'tis in every one's hands?"

"Not in mine," quoth Mr. Roper; "so, if your memory doth serve you, Lady Ingoldsby, will you rehearse it?" which she did as follows; and albeit I only did hear those lines {322} that once, they still remain in my mind:

"For ever dear, for ever dreaded prince, You read a verse of mine a little since, And so pronounced each word and every letter, Your gracious reading graced my verse the better; Sith then your highness doth by gift exceeding Make what you read the better for your reading, Let my poor muse your pains thus far importune, Like as you read my verse--so read my fortune!"

"Tis an artful and witty petition," Mr. Roper observed; "but I have been told her majesty mislikes the poet's satirical writings, and chiefly the metamorphosis of Ajax."

"She signified," Polly answered, "some outward displeasure at it, but Robert Markham affirms she likes well the marrow of the book, and is minded to take the author to her favor, but sweareth she believes he will make epigrams on her and all her court. Howsoever, I do allow she conceived much disquiet on being told he had aimed a shaft at Leicester. By the way, but you, cousin Constance, should best know the truth thereon" (this she said turning to me), "'tis said that Lord Arundel is exceeding sick again, and like to die very soon. Indeed his physicians are of opinion, so report speaketh, that he will not last many days now, for as often as he hath rallied before."

"Yesterday," I said, "when I saw Lady Surrey, he was no worse than usual."

"Oh, have you heard," Polly cried, running from one theme to another, as was her wont, "that Leicester is about to marry Lettice Knollys, my Lady Essex?"

"'Tis impossible," Basil exclaimed, who was now listening to her speeches, for Kate had finished her discourse touching her Johnny's disease in his stomach. The cause thereof, she said, both herself thought, and all in Mr. Benham's house did judge to have been, the taking in the morning a confection of barley sodden with water and sugar, and made exceeding thick with bread. This breakfast lost him both his dinner and supper, and surely the better half of his sleep; but God be thanked, she hoped now the worst was past, and that the dear urchin would shortly be as merry and well-disposed as afore he left London. Basil said he hoped so too; and in a pause which ensued, he heard Polly speak of Lord Leicester's intended marriage, which seemed to move him to some sort of indignation, the cause of which I only learnt many years later; for that when Lady Douglas Howard's cause came before the Star-Chamber, in his present majesty's reign, he told me he had been privy, through information received in France, of her secret marriage with that lord.

"'Tis not impossible," Polly retorted, "by the same token that the new favorite, young Robert Devereux, maketh no concealment of it, and calleth my Lord Leicester his father elect. But I pray you, what is impossible in these days? Oh, I think they are the most whimsical, entertaining days which the world hath ever known; and the merriest, if people have a will to make them so."

"Oh, Polly," I cried, unable to restrain myself, "I pray God you may never find cause to change your mind thereon."

"Yea, amen to that prayer," quoth she; "I'll promise you, my grave little coz, that I have no mind to be sad till I grow old--and there be yet some years to come before that shall befall me. When Mistress Helen Ingoldsby shall reach to the height of my shoulder, then, methinks, I may begin to take heed unto my ways. What think you the little wench said to me yesterday? 'What times is it we do conform to, mother? dinner-times or bed-times?'" "She should have been answered, 'The devil's times,'" Basil muttered; and Kate told Polly she should be ashamed to speak in her father's house of the conformity she practised when others were suffering for their religion. {323} And, methought, albeit I had scarcely endured the jesting which had preceded it, I could less bear any talk of religion, least-ways of that kind, just then. But, in sooth, the constraint I suffered almost overpassed my strength. There appeared no hope of their going, and they fell into an eager discourse concerning the bear-baiting they had been to see in Berkshire, and a great sort of ban-dogs, which had been tied in an outer court, let loose on thirteen bears that were baited in the inner; and my dear Basil, who doth delight in all kinds of sports, listened eagerly to the description they gave of this diversion. Oh, how I counted the minutes! what a pressure weighted my heart! how the sound of their voices pained mine ears! how long an hour seemed! and yet too short for my desires, for I feared the time must soon come when Basil should go, and lamented that these unthinking women's tarrying should rob me of all possibility to talk with him alone. Howsoever, when Mr. Roper rose to depart, I followed him into the hall and waited near the door for Basil, who was bidding farewell to Kate and Polly. I heard him beseech them to do him so much favor as not to mention they had seen him; for that he had not informed Sir Henry Stafford of his coming over from France, which if he heard of it otherwise than from himself, it should peradventure offend him. They laughed, and promised to be as silent as graves thereon; and Polly said he had learnt French fashions she perceived, and taken lessons in wooing from mounseer; but she hoped his stealthy visit should in the end prove more conformable to his desires than mounseer's had done. At last they let him go; and Mr. Roper, who had waited for him, wrung his hand, and the manner of his doing it made my eyes overflow. I turned my face away, but Basil caught both my hands in his and said, "Be of good cheer, sweetheart. I have not words wherewith to express how much I love thee, but God knoweth it is very dearly."

"O Basil! mine own dear Basil," I murmured, laying my forehead on his coat-sleeve, and could not then utter another word. Ere I lifted it again, the hall-door opened, and who, I pray you, should I then see (with more affright, I confess, than was reasonable) but Hubert? My voice shook as he said to Basil, whose back was turned from the door, "Here is your brother."

"Ah, Hubert!" he exclaimed; "I be glad to see thee!" and held out his hand to him with a frank smile, which the other took, but in the doing of it a deadly paleness spread over his face.

"I have no leisure to tarry so much as one minute," Basil said; "but this sweet lady will tell thee what weighty reasons I have for presently remaining concealed; and so farewell, my dear love, and farewell, my good brother. Be, I pray you, my bedes-woman this night, Constance; and you too, Hubert,--if you do yet say your prayers like a good Christian, which I pray God you do,--mind you say an ave for me before you sleep."

When the door closed on him I sunk down on a chair, and hid my face with my hands.

"You have not told him anything?" Hubert whispered; and I, "God help you, Hubert! he hath come to London for this very matter, and hath already, I fear, albeit not in any way that shall advantage my father, yet in seeking to assist him, run himself into danger of death, or leastways banishment."

As I said this mine eyes raised themselves toward him; and I would they had not, for I saw in his visage an expression I have tried these many years to forget, but which sometimes even now comes back to me painfully.

"I told you so," he answered. "He hath an invariable aptness to miss his aim, and to hurt himself by the shafts he looseth. What plan hath he now formed, and what shall come of it?"

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But, somewhat recovered from my surprise, I bethought myself it should not be prudent, albeit I grieved to think so, to let him know what sort of enterprise it was Basil had in hand; so I did evade his question, which indeed he did not show himself very careful to have answered. He said he was yet dealing with Sir Francis Walsingham, and had hopes of success touching my father's liberation, and so prayed me not to yield to despondency; but it would take time to bring matters to a successful issue, and patience was greatly needed, and likewise prudence toward that end. He requested me very urgently to take no other steps for the present in his behalf, which might ruin all. And above all things not to suffer Basil to come forward in it, for that he had made himself obnoxious to Sir Francis by speeches which he had used, and which some one had reported to him, touching Lady Ridley's compliance with his (Sir Francis's) request that she should have a minister in her house for to read Protestant prayers to her household, albeit herself, being bedridden, did not attend; and if he should now stir in this matter, all hope would be at an end. So he left me, and I returned to the parlor, and Kate and Polly declared my behavior to them not to be over and above civil; but they supposed when folks were in love, they had a warrant to treat their friends as they pleased. Then finding me very dull and heavy, I ween, they bethought themselves at the last of going to visit their mother in her bed, and paying their respects to their father, whom they found asleep in his chair, his prayer-book, with which he was engaged most of the day, lying open by his side. Polly kissed his forehead, and then the picture of our Blessed Lady in the first page of this much-used volume; which sudden acts of hers comforted me not a little.

Muriel came out of her mother's chamber to greet them, but would not suffer them to see her at this unexpected time, for that the least change in her customable habits disordered her; and then whispered to me that she had often asked for Mistress Ward, and complained of her absence.

At the last Sir Ralph came, but not Mr. Lacy, who he said was tired with his long ride, and had gone home to bed. Thereupon Kate began to weep; for she said she would not go without him to this fine ball, for it was an unbecoming thing for a woman to be seen abroad when her husband was at home, and a thing she had not yet done, nor did intend to do. But that it was a very hard thing she should have been at the pains to dress herself so handsomely, and not so much as one person to see her in this fine suit; and she wished she had not been so foolish as to be persuaded to it, and that Polly was very much to blame therein. At the which, "I' faith, I think so too," Polly exclaimed; "and I wish you had stayed in the country, my dear."

Kate's pitiful visage and whineful complaint moved me, in my then apprehensive humor, to an unmerry but not to be resisted fit of laughter, which she did very much resent; but I must have laughed or died, and yet it made me angry to hear her utter such lamentations who had no true cause for displeasure.

When they were gone,--she, still shedding tears, in a chair Sir Ralph sent for to convey her to Gray's Inn Lane, and he and Polly in their coach to Mrs. Yates's,--the relief I had from their absence proved so great that at first it did seem to ease my heart. I went slowly up to mine own chamber, and stood there a while at the casement looking at the quiet sky above and the unquiet city beneath it, and chiefly in the distant direction where I knew the prison to be, picturing to myself my father in his bare cell. Mistress Ward regaining her obscure lodging, Mr. Watson's dangerous descent, and mostly the boat which Basil was to row,--that boat freighted with so perilous a burthen. These scenes seemed to rise before mine eyes as I remained motionless, straining {325} their sight to pierce the darkness of the night and of the fog which hung over the town. When the clock struck twelve, a shiver ran through me, for I thought of the like striking at Lynn Court, and what had followed. Upon which I betook myself to my prayers, and thinking on Basil, said, "Speak for him, O Blessed Virgin Mary! Entreat for him, O ye apostles! Make intercession for him, all ye martyrs! Pray for him, all ye confessors and all ye company of heaven, that my prayers for him may take effect before our Lord Jesus Christ!" Then my head waxed heavy with sleep, and I sank on the cushion of my kneeling-stool. I wot not for how many hours I slumbered in this wise; but I know I had some terrible dreams.

When I awoke it was daylight. A load knocking at the door of the house had aroused me. Before I had well bethought me where I was, Muriel's white face appeared at my door. The pursuivants, she said, were come to seek for Mistress Ward.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

From The Literary Workman.

FACTS AND FICTIONS ABOUT ROME.

BY THE VERY REV. DR. NORTHCOTE.

THE ROMAN PEOPLE.

It is a relief to turn from the dull, stupid, false witness of our own countrymen to the more lively but not less malicious falsehoods of the clever Frenchman, Monsieur About. He deserves a higher rank, too, in the scale of truthfulness as well as of talent than either Mr. Fullom or Dean Alford; but on this very account he is the more dangerous enemy. He handles his pen well, and he has the fatal gift of insinuating the poison he wishes to administer in the minutest quantities, but with consummate skill. Often it is contained in a single word or phrase, dropped apparently at random. Sometimes you can hardly point out a single statement that is really false, yet a certain tone and flavor pervades the whole which you feel to be unjust, and which is all the more injurious because of its extreme subtlety and the difficulty of providing an antidote. An air of moderation is thus imparted to his book, which, if we may judge by its rarity, it is not easy to maintain when writing upon this subject He does not paint either the Pope or his people all black, but sees much to commend both in the system and the results of the government. Indeed, some of his descriptions are, in our judgment, as just as they are graphic. Take, for example, the following description of the lower orders of the Roman people, the genuine _plebs_:

"The noble strangers who do Rome in their carriages are but slightly acquainted with the little world of which I am going to speak, or more probably form a very false judgment about them. They remember to have been worried to death by blustering _facchini_ (porters) and followed by indefatigable beggars. They saw nothing but hands open to receive; they heard nothing but harsh voices screaming forth a petition for alms. Behind this curtain of mendacity are concealed nearly a hundred thousand persons who are poor without being idle, and who labor hard for a scanty supply of {326} daily bread. The gardeners and vine-dressers who cultivate part of the environs of Rome; workmen, artizans, servants, coachmen, studio models, peddlers, honest vagabonds who wait for their supper on some miracle of Providence or some lucky chance in the lottery, compose the majority of the population. They manage to struggle through the winter, when visitors sow manna over the land; in summer they starve. Many are too proud to ask for an alms, not one of them is rich enough to refuse it, if offered. Ignorant and curious; simple, yet subtle; sensitive to excess, yet without much dignity; extremely prudent in the main, yet capable of the most outrageous pieces of imprudence; going to extremes both in devotedness and in hate; easy to move, difficult to convince; more susceptible of feelings than of ideas; sober by habit, terrible when intoxicated; sincere in practices of devotion the moat _outré_, but as ready to quarrel with the saints as with men; persuaded that they have but little to hope for in this life; comforted from time to time by the prospect of a better, they live in a state of quiet, grumbling resignation under a paternal government which gives them bread when there is bread to give. The inequalities of rank, which are more conspicuous in Rome than in Paris (?), do not move them to hatred. They are satisfied with the mediocrity of their lot, and congratulate themselves that there are rich men in the world, that so the poor may have benefactors. No people are less capable of managing themselves, so that they are easily led by the first who presents himself. They have borne a part in all the Roman revolutions, and many have acquitted themselves manfully in the fight without having the least idea what it was about. They trusted so little to the republic that, in the absence of all the authorities, when the Holy Father and the Sacred College had taken refuge at Gaeta, thirty poor families quartered themselves in Cardinal Antonelli's palace, without breaking a single pane of glass. The restoration of the Pope, under the protection of a foreign army, was no matter of astonishment to them; they had expected it as a happy event which would restore public tranquillity. They live at peace with our soldiers, when the latter do nothing against the peace or honor of their households; and the occupation of their city by a foreign army does not trouble them, except when they are personally inconvenienced by it. They are not afraid to plunge a dagger into the breast of a conqueror, but I will answer for their never celebrating any Sicilian Vespers.

"They pride themselves on their descent in a direct line from the Romans of great Rome; and these harmless pretensions seem to me to have a very tolerable foundation. Like their ancestors, they eat largely of bread, and are very greedy after sights; they treat their wives simply as women, not leaving a single farthing at their disposal, but spending it all on themselves; every one of them is the client of some client of a patrician. They are well-built, strong, and able to deal such a blow as would astonish a buffalo; but there is not one of them who is not on the lookout for some means of living without work. Excellent workmen when they haven't a farthing, impossible to be got hold of as soon as they have a crown in their pockets; good, honest, kindly, and simple-hearted folks, but thoroughly convinced of their superiority to the rest of mankind. Economical to the last degree, and living on dry peas, until they can find some splendid occasion for spending all their savings in a day; they gather _sous_ by _sous_, two or three pounds in the course of the year, to hire the balcony of some prince at the carnival, or to show themselves in a carriage at the feast _del Divin 'Amore_, It is thus the Roman populace forget both the future and the past in _Saturnalia_. The hereditary want of forethought which possesses {327} them may be explained by the irregularity of their resources, the periodical return of _festas_ which exempt them from labor, and the impossibility of raising themselves to any higher condition, save by the intervention of a miracle. They are deficient in many virtues, and, amongst others, in refinement, which formed no part of the inheritance to which they have succeeded. That in which they certainly are _not_ deficient is dignity and self-respect. They never demean themselves to low, coarse jokes, or vulgar debauchery. You will never see them insult a gentleman in the streets, unprovoked, or speak an offensive word to a woman. That class of degraded beings which we call the _canaille_ is absolutely unknown here; the _ignoble_ is not a Roman commodity."

Here is another testimony of a similar kind, from the same pen, to the character of one particular class of the Roman people, the Trastevirni, or people who dwell on the northern side of the Tiber. M. About invites his readers to accompany him to one of the _osterie_ or public houses of the quarter where blacksmiths, and shoemakers, and weavers, and hackney-coachmen, etc, together with their wives and daughters, resort on Sunday, to enjoy a better dinner and a more generous flask of wine than they can afford themselves during the week. The entrance is not inviting, and there are not many foreigners, or English gentlemen either, who would like to venture, as a mere matter of curiosity, and without any pressing necessity, into the corresponding establishments of either France or England. M. About is well aware of this, so he encourages his readers, bidding them fear nothing; "you shall dine well," he says, "and nobody shall dine upon you."

"You shall see men here strong as bulls and quite as irascible; men who think as little of giving a blow as you or I of drinking a glass of water, and who never strike without having a knife in their hands. The police will be nowhere near to protect us; they are always out of the way. Beside, if you were to offend one of these jolly fellows, he would kill you, though you were in the very arms of the police. Nevertheless you may come and go in the midst of them, spend lots of money, pay in gold, make your purse jingle in the hearing of all, and go home after midnight through the darkest streets, without any one dreaming of making an attempt on your purse. More than this: we shall be politely received, and they will put themselves out of the way to make room for us. They will not stare at us, as though we were wild beasts; they will even obligingly gratify our curiosity, if it is not impertinent We need not fear that wine will excite them to pick a quarrel with us; but woe betide us if we have the misfortune to provoke them. They are not aggressive when they are in liquor, but they are very sensitive. They forgive no offence, even an involuntary one, if it has exposed them to the raillery of their companions. When you see a woman with her husband, or a girl with her father, put a bridle on your eyes. It is often dangerous even to cast a furtive glance on a Trasteverina; and I have known more than one instance in which the offender has paid the penalty with his life."

I dare say some of our readers are a little disappointed at the sketch of the character of the Roman people which we have given on the authority of M. About. They would rather have heard us say they were all good and pious and edifying members of society and of the Church. Indeed we have known some zealous souls who expected to find Rome a sort of monastery on a large scale, where worldly passions and mortal sins were never heard of, except among the hardened and rebellious few; and even the imperfections of ordinary mortals were rarely met with, and assumed some character of special enormity. Rome seems to have the gift which, from the Catholic point of view, {328} we should naturally expect it to have, viz., of stirring the affection of men's hearts in their lowest depths more powerfully than in any other place in the world. As our divine Master himself was "set for the ruin as well as for the resurrection of many in Israel, and for a sign which should be contradicted," so the capital of his Church upon earth--the seat of his vicegerent--that city where his interests take precedence of every earthly consideration, and the world is made to wait upon the Church, not the Church upon the world, inspires the strongest possible sentiment of love or of hatred into the minds of all; and where these feelings are strong, it is hard to keep the exact balance of impartial truthfulness. What we love intensely, we naturally like to picture to ourselves as faultless and perfect; and even if we cannot do this--if we are conscious of defects and faults, which cannot be denied, we still wish to conceal them as long as possible from others. What bitter hatred and prejudice can do in the way of blinding men's eyes and closing men's ears, we have already seen in the melancholy examples of Messrs. Alford and Co.; nor should we have far to seek if we desired to present our readers with specimens of exaggerated praise dictated by the partiality of affection. Most of us have probably met with generous enthusiasts, who did not hesitate to prefer Rome to England, under any conceivable aspect, secular as well as religious, and who would think it as much a point of honor to defend the character of the Roman soldiers for bravery, the Roman police for activity, the Roman scavengers for efficiency, and the Roman people for industry and honesty, as of the Roman clergy for integrity of faith and purity of morals, and the Roman government for justice tempered with clemency. Such persons are very amiable friends, but somewhat embarrassing allies; and writers, very inferior to M. About, have no difficulty in destroying their well-meant but ill-planned system of defence. M. About himself is much too wise to fall into this blunder of unmitigated extravagance, from his side of the question; and we have been glad, therefore, to avail ourselves of his clever and spirited sketches to lay before our readers what we really believe to be a very tolerable estimate of the true state of the case. It is certainly no article of the faith to believe the Romans to be impeccable, or the Roman character in itself to be the ideal of human perfection; and we hope our devotion to the Holy See will not be called in question for the avowal. We have already quoted the testimony of a Protestant traveller, who acknowledges the strongly-marked character of religion which stamps the whole city of Rome; but this, of course, is not incompatible with the existence of much that is evil, against which this religious element is always contending.

We will add yet one more passage from About, which concerns the general character of the country people, rather than of the inhabitants of the metropolis. We have spent several months, at various times, in more than one Italian village, and have been greatly edified by the simplicity and piety of the people. They were guiltless, for the most part, of any political knowledge even as to the affairs of their own country; and as to any other country beside their own, it was as far removed from their ordinary range of thoughts as Mars, Venus, and Saturn still are from the thoughts of our own peasantry. They rose early and worked hard; still, as M. About is obliged to acknowledge, one cannot say of them--"as of the Irish, for example," says M. About--"that they are miserable. They are poor, and that is all. The fact that their religion, their schooling, and their medical attendance costs them nothing, compensates to a certain degree for the heavy taxation they suffer in other ways. Their labor in the fields keeps them alive till old age. _They pass their life in earning their livelihood._ {329} The existence of this class resembles a vicious circle." No doubt it does to those whose view of things is limited to this world, and who cannot recognize any end or reward of the suffering of this life beyond it. But the Romans, as he himself acknowledges, "know how to die. This is a trait in their character which justice obliges us to recognize. They die as they eat, or drink, or sleep--quite naturally, simply, and as a matter of course. This resignation is to be explained by their hopes of a life of happiness in an ideal world hereafter, and by the continual admonitions of a religion which teaches that all men must die." In other words, the Roman peasantry believe the Gospel; and so they accept with patience the primeval burden laid upon fallen man--"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return to the earth, out of which thou wast taken." And for this they earn the contemptuous pity of the enlightened Frenchman. We accept his testimony, whilst we disclaim his commentary and detest his spirit. We think he speaks truly when he seizes on this characteristic of the Roman popular mind--familiarity with the idea of death. We know of no people to whom this and other truths of the faith seem to be more habitually present. It gives a color and a tone to their ordinary conversation, even where it does not bring forth fruits of sanctity. We have ourselves heard of a Roman lady reconciling herself to a marriage which was proposed to her, and which in some respects was not inviting, simply by a consideration of the piety of the intended bridegroom; but this consideration found expression in a truly Roman way, quite in keeping with what M. About has observed about them. "He is not lively, I know," said the lady, "nor handsome, nor clever, but he is pious, and _will make a good end._" And in a charming little book lately published ("Sanctity in Home Life") we see another Italian lady, the Countess Medolago, confiding to a friend her only idea of her future husband much in the same spirit: "All that I know is that he is pious and very fond of the Jesuits."

THE POLITICS OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE.

The facts we have adduced, the pictures we have drawn--or rather which M. About, a bitter enemy of the Papal power, has drawn--of the condition of the Roman people, ought, one would think, to have great weight with those who have any real care for the well-being of a nation. A man must be firmly wedded indeed to some political crotchet, who is ready to risk the loss of such advantages as these in exchange for the realization of his dreams. But in truth it is the hatred of Catholicism, rather than the love of any political principle, which lies at the root of most of the declamation we hear against the abuses of the Papal government. Why is it else that those gentlemen who profess so lively a concern that the political liberties of three millions of Italians should suffer some abridgment for the sake of upholding the Father of Christendom in the independent exercise of his spiritual power, are yet able to bear with the utmost equanimity the sight of real cruelty and oppression inflicted upon ten millions of Christians in European Turkey? The balance of political power among the different European governments is of more value in their eyes than the spiritual supremacy of the Pope; peace, commerce, and wealth depend on the one, only virtue and religion on the other.

But let us come now to the political question, and see how it really stands. It has been often and truly said, that the temporal sovereignty of the Pope rests on more legitimate foundations than any other European sovereignty of the day. Long possession, to be measured not by generations but by centuries; donations from other powers; the free choice of the people, all combine to impart to the chair of Peter a dignity and a solidity which does not belong to any other throne. {330} And if it be objected that, however this may have been in times past, yet now, at least, the consent of the people is wanting, without which the modern creed of nations will not allow any power to be secure, we must answer, what has been proved to demonstration, and what every one at all conversant with the facts of the case well knows to be true: that it is not in Rome and among Romans that plots have been hatched against the Pontifical government; a portion of the people, the discontented, of whom there must ever be some under every government, have only lent themselves to the execution of plots conceived and planned in the secret societies or clubs, or even the ministerial chambers, of Turin and Genoa. Strangers have always been at the head of every Roman revolution, adventurers who find their fortunes in troubled waters, or fanatical politicians, who cannot endure that any one should be happy, excepting according to their own receipt. So long as English politicians encourage agitation by their presence in the country and frequent communications with disaffected parties in it, or by lending their names and their houses as the medium of correspondence or of banking transactions between the conspirators, or by delivering sensational speeches in the house; so long will the Roman mind be more or less agitated; so long as Piedmont can send her emissaries into all the towns and villages, distributing money as the reward of acquiescence in her schemes, conspirators, even among the Romans themselves, will not be wanting; but if all these things could be removed, and the question were left to the settlement of the people themselves, we should have no fear of the result. Whenever the Popes have been driven out of Rome, the people have hailed their return with universal acclamations of joy, and already we are told the short experience of the blessings of Piedmontese rule which the Legations have enjoyed has sufficed to make them regret the change. The increase of taxes and the military conscription are a price higher than they are willing to pay for the _name_ of liberty under the yoke of Victor Emmanuel. We believe that the following account of the political creed of the great majority of the Pope's subjects is as accurate as it is moderate. We are indebted for it to a French ecclesiastic, who has most gratefully followed M. About through all his misstatements, and published a complete refutation of them. He tells us that most Romans are of opinion that people may be happy or miserable under _any_ form of government, according to the way in which it is administered; that a government of _some_ kind there must be; or disorder would be universal; and that the Pope being at the head of the Roman government, is the cause of many advantages: it attracts princes and other wealthy foreigners to Rome; sometimes seventy, eighty, or even ninety thousand strangers at a time; it saves them from the scourge of war; the operations of commerce, if not so extensive as in some other capitals, are at least more secure and stable; there is no financial crisis or panic in the money market returning at periodical intervals, and spreading ruin and desolation through innumerable families; industry and good conduct, crowned by success in business, open the way to the possession of estates and titles; the ranks of the privileged class itself, so to call it--the clergy--are open to all comers; the great majority of lucrative offices about the court, prelacies, bishoprics, judgeships, etc., are given to members of the middle class, no less than three-fourths of the cardinals (including Cardinal Antonelli himself) having been chosen from among them; that ninety-nine out of every hundred holding office under government are laymen; that not more than 100 priests altogether are employed in the administration of secular affairs; and that among officials of the same rank, a layman always receives higher pay than an ecclesiastic; that even in {331} offices which, as having to deal with matters of religion, might seem fairly to belong to ecclesiastics alone, two-thirds of the posts are filled by laymen, and the salaries are divided in about the same proportion; that the Popes, haying no families of their own, are always spending their private fortunes on public works for the good of the country, or on the rebuilding and decoration of churches, to the great encouragement of the fine arts, and the support of innumerable families; or, finally, on schools and hospitals, and other works of charity. They know, too, that, thanks to this liberality, the education of their children need cost them nothing; that schools of all kinds are more numerous (in proportion to the population) in Rome than in any other European capital, and these not only schools of primary instruction for the children of the poor, containing about 17,000 scholars, of both sexes, but also for the middle and upper classes, 3,000 of whom receive here an education fitted to qualify them for any profession they may prefer, quite gratuitously.

This we believe to be a very fair account of the state of feeling on political matters among the majority of the Roman people; and if it is not satisfactory to our modern liberals, because it ignores all their bright theories and is content to forego the blessings of representative governments and triennial parliaments, we cannot help it. We think there is an intimate conviction in most Roman minds that God's honor and glory, and man's truest happiness, are more earnestly sought for and more fully attained in that city than elsewhere; and that this conviction both does, and ought to, reconcile them to any political disadvantages which such a state of things may entail, as Mons. Veuillot has well said.

Elsewhere, man is considered primarily as a power; in Rome, he is primarily a soul. At Rome, the public manners, following more nearly the august guidance of the Church, have more frequently and more closely than elsewhere approached the divine ideal of the gospel. I know what cruel ravages have been wrought by long and wicked agitations, begun and fostered from without; I know that every people has its dregs, its populace; but I know also that at Rome this very populace is not without faith, and I know, too, what solid Christian virtues adorn the true Roman hearth. Rarely or never do twenty years roll by without Rome giving to the world one of those heroes who devote themselves to the love of God and of souls with the triumphant energy of sanctity. Blest and encouraged by the Popes, these chosen ones have always left disciples to prolong, as it were, their own existence, and works which have not perished. And the enlightened Christian conscience, despising the empty boasts of ignorant pride, will always assign the first place among nations to that which best preserves the faith and produces the greatest number of saints.

We are well aware that this test of national greatness would find no favor in the ears of an English Parliament, but we are foolish enough to think that there may be truth in it for all that.

{332}

Translated from the German.

MALINES AND WÜRZBURG.

A SKETCH OF THE CATHOLIC CONGRESSES HELD AT MALINES AND WÜRZBURG.

BY ANDREW NIEDERMASSER.