Chapter 3

That evening, Father Dominick, our excellent priest, and my tutor in the classics, was closeted for a length of time with my afflicted nominal parents; and two days afterwards taking me with him to his monastery, he introduced me to the superior, as an orphan, the child of dear and particular friends, confided by them to his charge for education upon their death-bed, and with a distinct understanding that I was not bound to take upon myself monastic vows, the superior allowed me to remain with him as a boarder. Serventius and Artemisia I never more beheld, and every inquiry respecting them which I ventured to make of Father Dominick, was checked with a strange, sad look, and an admonition to mention them no more. Seven long and peaceful years, I spent in the monastery; and at the expiration of that period, was placed by my guardian in the house of the celebrated Doctor Sanazio of Padua, as a student of medicine. Here, novel and delightful studies, speculations, and scenes, opened upon my inquisitive, ardent mind, and amused my enthusiastic imagination. Sanazio was regarded in learned Padua, as little less than a demi-god; at certain hours he visited his patients, amongst whom might generally be numbered three-fourths of the population of Padua; at certain hours, his own mansion was crowded like the audience-hall of some mighty potentate, with supplicants for food and physic; three evenings in the week were devoted by him to intense study in his own secret, solitary chamber; and upon the alternate three, he received the visits of those who desired to consult him upon abstruse points, only properly to be solved by an acquaintance with the occult sciences. In brief, my honoured master, I soon discovered, was reckoned a very fair conjuror; he consulted the stars, drew horoscopes, cast nativities, was learned in the expositions of dreams and omens, undertook to give information respecting lost property, and matrimonial prospects; composed, and dispensed charms and philtres, and proved himself, as I have hinted, a capital astrologer, and something more. How Sanazio, who certainly was a very extraordinary man, acquired his multifarious information, unless really by supernatural agency, I am at a loss to discover. Ignatius Druso, my fellow student, was of opinion that he only dexterously availed himself in the evening of the news which he had gathered from his patients in the morning; and that his familiars were no more than a few active emissaries, for whose espionage and additional gleanings of town news, it answered to him well, to pay. Ever partial to romance, I did not readily fall in with Druso's sober view of this subject, and the longer I lived with Doctor Sanazio, the more occasion had I to doubt the correctness of his opinion, because some things occurred of which my master obtained immediate and accurate knowledge, whilst I am perfectly certain that no human tongue had divulged them to him; take the following incident as an example:--Druso and myself were accustomed, on those evenings which Sanazio spent in his sanctum, to visit patients in his stead, to range over the town, to go to places of public amusement, or to conclude our meritorious labours at a tavern. Being one night at this latter place, an old woman entered, and inquiring whether I were Master Serventius, Doctor Sanazio's pupil, slipped a billet and a piece of gold into my hand and desired me to follow her. I did so, without hesitation, and whilst behind my guide, contrived to peruse the note by moon-light, which contained these words:

"I am sick,--of the heart's mortal sickness;--relieve it, and great shall be thy recompense."

Perplexed, yet amused, by what promised an adventure, I followed my ancient guide into a house whose exterior was sufficiently humble; but, having ascended a steep flight of stairs, she threw open the door of a chamber in which they terminated, and I found myself not only in a richly-furnished apartment, but in the presence of a lady, young as immortal Hebe, and fair as day. I saw at a glance that her ills were those of the mind only, and ere she had opened her lips to detail them and engage me in her cause, I had vowed, heart and soul, to be her champion. Having complimented me upon the high character she had heard of my prowess, understanding, and principles, she informed me, with little circumlocution, that various unhappy family circumstances had rendered it necessary for her to seek friends amongst strangers; that she was a novice of the Convent of St. Anne, but on the eve of profession, and that having long been under an engagement of marriage with a young gentleman of family, respecting whom her relations had used her very deceitfully and cruelly, she had fixed upon me as a person little likely to be subjected to suspicion on her account, to aid Signor Fernandez in the difficult and hazardous enterprise, which she said must be a work of time and prudence, of carrying her off from the convent. Having obtained my promise to this effect, she detailed her plans, and furnished me with the means of continual communication with her lover and herself. I returned home, highly elated at the trust reposed in me, at the importance which I had acquired in my own eyes, and at the prospect of a handsome remuneration for my services, from the lovely object of them. Sanazio, with lamp in hand, and arrayed in his night attire, to my great terror and surprise, opened the door to me himself; it was very late, Druso had long since returned without me, and in order to allay the storm which I saw gathering upon mine ancient master's brow, I slipped the gold given to me by the confidante of beautiful Antonia, into his unreluctant hand.

"Unhappy youth!" exclaimed Sanazio, "beware of aiding the nun, lest thou bring upon her and upon thyself the fate of Artemisia and Serventius."

These words so alarmed me that I nearly fainted; for how, in the name of all things holy and gracious, came Sanazio to know in whose society I had passed the last hour, and what was the subject of our conversation? His terrible allusion too, to those lost loved ones, of whose untimely fate I was still so ignorant, strangely troubled my conscious breast. Let me be brief, the hours of my ill-fated existence are fast wearing away, and I have yet more to relate. To Ignatius Druso I was obliged to confide my secret, because his assistance, in the furtherance of plans which were always requiring, from little immaterial circumstances, some slight alterations, was found necessary; and it must here suffice those to know, who shall, after my destruction do me the melancholy favour of perusing this retrospective record, that some months after Antonia had taken the veil, I succeeded in restoring her to the arms of her lover, witnessed their private nuptials, visited them in their new residence, a villa in a secluded spot far from Padua, and received my promised recompense. "Young man! you've ruined yourself; and your fatal destiny is sealed!" were the remarkable words of Sanazio, on the morning after the completion of my enterprise, but long ere the elopement of the new devotee became publicly known. However, he never reverted to the subject, not even upon his death-bed; and after the learned doctor's decease, when I came into the whole of his practice, and no small portion of his fame, I was easy, for the memory of that sacrilege had passed away.

Ignatius Druso, like myself, resided in Padua, but soon quitted the medical profession, disgusted, I fancy, at finding that I had become a second Sanazio, whilst he commanded little or no attention: still we were friends, nor did I suspect that the germs of envy and malice were sown in his bosom, and that I had trusted him with one secret, or more, too much. "Serventius, my son," had said the venerable Sanazio to me upon his death-bed, "your ardent desire of knowledge and discreet use of it, encourage me ere I quit this world, to entrust you with the grand arcanum of our art; as yet, you know not the secret of my success, but take then this hint and improve upon it. Can he repair a piece of mechanism, who is ignorant of its make, its parts, and how they act upon, and affect one another? Behold this key; it is that of my laboratory, and may it indeed open the door of knowledge to you."

After Sanazio's decease, curiosity quickly led me to his study: I was alone, and the shades of evening were stealing over the earth: conceive then my utter dismay and superstitious horror upon suddenly entering, what I could but suppose to be a charnel-house! Its effluvium was intolerable, and well accounted for by (loathsome spectacle!) a disorderly collection of human fragments in various stages of preservation and decay! A dozen grisly skeletons grinned upon me from pedestals round the room, and in the centre of it, the half dissected body of a man, stretched upon a large lava slab, supported by tressels, was more horrible and odious than all. I now comprehended the full meaning of Sanazio's dying words and secret; but received at the same time, a shock which to this day I have not recovered; I found myself compelled to make Druso my confidant in this matter, and my companion in some of my first attempts at following the hideous occupation recommended by my deceased friend. By degrees I grew accustomed to the horrors of the room and of my employment. Druso, who found himself better engaged in courting the living than in cutting up the dead, was no longer necessary to me in the prosecution of my hateful studies, and kept aloof, but I soon discovered the value of them, in my increase of knowledge, employment, and reputation. At last an epidemic raged in Padua, proving very fatal; Ignatius, alarmed for the safety of his Phaedera, who was attacked, applied to me, and I cured her. Some time afterwards, the ungrateful wretch rushed into my laboratory, claiming the body upon which I was operating, as that of a young man, cousin to Phaedera, which had miraculously disappeared just previous to the day intended for its interment. The features of the poor wretch were too much disfigured to render possible his recognition by them, but Druso swore to its being the body of Marcus, from a scar on the left leg, which had been wounded severely by a quoit. Of course I refused to resign, that, for which I had paid a handsome price, and to reveal the names of those from whom I purchased it. So Druso dragged me before the Supreme Council, impeached me of sacrilege in the affair of the nun, of theft, and of violating the sanctity of the tomb, of barbarously mutilating the dead, and of applying their lacerated remains to the unholy purposes of sorcery! and on these counts have I been indicted, found guilty, and sentenced to be burnt as a sacrilegious heretic, an unnatural robber, and a formidable wizard! Antonia, the mother of seven children, is to be--like the unchaste vestal--immured! Oh Heaven! whilst Druso the Informer, receiving at the same time the portion of a prince for his venal treachery, will celebrate his union with Phaedera, amidst the shrieks and groans of his expiring victims!

I cannot now proceed: ere I am bound to the fatal stake, methinks I shall die of shame, grief, and terror. And did the friends of my infancy, my parents, suffer as I shall suffer? Then, welcome death! welcome, hated dawn of my last day, for innocence and truth are banished from the earth! Hark! the key turning in the lock of my cell! Hark! those boding and pitying voices without! Father Dominick! Servilius! Andrea! kindest! best! --I die--but I die innocent, the victim only-----Hah! to burn--burn--burn! Gracious Heaven! pardon the strife of nature! My brain whirls!--my eyes cloud!--my black, dry, swollen lips,--throat--bosom--heart--O mother of God!--O! Saviour--Redeemer--pardon, pardon!--Father of Mercies,---receive me!

_Great Marlow, Bucks._

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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SCENES FROM THE (OLD) FRENCH REVOLUTION.

(_From the "Quarterly" Review of Madame Junot's Memoirs_.)

About the beginning of the revolution, a working-man, by name Thirion, had established himself in a little stall (in Paris,) where he carried on his business as a mender of carpets. He called one morning to ask M. Permon's (a Royalist[1]) custom, but was civilly told that the family had long employed a tradesman of his class, and could not change for a stranger: the man took the refusal so insolently, that he was at last turned out of doors, vowing revenge. M. Permon, the ports being still open, makes a run over to London to place some money in our funds. Meantime "the Sections are organized," and Thirion becomes "Secretaire, Greffier, President, je ne scai quoi, de la notre." The morning after his return to Paris, M. Permon had just risen, when footsteps were heard loud on the staircase, and in burst Citizen Thirion, two other patriots of the Sectional Committee, and the carpetman's shopboy. (Madame Junot's Narrative commences here.)

"My father was shaving himself. Naturally quick tempered, his impatience was extreme when he recognised the individual, and he was imprudent enough to make a menacing gesture the moment they broke into his dressing-room. 'I am here to see the law enforced,' cries Thirion, on seeing my father advance with the razor in his hand. 'Well, what law is it that chooses so worthy an organ?'--'I am here to learn your age, your pursuits, and to interrogate you as to your journey to Coblentz.' My father, who had from the first word felt the most violent disposition to toss the man down stairs, shivered with rage; but, at last, he composed himself, wiped his chin, laid down his razor, and, crossing his arms, placed himself full in front of Thirion: then, measuring him from the utmost height of his tall and elegant person, he said, 'You wish to know my age?'--'Yes, such are my orders.'--Where is the order?' said my father, extending his hand. 'It is enough for you to know that I am sent hither by the committee of my section: my orders are sufficiently proved by my presence.'--Ah! you think so; I am of a different opinion. Your presence here is nothing but an insult, unless you have a judiciary order to justify it; show it me, and I shall forget the name of the man, to see only the public functionary.' Thirion raised his voice as my father lowered his--'What is your age?--What was the object of your going to Coblentz?'----My father seizes a large bamboo, and makes it whistle over Thirion's head--at that moment my mother rushes in, and succeeds in dragging him into another room, and restoring him to something like calmness. I remember she placed me in his arms, whispering to me to entreat him to _think of me_. Meantime, Thirion had drawn up his _procès verbal_, and withdrawn:--he left me weeping without knowing why I wept, but I saw that my mother and my sister were in tears too. My father sat pale, trembling with anger,--everything about us had a desolate aspect."

The family escape from Paris--and it was time. Violent alternations of fear, anger, sorrow, terror, and disgust, with frequent disguises, flights, and all sorts of changes of residence, at length wear out the health and spirits of M. Permon--a man, apparently, who united dull enough intellect with all the vivacity of a Frenchman's mere temperament; and he dies in obscurity long before anything like order is re-established. We need not dwell on the particular fortunes of a not very interesting set of people; but may quote one or two more specimens of the sort of scenes which fill the greater part of the first of these volumes. Our authoress and her sister are at one time separated from their parents, and placed in an obscure _pension_ in the Faubourg (no longer _St._) Antoine. Their brother, a very young man, has also remained in Paris, and frequently visits them in their retreat.

"We could not but observe, that for some days he had been very melancholy, and that he was getting more and more so. We asked the reason, and he told us at last that the section had denounced my father in a very alarming style. We fell a-crying, my sister and I. Albert consoled us as well as he could, but it was easy to see that the denunciation was not all--that some immediate danger fixed his fears. We knew afterwards, in effect, that a report had been spread of the arrest of my parents at Limoges--happily a false one. The horizon meanwhile was taking a bloody tint. Judge of my brother's anxiety! he came every day in a cabriolet, which my father had had built just before these late events; it was an elegant one, very lofty, of the kind called _wiski._ Already he had been all but insulted by the populace in driving through the faubourg; but liveries had not yet altogether disappeared, and nothing would persuade him to listen to our remonstrances, and make the domestic put off his. Thus it was on the 31st of August, when he came to see us as usual."

"There was about the boarding-house a man charged with all the rough work, by name Jaquemart, a fellow that could do everything--but the most atrocious of countenances. 'The sight of that man makes me sick,' said Albert; 'I am sure he will end in something tragic.'"

"One day, shortly after we went to the _pension_, Jaquemart was bringing in a load of wood, when my brother drove at the speed of his horse into the entrance. He saw the man had a burden that would hardly allow him to get out of the way in time--cried _'Gare!'_--perceived that his efforts were in vain--and pulled back his horse so sharply as to run much risk of wounding the animal, and, indeed, of being thrown out himself, owing to the extraordinary elevation of the _wiski_. Jaquemart, however, escaped by this means with a scratch on his leg; his eyes were good, he saw what Albert had done to master his horse, and vowed gratitude."

"The 31st of August the man had nothing to do about the house, yet he kept lounging at the gate, or in the court, all day long. It was late ere Albert came--he had been waiting for him, and whispered, as he alighted, 'Stay here to-night to take care of your sisters--don't go home.' Albert looked at him with astonishment; he had, indeed, perceived symptoms of some commotion, but fancied, as most of Paris did, that it would be directed against the Temple. 'What is your meaning?' said he. 'I entreat you to stay here--you will be near your sisters; and if there be need for another hand, mine shall not be far off--very well!--we shall be there.' Albert pressed him with questions, but could extract nothing; and after giving the man some money, persisted; in returning home as usual."

"All know the frightful story of the day after this. Albert's anxiety for us makes him brave every danger, and he comes to us again. The first person he sees at our door is Jaquemart, in the costume of the most atrocious of bandits; our ladies had not dared to bid him go away, but his appearance made them tremble. 'I did not desire you to come hither, but to stay here,' he said; 'why have I not been obeyed?' 'Why do you speak so--was this house particularly menaced?' 'I know nothing of that--at such a moment one should fear everything.'"

"We heard groans, weeping, all Paris had not been at _the massacre_. It was late. They pressed Albert to stay, but he would not. He promised, however, to come back next morning.----That day he was obliged to stay at home till about three o'clock, arranging and burning papers. He then came out to visit us, and found himself in the midst of crowds of men, drunken and bloody; many were naked to the waist, their breasts covered with blood. They carried fragments of clothing on their pikes and sabres--their faces were inflamed, their eyes haggard, the whole scene hideous. These groups became more and more frequent and numerous as he advanced. In mortal anxiety for us, he determined to push through everything, and, urging his horse to its speed, reached at length the front of the Hôtel Beaumarchais. There he was stopped by an immense crowd--always the same figures naked and bloodstained, but here their looks were those of enraged fiends. They shout, they scream, they sing, they dance--the saturnalia of hell. On seeing Albert's cabriolet, they redoubled their cries--'An aristocrat! give it him, give it him!' In a moment the cabriolet is surrounded, and from the midst of the crowd an object rises and moves towards him. His agitation perplexes his view--he perceives long fair tresses dabbled with blood--a countenance beautiful even yet. It approaches--it is thrust upon his face; he recognises the features--it is the head of Madame de Lamballe!"

"The servant whips the horse with all the strength of his arm. The generous animal, with the instinctive horror of his race for dead bodies, springs with redoubled speed from the spectacle of horror. The frightful trophy, and the cannibals that bore it, had been overturned in the mud--screams and imprecations pursued Albert, stretched senseless at the bottom of the cabriolet. The servant had kept the reins, and whipped the more fiercely, because he could perceive, from the motion of the carriage, that some one had got up behind it, and hoped that the rapidity of its progress would shake him off."

"In a few minutes Albert reached our door--judge of our alarm!--pale, still quite senseless, not breathing. The moment the cabriolet stopped, the man behind jumped down, took my brother in his arms, as if he had been a child, and carried him into the house. It was Jaquemart. 'The monsters,' said he, 'the monsters! the poor young man, they have killed him too.' What could Jaquemart have been doing in such a garb, and among such a troop o' ruffians?"

[1] And father of Madame Junot.

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THE GATHERER.

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The Paris correspondent of the _Court Journal_ gives the following incident at the King's Ball, about a fortnight since. I happened to be near his majesty when he addressed himself to an Englishman, wearing the Cross of Three Days. "Where did you signalize yourself, sir?" inquired the monarch. "At the Tuilleries, sire," was the answer. "_C'est aux braves de Juillet que je dois ma couronne_," said his majesty. The gentleman thus honoured was M. Bennis,[1] in whose literary establishment the king seems to take much interest.

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GUTTING THE FISH.