Chapter IX: A Bright Evening (9)

The day has passed away like a dream. I hasten to send this to the post, that you may thank God with us. _Laus Deo_ always and for ever!

Love from all to my Kate.

MAY 4, 1869.

Have returned to my former pleasant way of life with Marcella, my true sister; but the shadow is still there. The doctor said to Marianne: “Be very careful of this beautiful child; I do not answer for her chest!” It is as if I had heard a funeral knell. She is so smiling and pretty, this “little saint of the good God,” as she was called in the south. Yesterday, as I watched her playing with Guy, Berthe said to me: “Don’t you perceive something extraordinary about Madeleine――something that is not of this world?” I turned pale; had she also a presentiment? Picciola advanced towards us, and we said no more; but this morning the dear innocent said: “Would you believe, mamma, that I have still gone on growing?” “In wisdom, I will answer for it,” declared Adrien. “O uncle! you are jesting. I mean in height.” “You are growing too much, darling,” answered Berthe; “you must let yourself be taken care of, and kiss me.” The poor mother, I fear, is aware.… Oh! pray with me, Kate. Just listen to this revelation made to me by Marianne: “For certain, madame, there is something extraordinary in this; never a complaint, and yet she must suffer, the dear darling, the doctor assured me. When I questioned her one day when she was paler than usual, she answered: ‘O Marianne! on the contrary, it is well, very well!’ and she looked up to heaven.”

What do you think about it, dear Kate? The words of the _Saint of the sea-shore_ are always sounding in my ears. Oh! that God may spare her to us, this flower of innocence and purity. She has resumed her studies. Her memory is marvellous; she is first in every branch of instruction. I love her more dearly than ever; it is settled that her hour of manual occupation shall be passed in my room. I have not yet confided my fears to Marcella; I leave her to her happiness.

“Un malheur partagé ne peut nous secourir.
Car on souffre surtout dans ceux qu’on voit souffrir.”

Hélène has written to her mother. One might be reading St. Teresa. Gertrude is worthy of such a daughter. I have spoken to you of the way in which she despoils herself; this self-spoliation is now as complete as it can be. Her room has the aspect of a cell. I must appear very worldly to her, with my fondness for beautiful things. I have felt tempted to ask her this, but have resisted the temptation. Would you believe that she has made a _vow_ not to see again either her sons or her daughter? “There is too much for nature in these meetings!” What energy, and this with a so great tenderness of heart!

Let us love each other, dear Kate!

MAY 10, 1869.

What rejoicings, dearest! On the 7th the magnificent torchlight procession, the illumination with Bengal lights, which never succeeded so well; the interior of the city resplendent with lights; the assembled bishops blessing the multitudes――what a fine spectacle! Mgr. de Bonnechose, Mgr. de la Tour-d’Auvergne, Mgr. Guibert, Mgr. Meignan, Mgr. Gignoux, Mgr. Foulon, Mgr. de Las Cases, Mgr. La Carrière, Mgr. Pie, etc., etc.――it was splendid! On the 8th, the panegyric, which I send you, in order that you may judge of it better than from my account. For two hours, Monseigneur held his auditory under the charm of his words; he showed us the saint in the young girl, in the warrior-maiden, and in the victim. Then the procession. On the 9th, grand festival at Sainte-Croix――anniversary of the dedication of this cathedral. On that memorable day, when the bishop raised his hand to give the blessing, a mysterious hand appeared, blessing also, since which time the arms of the chapter have been a cross surmounted by a hand surrounded by rays. This celestial hand is also painted on the vaulted roof above the altar, and I had often wondered what it meant. I am no longer surprised at the attraction I feel towards Sainte-Croix. God loves to be worshipped there. Mgr. de Bourges officiated at High Mass, and also at Vespers. He is singularly majestic. People were crushing each other to see him. The ceremonies were too magnificent ever to be forgotten; it is impossible to imagine anything like them. Oh! what joy to be there, all together, mingled in this assembly of brethren.

What month can be more pleasing to our hearts than this month of May, gathering into itself, as it does, the most delightful festivals? It seems to me that with the passing breeze a thousand memories revive within my soul: my childhood, which devotion to the Blessed Virgin clothed in so much poetry; this beloved month, when my mother used to assemble us every evening, with the village girls, to pray and sing; the flowers which we had valiantly _conquered_ or _begged_, and whose fragrance filled the oratory; the symbolic tapers; we ourselves quiet and recollected, but so light-hearted that an unknown word in what we were singing would make us laugh to ourselves; the sun shedding floods of gold on this charming scene, playing over the white Madonna, on the lilacs and roses, on the golden locks and the brown, on the rosaries and blue ribbons. How far off is that time!

Read with the children the journeys of Captain Hatteras. Truly, there is something to be gleaned everywhere, if only one knows how to see it. Only imagine! in the midst of these adventurous men there is a worthy doctor, Clawbonny, always doing the things which are most disagreeable to himself. Why was he not a Catholic? Nothing would then have been wanting to him; while this book is cold――cold as the North Pole.

Picciola is always pale. I proposed to Berthe to take her to Paris. “Do you think there may be danger?” and her voice trembled. What was I to answer? I have a conviction that she is mortally affected, and nothing can do away with this conviction. My answer was, “I think it would be as well to consult some one there.” I am to take her with me, therefore, and you will see this angel before she departs to heaven. All about her is heavenly. She is a sunbeam, a luminous flower, a living soul; and this blessing has been lent us for a day!

Margaret will be in Brittany about the 24th of June. My mother speaks of leaving towards the end of the month. I want to give you a fortnight; I need a large provision of courage. Anna is charming, wonderfully stronger: it is like a miracle.

Let us pray, dear Kate――I do so long for her to live!

MAY 19, 1869.

One word only, after nine days, my dear! Get for me fifty Masses said at Notre Dame des Victoires. The poor have been occupying me during all this time. René has asked me to be his secretary, in order that some important business may be the more promptly despatched; and it is so great a happiness to me to oblige him.

We go to Cléry to-morrow, weather permitting.

Tell me still to hope, dear Kate!

MAY 26, 1869.

Mistress Annah is truly the most devoted soul I know. Mary and Ellen have had the measles, and she alone has nursed them. Edith has an attack on the chest――not very serious, happily――caught in the exercise of charity; and it is again our dear old friend who is at her bedside. Lizzy writes me word of all this. Little Isa is pretty and good; the _saint_ Isa is always singing her _Te Deum_.

René gave me a new book yesterday: _Elizabeth Seton, and the Beginnings of the Catholic Church in the United States_, by Mme. de Barberey. I have glanced through it, and find it admirable. I shall speak of it to you again.

We shall be in Paris on the 1st of June――René, Marcella, Picciola, Anna, and I. Rejoice, dear Kate! Moreover, there is some thought of our staying in Paris for the winter, and it is possibly an almost eternal adieu that we are about to bid Orleans. Johanna wishes to be nearer Arthur. You may well suppose that I make every effort to incline the balance in this direction; but my mother says sadly: “Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof: it is useless to plan so much beforehand.” It is an affection of youth――projects reaching out of sight, illusions, dreams, as if life were to last for ever!

Picciola is always calm. I often surprise her looking up to heaven, and lately I heard her say: “How happy it must be on high!” Oh! the _Saint of the sea-coast_ was right: there is something of heaven in this child! Hope――hope ever!

Raoul, Berthe, and Thérèse start to-morrow with arms and baggage. Johanna and her household will follow shortly after. Long live Brittany! Mme. Swetchine used to say: “What evil can happen to him who knows that God does everything, and who loves beforehand all that God does?” When, Kate, shall I attain to this? That noble woman said again: “Our tears are the beverage which, with the bread of the Word, suffices to our daily necessities: our tears shed into the bosom of God. What should we be without them? It is, at the same time, the baptismal water of sorrow and the regenerating stream. Happy they who weep; happy when the Lord looks upon them through their streaming eyes; happy when his hand dries their tears!”

Kate dearest, my soul unites itself to yours, seeking strength to support this trial, if it is to be imposed upon me. And I shall not be the only one who suffers. I read yesterday these words, which seem made for me: “Do not loosen too much the reins from this strong and yet impassioned little heart; affections are sweet, but you know what Pascal says: ‘We shall die alone.’” When men fail us, as sooner or later they surely will, what matter? God remains to us. There is truly within us a source of mysterious sadness which makes us realize, perhaps better than any other reason, our condition as exiles. When life is sad and oppressive, repose uncertain――when happiness appears impossible――we weep, were it even over the happiness of others, and love to prostrate ourselves before the cross with this admirable prayer of Mme. Swetchine on our lips: “My God, I throw myself, body and soul, blindly at thy feet!”

Dear Kate, may God and the holy angels guide us to you! My mother would like to see you, but she grows weaker in health; walking fatigues her. How I love you, my beloved sister! When, then, will heaven come for us all? How sweet it would be to go thither together! Death would lose its horror, if there were in it no more separation.

Good-by for the present, soon to embrace you, my Kate!

JUNE 18, 1869.

I am, dear Kate, in all the joy of expectation; only two days, and Margaret will arrive. O human life, full of separations and of meetings again! Dearest, I feel you present with me, and you know whether I have not need of this. The sight of Picciola tortures me. These words of the medical celebrity are ever resounding in my ears: “An inexplicable malady, strange, nameless, without remedy!” Oh! let us supplicate Heaven――so young, so fair, so beloved!

Her increasing weakness has become evident to all, and everybody attributes it to a too rapid growth. No more study, no more any exciting occupation. She lets it be so, always smiling, giving herself to all, but reserving for her mother and for me the depth of her heart――a treasure which we are never weary of contemplating. Kate, I have the conviction that in asking the health of this child I am asking a miracle; but will not the love of Mary grant it me?

The baptism is for the 24th. Unite yourself with us, dearest.

JUNE 21, 1869.

Margaret sends you a most affectionate greeting. What a delight to possess her! The baby is of dazzling freshness; Lord William is crazy about him. What a happy household! We shall keep them, I hope, all the summer. Marcella makes the delight, the joy, and the union of our interior. “Are you not afraid that she may leave you?” This question of Margaret’s greatly surprised me. “But why?” I asked. “Well, I do not know; she might marry, for instance.” What an idea! What do you say to it, dear Kate? Is this another dark speck on my horizon?

We shall make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the _Saint of the sea-coast_. Margaret almost worships Brittany. Why does she not settle here entirely? Our poor received her with rejoicings. Her generous hand is always open. She has given me fresh news of the _châlet_. Edith is well; Mistress Annah is in her element, lavish of her time and strength. Lizzy is expecting a second treasure. The saintly Isa overflows with happiness, and her pretty little namesake has truly been given by God as the angel of consolation.

Bossuet has called friendship “A covenant of two souls who unite together to love God.” What a name, dear Kate, to give to this sentiment, which binds together all our souls here, and yours with them, in one and the same affection? Nothing, alas! is more rare than terrestrial happiness, and thus at each stroke of death I bow my head; it is an expiation! Nothing could be more pure and sweet and full of enchantment than our existence, were it not that the mourning of the heart too frequently came to obscure it.

Picciola is weaving a garland of corn-flowers near my writing-table. Her waxen whiteness renders her almost transparent. How often I ask her, “Do you suffer at all?” and her answer is, “Oh! so little, so little!” We must not speak of it, for fear of alarming my mother. She does not cough, she has no fever. What has she? Gertrude shares my fears, and agrees with me that there is some mystery in this. What? Who will tell it us? Raoul and Berthe take every care of her, caress her.

Adieu, dear Kate!

JUNE 25, 1869.

A brilliant baptism――something quite fairy-like, and which our Bretons will long remember. The old _curé_ shed tears when he poured the holy water on the brow of the new Christian. Ah! my God, may he be thine for ever.

Margaret was beaming with pleasure at our all being together again. Her beauty exceeds all description, and eclipses that of all other women. Happily, our Bretonnes do not know what it is to be jealous. There was a ball, dearest――a grand ball――and the pretty feet of Thérèse and Anna still dance at the remembrance of it. Picciola was also there, whiter than her dress, with her loving gaze upon her mother. Oh! I do not deceive myself, Kate――death advances! I felt it yesterday. It was after the dinner; the guests were talking, and Mad quietly disappeared. I hastened to her room and found her kneeling on her _prie-Dieu_. “What ails you, dearest?” “Nothing, aunt; the noise wearies me; I want God.” These words moved the very depths of my soul. Why, at this tender age, such aspirations towards the infinite, so many tears at the holy altar, such love of suffering? Blind and cowardly creature that I am, I do not wish this child to be an angel! Pray, dear Kate, ask strength for me! I have finished reading _Elizabeth Seton_. She is the Saint Chantal of America. This work is at the same time, in my opinion, very superior to that of the Abbé Bougaud because of the incomparable charm of the heroine. With that, it is another Alexandrine de la Ferronays. It seems as if I had had a vision: so much youth, innocence, love, and misfortune; Providence wonderfully directing this holy soul; these astonishing conversions and vocations taking place in America; the apostolic and eminent men; the events, so varied, from the Lazaretto of Leghorn to the valley of Emmittsburg. Oh! how wonderful is God in his elect. Fancy, dear Kate: a Protestant lady goes to Leghorn with her husband, who is in a decline. They are detained for a long time at the Lazaretto. Oh! you should read these pages. Elizabeth saw her William die in sight of that land which he had trusted would cure him! And she blessed God for all! A widow with five children, she quitted Italy after having had a perception of the _truth_; arrived at New York, she became a Catholic. Her family abandoned her. She opened a school, and, after many trials heroically borne, she founded a convent of Daughters of Charity. Become a religious, two of her children died in her arms. O these deaths!――the sweet little Rebecca saying: “In heaven I shall offend God no more! I shall sin no more, mamma――I shall sin no more!” It is beautiful, all of it――beautiful! Thus will Picciola die, alas!

JULY 2, 1869.

Anniversary of the First Communion of the _Three Graces_. We have observed it as a solemn festival: general Communion, Benediction, _largesses_ to the poor.

Write to me often thus, dear Kate. Your letter set me afloat again. I was nearly stranded. Oh! yes, God is good, a thousand times good, even in those things which we unjustly call his severities. Well, and what matters life? I say this, but an hour hence what shall I say? Human misery! It is the weight of the body which holds us back; we are too material, we live too much by the senses. _Sursum corda!_ Would, Kate, that my life were a _sursum corda_ continually!

Besides, can our angelic invalid make us think of anything but heaven? Her state is really inexplicable. The doctor at Hyères thought that the chest was affected, but we are assured that this is not the case. To all her mother’s questions Mad invariably answers: “I am not quite well――that is all; don’t be uneasy, dearest mother.” But day after day she grows more transparent, more delicate; and in watching her the same idea struck Gertrude and myself: she resembles the _Angel spreading his Wings_ painted by Marcella. To console myself, I read the most beautiful of books,――the Gospel and the admirable _Imitation_. Dear Kate, tell me again to look up to heaven!

Madame Bourdon has written some noble pages upon Lamartine. Would you like to have the flower of them? “Never, perhaps, did any name of man or any human destiny, pass through more varied phases than the name of Lamartine, or than the destiny of this poet, who lived long only to see the better how inconstant is earthly glory, and how quickly fade the palms awarded by men. Forty years ago the name of Lamartine expressed an ideal of poetry, purity, and sublime aspirations; eighteen years later the name of Lamartine personified the Revolution――moderate, perhaps noble, but always alarming to thoughtful minds and believing hearts. From the date of this epoch a shadow fell on the brightness of this name; poverty with its humiliations, old age with its feebleness, isolation engendered by political enmities, overwhelmed the poet and the tribune. He drank long draughts from the cup of bitterness. Now the cloud rises, and over the tomb of Saint-Point burst forth praises and applause, the regrets so long denied to the unfortunate man, the genius broken down beneath the troubles of life. But before man had returned God was there. He had purified, pardoned, comforted, and lulled to sleep on his divine bosom that poet’s brow which never should have known affronts.” “From the past of him who was a traveller, tribune, and statesman, the poet will remain after all the rest; and when our time shall have become history, Alphonse de Lamartine will take his place among sad and noble figures, beneath Homer and Dante, side by side with Tasso and Camoëns.”

Do you remember the beautiful verses by Elise Moreau on the death of Julia?

“Moi, je sais la douleur, inconsolable père,
Je suis jeune, et pourtant j’ai déjà bien pleuré.”[188]

How we shall miss this exquisite creature, too perfect for this world! O Kate! how I love her. She goes to God with so much candor, simplicity, and boldness――with the _effrontery of love_, as Father Faber expresses it. O powerlessness of affection! O weakness of that which ought to be most strong! O nothingness of all that is ourselves――to be able to do nothing, nothing, but offer barren desires and longings for those we love!

How right you are to remind me of the old proverb: _Lock the door of your heart_. I ought to open it to God alone; but this is perfection, and I am far from that.

Love me, dear Kate!

JULY 12, 1869.

The Prince de Valori has just published the _Letters of a Believer_ (_Lettres d’un Croyant_). It is admirable. The last is on St. Peter’s at Rome: “This is the sole temple worthy of the Eternal; this is the marvel of all the marvels of art; this the monumental miracle of the faith, the miracle of Christian genius, the apotheosis of the transformation of stone into a _chef-d’œuvre_, into grandeur, elevation, and harmony, at the breathing of Bramante, of Raphael, of Michael Angelo, of Carlo Maderno, and of the Bernini. This, this is St. Peter’s of Rome, Paradise in miniature, the concentration of all that one can dream of grand and sublime; the incomparable mosaic in which is found all that is worthy of admiration in the temples and museums of the universe; the New Jerusalem, made of lapis-lazuli, jasper, porphyry, gold, silver, and precious stones; a city of altars and sanctuaries, of domes and canopies; a blessed city, whose streets are of precious marbles, where streams of holy water flow, where the air one breathes is myrrh and incense, where is the King enthroned on the altars, and for his footstool the tomb of the apostles.

“St. Peter’s at Rome!――the greatest work of human architecture, before which Solomon’s Temple, Saint Sophia, Versailles, the Alhambra, Westminster, are mere nothings; monument of glory and immensity, in which there is neither fault nor defect; where Providence has willed that each of the great artists who wrought there should correct his predecessor, down to Carlo Maderno, who had the signal honor of rectifying Michael Angelo.”

Picciola is fading away, gently, gently, without one complaint. Who would have imagined that this healthy blossom would have faded away so soon? Her voice is feeble――feeble as a distant harp; but what eloquence there is in her look! Yesterday I had left her alone for a few moments with my beautiful godson; on coming back I stopped at the partly-open door. She was rocking the little darling on her knees, and saying: “Look at me well, little Cousin Guy, because soon I shall go away to the land from which you came. Before the leaves fall Madeleine will go away, but you at least, my little Guy――you will not weep for my departure. And I shall be the happiest!”

This morning I wanted to curl her beautiful hair. “You love me too much, dear aunt; but I also love you very much. When I am no longer here, you will love Alix instead, who is so pretty and sweet when she raises herself on tiptoe to try and kiss you.” She said this simply and seriously, and, as a tear fell from my eyes, she added: “Then you do not wish me to speak to you of my death, that I may console you for my going away? But remember that the good God will let me see you from Paradise, and that I shall pray to him for you and for my kind Uncle René!”

Oh! how weak I am, dear Kate. Pray for me!

JULY 18, 1869.

Adrien read to us yesterday an appreciation of the works of Rossini by a poet――Méry. Picciola had laid her head on my knee and seemed to sleep. I have mentioned to you Adrien’s talent as a reader. He was reading the following passage: “In this _Stabat_ Rossini has sung the graces of the Redemption, the joys of hope, the beams from the gate of heaven, opened by the Blood shed on Golgotha; he has scattered over this page of desolation all the flowers of the celestial garden, all the garlands of Sharon, all the vistas of the Promised Land; he has been mindful of that great Christian expression of St. Augustine, ‘Death is life’; he has written his divine elegy in the _Campo Santo_ of Pisa, where the tombs are bathed in azure, crowned with lilies, and smiling in the sun. And now, after so many works accomplished, posterity will not ask whether Rossini could have done more; it will regard that which he has done as the most marvellous work of human genius.” Here the sweet little Mad raised herself up, her eyes beaming with a deep joy. Since then she has been frequently repeating, “Death is life!” Kate, Fénelon was right when he said that “nothing is more sweet than God, when we are worthy to feel it.”

Margaret is charming in amiability. But what a difference between last summer and this! We still make parties to go on expeditions, but always with some pious end――pilgrimages, when we pray for our beloved sick one. Gertrude comforts me in the same way that you do, dear Kate. I _see_, I _know_, I understand that God wills it thus. But the time passes away. Mme. Swetchine wrote: “Time is the riches of the Christian; time is his misery, time is earth; time is heaven, since it can gain heaven. Time is the fleeting moment; time is eternity, since it can merit eternity; and it is time which endangers eternity. At once an obstacle and a means, it is in an especial manner a two-edged sword, powerless in itself, and yet the most powerful of auxiliaries, nothing is done either by it or without it.”

Picciola is like the Angel of Charity among us, it is to her that the good _curé_ addresses his requests. And how well she knows how to ask! Oh! what are not children――the treasure of the house! Our casket was so rich, so resplendent, so precious, and now the fairest pearl, the purest diamond, is about to be taken from us!

I am writing in haste, my riding-habit over my arm; the horses are snorting in the court. It is at Mad’s entreaty that we are all going to a miraculous fountain near a chapel of the Blessed Virgin, at some little distance off. This child must have extraordinary courage to struggle as she does against her suffering, and to try to make us believe that it is nothing. Dear Kate, I repeat with you the _Fiat_ of Gethsemani, and lovingly embrace you.

JULY 23, 1869.

Margaret appears to have been a prophetess, Kate. I have learnt from Edouard that the doctor of Hyères was not entirely disinterested in his devoted attention: he would fain become Anna’s father. Although the thought of a separation had never occurred to me, I now perceive from this information the possibility of another future for Marcella. It seems that she has refused him; but the doctor does not consider himself beaten, and he has just installed himself in a little manor in ruins in our neighborhood. He has himself announced this to Edouard, who finds him very intelligent and likes him much. Marcella turned pale when Lucy communicated this piece of news to us all this morning: Anna appeared overjoyed. I do not know what to think.

Our excursion of the 18th led to an unexpected result: we found near the chapel two little girls in rags, their feet bare and bleeding. Their story is touching. Being left orphans, they set out on foot from the furthest part of Cantal to seek hospitality in Brittany from an uncle, whom on arriving they found was also dead. They have thus been wandering among the fields of broom, sleeping under trees, and have not ventured to ask for alms. Picciola embraced them as if they were sisters, placed them with a farmer’s wife, and has obtained leave from _grandmother_ to bring them to the _château_. Adrien wrote the same evening to the priest of their parish. The answer is most satisfactory: the orphans belong to a great family now decayed, and are worthy of interest; their pastor was at Rome when the poor children lost their father and, with the inconsiderateness of youth, undertook so long a journey. The elder is thirteen, a graceful little fairy, with piercing eyes; the younger nine, as tall as her sister, which however, is not saying much. “God sends you them to replace me,” said Picciola to her mother. Sweet angel! The nest is large enough to shelter two more doves; stay with us too! Berthe has had the poor little girls clothed, and has also adopted them. Thérèse and Picciola undertake to _acclimatize_ them. “This is truly the house of the good God,” said Marianne.

Margaret loves France. With her, _ennui_ is impossible. And how quickly she has become attached to Marcella! How well these two natures suit each other in spite of their contrasts! Dear Kate, this meeting again is a real blessing; I would fain live always thus. It is singular that our days are so full of charm, notwithstanding the uneasiness we are in on Picciola’s account. She also――_she is too dear to die_! Why cannot we accompany her all together, and pass without transition from meetings on earth to the meeting again in heaven?

Margaret receives intensely interesting letters from Rome; I should like to copy them for you. Have I told you how much Gertrude’s saintliness excites the admiration of our fair lady? Gertrude is become the guide and adviser of all; even my mother likes to be directed by her judgment. Her magnificent wardrobe is no longer hers; robes of silk and velvet――all are made into church vestments: impossible to imagine a more complete spoliation. She is uniformly dressed in black woollen; what a contrast to our worldly vanities! Her rooms, formerly so tasteful and rich, have undergone a radical transformation. She belongs to a princely family. Her tastes and habits were in accordance with her rank; her room was hung with crimson velvet, which is now replaced by a dark-colored paper, whilst the elegant furniture and superfluities have been banished to make way for the plainest articles she has been able to find. Adrien has sold his equipages to found a hospital. “Do you know, nothing would be easier than to transform this _château_ into a monastery,” Margaret said to me. “Yes, in proceeding as Gertrude has done.”

Adieu, dear Kate!

TO BE CONTINUED.

[185] “Fold, fold again, my child, thy dove-like wings,
Open thy fair eyes, sweet, ’neath my caress.
Ah! knewest thou the coldness of the tomb!
Nay, happiness dwells only in the skies!
Yet why so soon from earth wouldst thou depart?
Can there, in heav’n itself, be aught more sweet
Than kisses lavished by thy mother’s lips
While rocking thee at eve upon her knees?”

[186] “But God a deaf ear turned; the flower unclosed.
… An angel, clad in golden rays,
One eve, they say, gathered the fragile rose,
And with her took his upward flight to heaven.”

[187] “What sky was ever worth the sky of our
birthplace?――the roof, the cherished nest, the home, dear to
us when quite little, before we knew anything, and which
nothing afar off can ever make us forget?”

[188] I myself am accquainted with sorrow, inconsolable
father. I am young, and yet I have already wept much.

DE VERE’S “MARY TUDOR.”[189]

There is nothing more unjust than the neglect sometimes shown to literary performances of the highest merit. But it is not always difficult to account for this. We have before us a case in point. Here is a drama on a subject of peculiar interest――a model of classic elegance, and exhibiting at once a dramatic power and a dignity of language which have not been surpassed, if equalled, since Shakspere. Yet this work has been suffered to sink into obscurity. Why? For the excellent reason, surely, that the Protestant author presents Catholic claims and personages with a very unusual fairness――a fairness, moreover, which was specially unacceptable at the date of the book’s publication, when the excitement over what is called the Oxford movement was at its height.

After the lapse of nearly thirty years, Sir Aubrey De Vere’s drama has a new field opened to it, and will not, we trust, be again ignored, but receive from critics and literary circles its full meed of praise. The occasion of its fresh appeal to public attention is Tennyson’s effort on the same subject. We read _Queen Mary_ with our wonted relish of the melodious English and faultless diction for which Tennyson stands alone, and with full appreciation of the peculiar originality, which some call affectation, but to which, as we consider, he has more than proved his right; but were conscious throughout of a very undramatic vagueness, and painfully sensible that a great poet had prostituted his genius to a most unworthy cause. When we came to _Mary Tudor_, how different our experience! We seemed to be reading the product of some erudite pen of the Elizabethan era, and even to be witnessing the play’s performance――the _personæ_ speaking in the manner of their time, and standing before us as if actually on the stage. We found, too, the author’s intent very clear――namely, to draw the characters, both Catholic and Protestant, with perfect impartiality and in accordance with his information; and this not merely with a view to show that the right was not all on one side and the wrong all on the other (which, of course, is perfectly true), but rather, as it seems to us, to represent both parties as very much the sport of circumstances, and struggling for what each thought the truth. There is a mistake here, but an amiable mistake; and whatever prejudices lie at the bottom of it, they are the prejudices of the author’s informants, not his own.

He wisely divides his drama into two distinct plays of five acts each; and we purpose to make each “Part” the subject of a separate article. Indeed, we feel that, to do the work full justice, we ought to take a single Act at a time; for every scene will bear minute analysis. As it is, we must resist the temptation of quoting largely――a necessity the more to be regretted because the merit of dramatic poetry speaks for itself far better than the critic can speak for it.