Chapter V (32)

"It is manifest therefore, that this doctrine concerning the authority of the pope must have been taught, together with all other doctrines of the universal church, by the missionaries sent into Britain by Pope Eleutherius. St. Irenaeus tells us in another place that the faith of the whole church was one and the same. He says, for instance, in the following passage, 'The church spread over the whole world to the earth's boundaries, having received the faith, ... sedulously guards it, as though dwelling in one house,' 'as having one soul,' and 'one heart,' and 'teaching uniformly as having one mouth, ... nor do the churches of Spain or Gaul, or the East, or Egypt, or Africa, believe or deliver a different faith.' (_Adv. Hieres._ b. i. c. x.)

"But we are not left to conjecture as to the relation of Britain to the rest of Christendom, and to the see of Rome in primitive times. The next notice we have of the British Church is, that British bishops were sitting with the other Catholic bishops at the Council of Aries in Gaul in 314, when the Roman practice as to the time was confirmed and accepted, and at the Council of Sardica in Illyricum in 347, where the right of appeal from all bishops to the apostolic see was confirmed by a special decree. {636} This council, at the conclusion of its deliberations, writes to Pope Julius in the following terms: 'That though absent in body, he had been present with them in spirit,' and that it was best and most fitting that the bishops of each particular province should have recourse to him who is their head, that is, to the see of the Apostle Peter. (See _Labbe's Councils_, ii. 690.)

"That the primacy of the Roman see involved a real right of jurisdiction over other churches is manifest from the next fact of history bearing on the British Church. St. Prosper of Aquitain, a contemporary of the events he describes, writing in 430, tells us how a British priest, by name Morgan or Pelagius, had invented a heresy, (which still bears his name,) in which he denied the necessity of Divine Grace. That this heresy spread greatly in Britain, whereupon Pope Celestine, the same pope who sent Palladius and Patrick to Ireland, dispatched St. Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre in Gaul, as 'his vicar with Britain, and that he might drive away heresy, and restore Britain to the Catholic faith.' He tells us that he was received by the British bishops and presided at several national synods. St. Prosper also states as an existing fact then, just as any Catholic might make the same statement at the present day, that 'Rome as the See of Peter is head of the episcopal order in the whole world, and holds in subjection through the influence of religion, more nations than ever had been subdued by her arms.' (_St. Prosper de Ingratitudine et Vocatione Gentium_.)

"With the mission of St. Germanus the early history of the British Church closes. A dark and calamitous period of a hundred years succeeds, in which Britain is heard of no more until the time of Gildas, the British historian, who wrote about the year of our Lord 550, that is to say, about fifty years before the coming of St. Augustine.

"Britain, during this period finally abandoned by the Roman armies, is left a prey to continual invasion, first by the Picts and Scots, and then by the Saxons, who had settled down like a swarm of locusts upon the country, and driving the Britons before them into the natural fastnesses of Wales and Cornwall, had completely occupied the country and made it their own. At length the very name of Britain is lost; it had now become England, and a heathen land once more.

"The native historian Gildas describes the condition of his miserable countrymen, isolated from the rest of Christendom, overwhelmed by foreign invasion and by civil wars. As to religion, he tells us that it was at the lowest ebb, and that no heresy had arisen in the church which had not effected a lodgment in Britain: as to morals, he informs us that princes, nobles, and people were infected with the most shameful vices, and that even a large portion of the clergy were sunk in profligacy. There were still many bright exceptions amongst all classes, especially in the monasteries, which were numerous and filled with a multitude of holy souls, who had fled from the almost universal corruption of morals in that miserable age.

"Gildas, moreover, upbraids the clergy for their want of charity, and because through hatred of their Saxon conquerors they could not be induced to attempt their conversion to the faith of Christ.

"And be it remembered that Gildas wrote all this as an eye-witness of the state of the British Church in his day, and that he wrote only fifty years before the arrival of St. Augustine to preach the faith to the Anglo-Saxons. {637} Can we wonder then that when he invited the remnant of the British clergy to join him in his holy mission he met with a contumacious refusal, at least from some of them?

"I quote from a Protestant historian, (_Hart's Ecclesiastical Record_.) He quotes as follows from Bede's Ecclesiastical History. 'In many things,' says St. Augustine, 'ye act contrary to our custom, and those of the universal church; yet if in these three respects you will obey me, to celebrate Easter at the proper time, to perform the rites of baptism according to the custom of the Roman Apostolic Church, and to join me in preaching the Gospel to the English nation the word of the Lord, all other changes which you do, although contrary to our customs, we will bear with equanimity.' These terms they refused to comply with, and the above-named Protestant writer thus comments on their refusal. 'While we triumphantly cite these testimonies to our original independence, let us not seek to palliate the contumacious spirit displayed by the British clergy in their conference with Augustine. As Christians they ought cheerfully to have assisted in evangelizing the pagan Saxons. The terms which he proposed were mild and reasonable, and the faith which he professed was as pure and orthodox as their own.'

"It is quite clear that the faith of the British Church was essentially the same as that of St. Augustine, otherwise he would certainly have taken exception to such differences in essentials, and not solely of accidental points of discipline, and moreover it is inconceivable that he should have invited them to preach to the Saxons a faith different from his own. That the faith taught to our forefathers by St. Augustine was the same as that of the Catholic Church of the present day, does not require proof to any one who has made the most superficial study of the annals of the Anglo-Saxon Church. The supremacy of Rome, the doctrines of the real Presence, the sacrifice of the Mass, purgatory, devotion to the blessed Virgin and the Saints, are written on every page of her history, as narrated by Bede and the ancient chroniclers, and came to be incorporated into the very language and customs of the people.

"As for the grounds of the opposition of the British bishops to St. Augustine, this can be fully accounted for. The decay of faith and morals amongst clergy and people, isolation from the rest of Christendom, natural pride and hatred of the Saxons, all which Gildas tells us existed in the British Church in his day, are quite enough to account for their opposition to St. Augustine, and this opposition cannot in the truth of history be attributed to any primitive independence of Rome in the British Church. In the whole early history of British Christianity there is not one fact which proves any difference in faith whatever, or any variation in discipline inconsistent with that obedience to the Bishop of Rome as successor of St. Peter, which Irenaeus tells us was in his time considered essential for all churches, and which is at the present day as then, an essential feature of Catholic Christianity.

"In the absence, then, of all proof to the contrary, and in the presence of the positive evidence which I have given that the British Church stood in the same relation to Rome during the earlier and purer ages of her history, as all the other churches of Christendom, it is surely disingenuous not to admit the fact. It seems to me that thoughtful and candid persons can hardly fail to admit that as a controversial argument against the Catholic Church the less said about the British Church the better."

{638}

"Well, upon my word, my boy, I must say that my first impression--but mind, I reserve my judgment till after I have had time to reflect on the matter, read up your quotations in the original, and compare them with the context--I say my first impression is, that you have a good case, and that you have handled it very fairly. A good deal is involved in your being right or wrong in this matter; so much that, if you please, I would rather not pursue the question any further at present; but I shall not let it sleep. And now I see your cousins coming this way with their brother John. I must go and meet the old fellow, and shall treat him as if nothing had happened. I am very glad I happened to meet you yesterday; the truths you have suggested to my mind are serious ones."

"That is so," I replied, "and may they ripen in your mind and prove refreshing to your soul as they have to mine! Good-by!"

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Sub Umbra.

The hills that like billows swell clear in the dawn,
Seem heaving with conscious existence this morn;
For all the broad woods on their bosom serene
Are waving their ocean of green!

II.

How fair! Save yon cloud sailing up from the west,
Whose shadow falls dark on that bright, leafy breast
But softly 'tis rocked: while beneath it is heard,
In wood haunts, the note of the bird.

* * *

III.

O heart! in yon shadow and soft-heaving sea,
Thy God hath unfolded a lesson for thee;
For oft while reposing 'neath sunniest skies,
A cloud o'er thy rest may arise.

IV.

But when from that cloud the dark shadow shall fall,
Heave gently, heave gently though under the pall!
And 'neath the dark shadow let, sweet as the bird,
Thy low, quiet music be heard!

Richard Storrs Willis.

--------

{639}

Translated From The German.

Forget-Me-Not.

Or, The Picture That Was Never Seen.

The lord chamberlain, who had just returned from Italy, had become the subject of the greatest attention with the brilliant but not extensive circle which the queen was accustomed to assemble around her, in the king's secluded summer residence.

The narratives of the count's travels served to shorten an unpleasant, stormy evening, which visited the shady park surrounding the castle with gusts of rain and hail, interspersed with streaks of lightning and heavy reechoing claps of thunder. The imagination of the queen revelled in the recollections which the stories of the count awakened; but the king, more interested in business of state, interrupted the speaker suddenly, with the question as to whether anything new had transpired in the capital city, which he had passed through on his return. The lord chamberlain praised the quiet and elegance of the city, not neglecting to extol the wisdom of the sovereign to whom all this prosperity must be attributed, and closed with the assurance that, excepting the exhibition of industry and art, the inhabitants of the city were occupying themselves, at present, with nothing but their own homes and amusements. The Princess Eliza inquired interestedly concerning the success of that institution which owed its existence to her suggestion, and the count, passing slowly from one thing to another, ran easily into the enumeration of the articles exhibited in the tasteful gallery. He left till the last what he considered the crowning glory of the collection--the paintings by native artists--and described with the versatility of a cicerone all the pictures of Madonnas, pictures from every-day life, historical pictures and portraits, which were worthy of attention. Having come to the end, he interrupted himself suddenly, as if rebuking himself, and said--

"I had almost forgotten to mention a picture, which, although anonymous, and very unfavorably placed, deserves to be named as the gem of the gallery, both in idea and execution. I have seen nothing more wonderful in my life, and even now, when I speak of it, all the details of the striking picture appear clear and decided before the mind, so that I can give them without omitting anything essential."

This preliminary was calculated to raise the greatest curiosity, and the queen, with the company, formed a narrow circle around the narrator.

"Imagine, your majesties, a medium-sized tablet divided into two parts, of which each represents a single picture," began the lord chamberlain; "the conditions of space divide this picture in form: the character is one and the same. In the first, the principal figure is a maiden in the full blooming freshness of youth. The flowing drapery flutters lightly in the wind. One foot already rests upon the edge of the barge which wavers in suspended dance, and which the stream, curling up into foaming waves, seems about to drive from the shore, without rudder or anchor. {640} The eyes of the maiden look longingly into the distance: in her features lies romantic enthusiasm. On the shore which the mariner leaves, stand sympathizing friends. An old man, with silver hair, waves a farewell: a group of maidens, blooming as she, and familiarly clinging to each other, wave handkerchiefs and ribbons after the departing: a youth, handsome and earnest, folds his hands together, and out of the clouds, a friendly, loving, sorrowful countenance looks down upon her. Luxuriant roses signal from the beautiful shore, and form a rare contrast to the lurking, green-haired water-fairies who swim under the mirror of the water in scarcely defined outlines, and seem to pull the frail boat forward. The maiden, it is plain, goes hence on a dangerous journey; but a tender, shimmering cloud-figure, doubtless the ever young Hegemone, hovers near her, and by solicitous glance and imploring gesture, seems to express admonition and prayer. Whether the mariner shall be saved by the grace of this guardian angel, or fall by the wiles of the waiting fairies, is the question with which the gazer unwillingly leaves the charming picture to turn to its companion piece.

"In the picture which we now consider, the principal figure is a young man with walking-staff and travelling-bag, who passes rapidly away from the narrow doorway of a house, and steps out boldly on the broad highway. He breathes freely, and an earnest satisfaction speaks from his eyes. Joyfully starting out to meet life, he takes notice neither of the noble matron who would hold him back, nor of the affectionate maiden who longingly extends her hands to him, nor of the faithful dog that, although fastened by the chain, nevertheless raises himself entreatingly. From the windows of an inn may be seen a waiter, standing at a counting table and swinging his hat: a Jew stands in the way and holds out a paper, which the wanderer refuses: at the well in the foreground a thoughtless maid nods saucily and piquantly to the youth; and so far the picture represents a gay scene, a little saddened by the quiet grief in the background; but, before the wanderer, who looks carelessly around, gapes an abyss, in which is suspended a frightful dead body, with a severe but honest countenance. Its eyes are shut, but it raises the right hand warningly toward the approaching youth, while the left rests on the breast in quiet consciousness.

"And so," continued the narrator, "the picture is finished."

A short silence reigned in the company. The king rested gloomily in his chair; while the queen, on whom the affectionate daughters were leaning, at length replied:

"The picture is finished, and we have an obscure allegory, to find the key to which will not be difficult. Man and woman going from the narrow home-circle to enter upon life, leaving behind them the sheltering paternal roof, and the innocent joys of childhood; the youthful desire to toss upon tempestuous waters, or to journey on the parched highway; these are--or my feeling must be very much at fault--the subjects which the poetical painter wishes to represent."

"Your majesty's penetration is equal to the solution of the most obscure enigma," replied the count; "but in the attractive double picture lies still more, if one leave not out of notice that it is surrounded by a wreath of forget-me-nots; that the mariner wears these flowers in her hair, and the wanderer on his bosom. {641} The artist thought to give the signification of the harmless little flower, and how well he has succeeded in painting its characteristics. The departing is for those remaining behind a forget-me-not; but even these who remain on the spot which the loved one leaves, desire to impress their remembrance on the bird of passage just as firmly. 'Forget me not!' call after her the silver-haired father, the youthful friend, and the play companions of the maiden. 'Forget me not!' whispers the glorified mother out of the clouds, and the protecting spirit hovering over the waters. Well for the mariner if she fail not to hear the warning voice. Well for the youth, if the forget-me-not of the mother, the bride, and the creditor, cling long to his heart: he will return true and noble, scorning the temptations on the way of life, and remembering the paternal honor, which, through the dumb mouth of the dead body, calls to him 'Forget me not!'"

The queen rose hastily, nodded, as it seemed, overcome by tears, to the narrator, leaned upon the arm of her daughter, and apparently struggling to hide her emotion, left the room. The king threw a disapproving glance after her, which finally met that of the count, who stood transfixed in the middle of the hall, without knowing how or why so peculiar a circumstance had transpired.

The courtiers had fallen back and were whispering among themselves.

"Will your majesty condescend to point out to me whether any indiscretion of mine has caused the present event, or whether it may be attributed to an unfortunate coincidence," said the count timidly. Instead of answering, the ruler gave those standing around the signal of departure, and commanded the count to remain. Being called nearer, and permitted to sit opposite the king, he waited impatiently for the discourse which his commander should direct to him.

"Your ignorance is excused," commenced the latter, in his usual short manner of speaking, "but the queen is unpleasantly affected by the name Forget-me-not. It is an old wound that has to-day been opened afresh, and hence the strange scene. It is, perhaps, nineteen years since I undertook the rule of this state. The care of it called me into the field against the enemy formed by the exiled royal family. I was but just married. In order to acquaint my aged father-in-law with the fortunate result of a battle, I sent to the capital a young ordnance officer. He returned to the camp at the time designated, but at the same time came secret dispatches from my zealous agents, who noted the disposition of the people, and kept guard on the actions of the crown-princess, my wife. The ordnance officer, who had long loved my wife in secret, had, in special audience, received from her hands, a bouquet of forget-me-nots. My jealousy knew no bounds. In the next tournament, the officer found his death, and--as it is said--on his breast lay the fatal flowers. After I had returned as victor, it became clear that my wife had intended this present for me, and that she was unacquainted with the feelings of the unsafe messenger who had retained for himself the love-gift of a queen. But now it was too late. Mother and sister mourned on his grave, and the tender heart of my wife was so shocked by such a catastrophe that even to-day, after so many years, her grief has again been manifested." The king was silent, and leaned his head on his hand. The count, overcome by the unusual confidence of his sovereign, and feeling himself inadequate to console, did not venture to reply. {642} The king, instead of dismissing him, remained in troubled thought, while a bitter smile played around his mouth. "Finally," he continued, "my position at that time was difficult. My zealous temperament was bent on vanquishing the obstacles in the way of my successful career. My motto was, 'Onward!' The people were dissatisfied that a man not of royal descent should have the audacity to claim the crown. I had, by force of arms, held the old king on his throne, banished the pretenders, and rescued the people, the property, and the church. I had shown that no one understood better how to readjust the disorganized affairs of state; but when the eyes of the old man closed, and I seized the sceptre, according to agreement, then arose a cry of consternation. The fools had believed that I would give the house which I had built up to the alienated Merovingians, and myself be satisfied with the position of major-domo. A conspiracy was formed. You remember that the flower forget-me-not passed for the symbol of rebellion. The faction of the refugees have not yet forgotten the day on which I gave the command which the times demanded. The first name which met me upon the list of those seized was Albo. The family of that officer bore this name. I knew that the baroness had hated me irreconcilably since the death of her son; that her daughter hated me not less, and that a determined ally of the exiles was about to offer his hand to the latter. Now burst the bombshell. In the house of Albo were said to have been held meetings. The baroness was said to have sworn to give her daughter to the one among her countless suitors who would take the most prominent part in my overthrow. My sternness passed the sentence of death upon the women; but the entreaties of my wife to whom it had been represented that the accusations which had been heaped upon the mother and daughter were only the work of envy and private hatred--disarmed my sentence. I banished the women, and confiscated their property. The bridegroom died in prison; and so the fate of that family was mournfully fulfilled." The king then continued in a monotonous tone: "I will not deny that later I have thought of these poor women who must wander in exile, with a certain unwilling pity, and that still later I made inquiries concerning them. No trace of them could be found. But I see that I have allowed myself to say more than is customary for me. We will pass to something else. Who is the painter who executed the picture of which you have spoken?"

"Sire," replied the count, "I do not know. He cannot, however, be unknown to the inspector of the gallery. I know only that he is not one of your majesty's subjects, and that he begged permission to exhibit the double picture for a few days. For the present he remains in the capital."

"Yes, yes," replied the king; "no one but Cremati can have created this picture; his power alone manifests itself in such allegorical compositions; and the allusion to the forget-me-not--yes, yes, watchful man we will make peace, and thy pride of art shall melt in the sunshine of my favor. I wish to see the painter, count. You will take pains to bring him here. He will not willingly obey, but an autographic command shall place all authority at your disposal. Depart as early as possible, and the day after to-morrow I shall expect to see the painter. Good night, count!"

{643}

The count departed, and the king retreated to his cabinet. After a few fruitless struggles, he overcame the melancholy which clouded his soul, and went to the table, on which lay in great numbers the reports and dispatches just brought in by the courier. He sought impatiently among the letters for one, which when found, he broke with anxiously suspended breath; but after the first line, the restless expectation vanished from his features; cheerfulness spread over them, and with a light "Good, good!" he took up the silver candlestick, impatient to share his satisfaction, and opened the tapestry door which led into the corridor connecting his rooms with the queen's. As he approached the door, he heard voices, and upon entering found the queen sitting in an arm-chair, and leaning, in pleasant resignation, upon Eliza's shoulder. At their feet, on an ottoman, sat Sophia, the younger princess, resting her smiling face on the mother's lap. The beautiful family picture charmed the king, and he commanded the ladies, who would have risen in his honor, to remain in their positions. The group remained, but the former spirit was gone; and the king himself, after a few moments' thought, broke the restraint.

"I forgot," he said, as he gave his daughters a sign to leave their places, "I forgot that my wish serves only to govern the _actions_ of my family, but cannot charm away a grief. I cannot approve of the tears which I see in your eyes, madame. You have given to the court a spectacle, the cause of which is too antiquated to render it any longer excusable, and too unimportant to have been entrusted to your daughters, as I must imagine has been done."

"You err, sire!" replied the queen, drying the last traces of tears from her eyes; "the tenderness, not the curiosity of my daughters has comforted me."

The princesses kissed the queen's hands caressingly, and the king replied:

"Right; that I must commend; and to prove that it pleases me to give pleasure, I will confide to you what gladdens my heart and somewhat lightens my paternal cares. This letter from my ambassador in a neighboring kingdom makes the heavens look joyful. The dissensions which have for so long a time threatened to separate that country and mine, are peacefully settled, and I hope to see soon at my court an ambassador with instructions to sue for Eliza's hand. So I have finally succeeded in entering fully into the band of sovereigns. The fortunate soldier is forgotten, and hereafter kings will speak to a king, and make room in their ranks for him whom fortune raised to their level. My name and the remembrance of my deeds will not pass away with my body. If I am blessed with no son, my grandchildren will wear my crown, and enjoy the fruits of my labors."

The queen gave him her hand softly, and spoke:

"May fortune still further attend you, gracious sire. Your wife willingly submits to your wisdom, and your daughters will fulfil the duties which your position imposes upon them."

"Have you not taught me early, beloved mother, that renunciation and offering is our destiny?" said Eliza calmly, but sighing softly. "I will obey my royal father without objection, without complaint, if--"

"If the prince do not disappoint the ideal that a maiden's heart is accustomed to create," said the king, "Be without fear, my daughter; the prince is renowned as a second Bayard, whose bravery goes hand in hand with the most pleasant courtesy. {644} He is not remarkably beautiful, as I understand, but moderately so, and possesses all those brilliant accomplishments which pertain to a royal education. At least you will be able to boast of a better suitor than your mother, whom I, having neither the advantage of beauty nor of birth, and grown up in the rough customs of the camp, won by the power of my sword, to the astonishment of her father. The brazen age ruled in the land then, and my sword must cut out for your grandfather the royal robe that he had taken from his cousins, as the people demanded. But with your marriage, daughter Eliza, shall begin the golden age. I will give _fêtes_, and the world shall wonder before my splendor as it has before my renown. This old Frankish building shall put on a festival dress, and gleam with gay pictures as for a carnival. Cremato comes again, and his brush shall prove worthy of my generosity."

"Cremato!" repeated the queen wonderingly; "Cremato," cried the princesses together, as they recalled the wonderful, sprightly Italian, who had many times appeared at the court like a flying shadow, and as quickly disappeared; and who did not fear to express the strongest criticisms on the drawings of the royal children, but from whom the little students learned more in a quarter of an hour--when he sometimes condescended to instruct--than from their well-paid court teacher in months. The queen thought proper to send the curious princesses to their apartments, a command that was quietly obeyed.

"What will Cremato here?" she asked her husband who, sunken in plans for the brilliant future, walked silently back and forward. "His name wakes only sorrowful recollections. Is there a new conspiracy to denounce? Shall blood flow again? Shall the innocent again wander in misery? Speak, my husband! Why shall the terrible accuser, who has the misery of thousands on his soul, return?"

"Woman condemns as quickly and as thoughtlessly as she excuses," replied the king earnestly. "Cremato, having by accident become acquainted with the first threads of the conspiracy, fulfilled the duty of a brave citizen in disclosing them. Cremato owed this service to the land and the prince who then gave him protection and security. The most indifferent stranger would have been to that extent under moral obligations. Cremato rescued _thy_ throne through his denunciation. Neither for this favor nor the disinterestedness which refused every reward does he deserve the unthankfulness which thy mouth has spoken against him. It is true that many persons fell, but the pressure of necessity absolutely demanded them. Therefore, no word more about it! For all I have done--except one--I will answer before Him who judges the most powerful."

"And must this one example of vengeance work on for ever? Thy suspicious jealousy drove poor Albo to a certain death; and still, after my innocence was manifest, must make his family the offering of an ever insatiate revenge. Cremato's accusation--"

"Not so," replied the king, with vexation. "The guilt of the women came to my ear from another source. A report was spread that Albo was sacrificed ... enough; the mother breathed vengeance, and for this the law demanded her life. I was gracious still!"

{645}

"Fearful grace," cried the queen, "which drove the unfortunate from their home and the graves of their dead, to wander in poverty and misery in a strange land. That was not what I asked when I prayed for mercy for the innocent. That was not what they expected when they sent petitions to thy throne to recall the sentence, and to allow them to return to their native land, even if it must be in poverty and want."

"A ruler does not play with law and verdict like the conjurer with a snake," spoke the king sharply. "The women who were thirsting for revenge could not be allowed to come back at that time: they cannot now: nevermore. And you, madame, might better let the dead rest. Your feelings lead you to a false conclusion. The gift of a few flowers caused the death of the thoughtless Albo. Your tears for that are shed in vain. The youth's destiny and my passion bear all the blame. You are free from all responsibility. Do not disturb yourself longer with frightful fancies. Leave the burden to my conscience. Admonishing to repentance is of no use, and only embitters. Such attempts it was, madame, that drove from my side the painter Cremato, to whom I had given my confidence. He did not accuse Albo's family, as you falsely believe; he defended them only too boldly. He took the liberty to speak to my conscience--to play the Massillon to me. I am tolerant only to a certain extent, and for nine years he has avoided the court, at which he so often appeared and went like a bird of passage."

"I did not know the man as you have painted him to me, sire," said the queen, only half convinced. "My heart shudders before extreme punishment and severe retribution, therefore I trembled before the informer who called forth both at that time. You say he comes again? Where has he lived, and how, until now?"

"I must explain," replied the king, "that I have no correct account of this man's residence for some time. He was a person worthy to be the friend of a king. I am not a chief of police. I need to know nothing more. Had he any settled dwelling-place? I do not know. In my dominions he has only wandered back and forth since that time. But, so much as I desire to see him again, I do not know whether I should not rather dread the meeting, as for many years I preserve his remembrance in fear."

"Fear!" asked the queen, with wondering eyes; "does the hero, my husband, know the possibility of fear?"

"The heart of iron trembles before the Eternal Judge, even when he speaks through the fearless tongue of a human being," answered the king, with anxiety depicted on his countenance. "Cremato's last words might convince thee, my guileless wife! He pleaded with impetuous eloquence for Albo's sentenced family; painted their suffering, that they must die far from the land that bore them, and asked their recall in the name of humanity. I refused.

"'Well!' spoke then the peculiar man, coldly and threateningly to me. 'I desist from further attempts to move the cold heart of the conqueror. Fortune's son no longer recognizes the unfortunate. But, from now on, another shall speak to him in my stead. Albo's fall, and the accompanying circumstances, are no secret, and my brush shall immortalize the unfortunate. His picture, in the pale mask of death--his picture--the herald of bloody tyranny, be my next work, and the recollection that I leave to you, sire. {646} Take it as my legacy; and as often as an injustice or cruelty comes into your soul, or on your lips, so often may this pale face, swaying on black ground, stand before your eyes. May it serve to moderate your vengeance: may it be to presumption a reminder of annihilation: may it sharpen the penitence of your conscience.' He went, but the sting of his words remained with me from that hour. My self-consciousness turned, thousands and thousands of times, back to the terrible picture which he had left to torture me. Many times, as my dreaming thoughts wandered over my battle-fields, arose, from all the bodies only this one giant countenance, ghost-like, before me. Often, when overcome by the weariness of business, I rested upon a chair, I have seen on the wall the promised picture--like to the old countenances of Christ, which swung on a black ground without neck or robe-- frightfully and threateningly coming nearer, as a phantasmagoric image."

"Stop!" cried the queen, in terror, for, in addition to the shock which the reference to Albo had given her, the countenance of her husband had, while he had been speaking, become like that of a ghost, and his voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. "The dreadful Cremato," continued she, "has he kept his word? How long has the unholy gift been in your hands? and have you destroyed it?"

The king shook his head. "I have never seen the painting," he answered. "Cremato has not kept his word; but I feel--I know certainly--that the picture is ended; that it exists, and that, if it came into my hands, the strength to destroy it would fail me; but look upon it I could not, for my fancy has already created it to break my heart. Countless sentences has it mitigated, countless misfortunes arrested; for, whenever I have taken the pen or opened the mouth to decide over the life, happiness, or honor of any subject, I saw him--I saw Cremato's dreadful work opposite me."

The king stopped suddenly, took a few thoughtful steps through the room, and went out; but the overpowering feeling which the disclosure of the long-kept secret had aroused in him, prevented the monarch's enjoying his rest. He left his couch, opened the window, and looked out into the still, cool summer night. The trees of the grove whispered, while here and there a drop, condensed from the moist air, fell sounding from leaf to leaf, and from the distance came an indistinct harmony, disturbing the song of the nightingale. As the listener's ear became accustomed to the rustling of the forest, the distant sounds became more distinct and figured themselves into a song that the king recognized, while it recalled a sweet tide of youthful recollections. The past, lying far back behind the confusion of endless wars, behind the tumultuous years of ambition and seeking for glory, worked its nameless magic on his soul. He saw himself again a boy on the rocks of the Mediterranean sea; he heard again as then--with never-ending satisfaction, the melodious song of the fishermen as they rowed out in the golden gleaming of the morning red, on in the rosy shimmer of evening when returning into secure harbors and the peace of their homes.

O sanctissima,
O piissima
Dulcis Virgo Maria!
Mater amata,
Intemerata,
Ora pro nobis!

{647}

But now it was no longer the strong tenor voices of the south, but two sweet female voices, so low and melodious, that rest and peace came back to him, and turning to his couch, he murmured softly:

"Holy, blessed fatherland. The rolling fates have taken me from thy lap to fasten me in a strange land, with a strange crown, but with blessings I think of thee; and blessed, thrice blessed, may'st thou be, O my loved fatherland, my sweet home!"

......

"That is not Cremato," spoke the king, as the count, according to the command, presented the modest painter, a slender, handsome youth, scarcely arrived at manhood.

"I am called Guido, sire!" answered he fearlessly.

"Guido was always a fortunate name for one of your art," replied the king, as he dismissed the count. "I have heard good of you. Have you brought with you the picture of which the count has spoken?"

"No, sire," said the painter; "a liberal connoisseur had bought it and taken it away, before the command of your majesty reached me."

"What a misfortune!" said the king condescendingly. "I am a patron of art, and desire to employ your brush."

"I am sorry," replied Guido, "that I have no specimen of my poor talent to show to your majesty. But I have brought with me a work which I hope will obtain your favor, sire. I was on my way to your court, and have Cremato's masterpiece to give to your majesty."

The king became pale at these words. He looked at the painter piercingly, but as he received the glance without restraint, questioned him further.

"Cremato! His last work? You, sir; perhaps his son?"

"His student, gracious sire! his student who buried him a few months ago at Naples, and promised the dying man to bring the picture to your majesty."

"Cremato dead!" sighed the king. "In him died a true artist, a peculiar but noble man. I have never inquired further concerning him. He was to me only a human being whom I could protect," added he slowly. "The last sign of his independence! You have brought it with you?"

"Yes, your majesty," replied Guido. "It stands in the anteroom. I hasten to bring it."

"Yet a word," began the king disturbedly to the artist. "The subject of the picture?"

"For me a secret," answered Guido. "The master worked on it with closed door--embellished it with his own hands, and locked it in the box. It stood long so, ready for departure. Cremato would entrust it only to me, and said to me, on his dying-bed, that only your majesty knew what that picture designated."

The king's countenance cleared, and he allowed that Guido should bring the box, in which the picture was locked, into the room. With a kind of grim horror, he refused to have it opened.

"Some other time," he said abruptly, "I will see if you are the student of your teacher. Did Cremato leave relatives to whom I can return the price of this masterpiece?"

"A mother and two daughters," replied Guido. "It is true, they are not pressed by want, but from a painter's inheritance is seldom left a surplus. Yet, do not pay for this gift in gold. Weighty grounds compel them to remain in a foreign land, and they wished to find a refuge in the kingdom that your majesty's wisdom makes happy."

{648}

"To take care of Cremato's daughters shall be my work, but perhaps his student has found his way to the heart of one of them?"

Guido bowed blushingly and denied.

"I am already bound," said he, "but to take to them the hope of your majesty's grace will be my first duty. They will soon thank you in person." The king bowed and said:

"Let yourself be presented to the queen and look at the drawings of my two young daughters. Cremato's pupil has certainly inherited quickness in art from him. His spirit is in your eyes. You please me."

He dismissed the joyful painter and turned toward the secret picture. "It seems to me," he said to himself, "as if Albo's eyes looked through the wood in order to wound me. Angry friend! On thy death-bed, hast thou after so many years kept thy pledge and made the shade of the murdered one at home in my court? When will I obtain the strength to look at thy earnest work? To look at it! Never! I think I should die from the glance. I will never see it. I know it already too well. Away with it!"

With his own hands he set the box away behind the heavy silken curtain that fell down in long folds before a window. Then he threw himself into an arm-chair and asked himself, "How is it possible that one single deed performed in unjust revenge must perpetually swing its whip over my wounded heart? The fields which my battles have enriched with blood, the scaffolds which have been erected in the course of time--these disappear when my eyes look into the past; but Albo's grave lies ever open before them."

......

It had become late in the evening. Government cares occupied the king. He had worked with his counsellors. The reception room was deserted; but the tapers still burned in the rooms of the queen. The Princess Sophia, overcome by weariness, had gone to her room. The more beautiful sister kept her mother company. She endured impatiently the reading of the governess. An indescribable unrest spoke in every movement of the beautiful maid. Her eyes rambled from the ceiling to the walls, then looked fixedly down at the floor. The light work with which she employed herself did not increase in her hands, and dropped, finally, entirely from them. With growing unrest she changed her place a few times and started when the clock struck the departure of another hour.

The queen, a careful, loving mother, delayed not to notice this unusual behavior, and herself becoming anxious, took advantage of the first suitable pause which came in the reading, and released the lady from further duty for the evening. Mother and daughter remained alone.

"Please do me the favor to play something on the harp," said the mother to Eliza. "The instrument that I once played so readily will not do duty under my neglectful fingers. Quick young fingers succeed better in bringing feeling out of its strings. Play, my child; I need the enlivening."

Eliza obeyed. Her tender fingers glided over the strings in prelude. But the affectionate performer could not long hold the measured run of the selected piece. The restless, trembling spirit betrayed itself in the rising and falling tones. Andante became presto, and presently broke out into a striking dissonance.

"Forgive me, mother," cried the princess, springing up. "I cannot play any longer. My heart will break that I have since morning kept something secret, and secrecy must not be between you and me."

{649}

"It shall not," replied the mother, calmly, "because thy own feelings lead thee to confide."

The princess came closer to the mother, and related that in the morning, in her sister's room, almost under the eyes of Aja, while the strange painter was looking over Sophia's crayon sketches, a paper was dropped into her hands, on which she, with astonishment, read the words, 'Most gracious princess! Doubtless your heart is what your lovely features speak, noble, tender, gracious, and charitable. Oh! will you plead for the unfortunates who are hidden by Hergereita in the forest, and wait for a gleam of hope? Hear their prayer. Interest your elevated mother in this work of love. Protect the most humble from the anger of your father.' These strange, entreating words," continued the princess, "took possession of my heart. The painter must have placed the paper in my hands. My searching glance read in his the answer, 'Yes.' I should, perhaps, have scorned the boldness; but his entreating glance disarmed me. I could not shame him before my sister and the instructress. I concealed the paper, and this afternoon my devoted maid has spoken to Hergereita, and found an old, troubled-looking woman and two beautiful young girls, and, at my command, requested them to be in my room at eleven o'clock to hear how I can be useful to them. I should have liked to hear what the grieving ones wanted before speaking to you of them, dearest mother, but my unrest has betrayed me, and so, if you allow, I will bring the petitioners immediately before you."

"Thou hast done rightly, my daughter," said the queen, kissing Eliza's brow. "Thy trust excuses the censurable indiscretion of taking a paper from a stranger's hand. We will together find out what the circumstances of the strangers are, and deal with the young artist according to the truthfulness of his representation."

"The maid of her royal highness waits in the ante-room," said a maid to the queen.

Eliza blushed.

"The pointer stands on the eleventh hour," whispered she. "The petitioners are certainly already in attendance, and, if you will allow it, I will command that they be conducted here."

The queen consented. The princess gave the necessary command, and in a short time a lady, dressed in mourning, entered the room. She seemed astonished at finding herself in the presence of the queen; but this circumstance failed to deprive her of the security of carriage which immediately betrayed her acquaintance with life of the highest stand, although her dress belonged to a time long past. Her noble, expressive countenance betrayed her great age, but the firm, erect gait almost denied the white hairs which spread out thinly under the black veil. With the usual bow, the matron approached the queen, kissed, before she could prevent it, the hem of her robe, then arose, and spoke with a voice filled with emotion:

"Your majesty sees before you a woman who has had the misfortune to become gray under sorrow, and older than her years would speak. Unjust fate has finally overcome my pride, and now when I have lost all except two hearts which love me, I pray only for the favor to be allowed to die within the borders of this kingdom. The making of a new throne could not so rejoice your illustrious husband as a grave in this land would rejoice me."

{650}

"Madame," replied the queen, astonished and overcome by the weary sadness in the suppliant's voice, "before you speak further, who are you Your name?"

At this moment the tapestry door opened, through which the king was accustomed to enter, and the monarch appeared suddenly before the women. The queen and Eliza were silent in terror. The stranger looked him fearlessly in the eyes. His wrathful look fell only on her. With a curious mixture of hardness, astonishment, and anger, he finally broke out into the words:

"Whom do I see here? What is passing here? How did you come into this room, Frau von Albo?"

"Albo!" cried the queen, and threw herself upon the arm of her trembling daughter.

"You have not forgotten me, sire!" answered the lady, earnestly and firmly. "For many years I have been unaccustomed to this name, and just here where it is proscribed I hear it again. Your presence, sire, decides my fate, which I would have intrusted to friendly hands. Unjustly banished from your state, I know only too well that I stand before you now as a criminal. I have stepped over the ban, and death is my fate. Dispose of this gray head as you will, only protect my grand-daughters, my king! Their mother has departed. They do not bear the hated name of Albo. Let them live in the home of their mother, to plant flowers on mine and their uncle's grave."

For a long time the king made no reply, but his expression was dark and menacing.

"I am no tyrant who thirsts for your blood," said he finally, "but guilty you are. I must know how all this has come about."

Eliza threw herself at her father's feet, and related to him what had happened.

"Guido!" replied the king, and pulled the bell, "this presumptuous stranger shall answer to me on the spot."

The servant, who had come, was ordered to bring the painter immediately into the royal presence. The lady appeared to hear nothing of all that was passing. Her eyes raised toward heaven and her lips moving as if in prayer, she stood there as if separated from her surroundings and belonging to another world. The queen spoke conciliatingly to her husband, but his features remained hard and dark.

"Must pictures of a miserable past swing for ever before me?" murmured he. "Must death resign the booty long due him in order to torment me? And what could have induced you, Frau von Albo, now that you are on the verge of the grave, and have lived so long away, to put yourself into such a position?"

"Age makes me a child again," replied the baroness quietly. "I was miserable in the strange land; I must, even at the price of my life, see once again the spot which bore me. It remains my fatherland, in whose bosom my bones would gladly rest near those of my son."

"O sanctissima!" sang the two angel voices through the forest, and the tones came through the open window, and the king thought again of his fatherland, and sighed deeply.

At that moment the painter Guido entered, quickly and boldly. "Your command, your majesty," said he. The baroness interrupted him with the words, "I have lost my play, most gracious prince, and I commend to you the orphans whom I must leave."

"That will God and the brave king's magnanimity not allow," replied the betrayed, and went reverently to the royal pair. {651} "I am Prince Julius," said he. "I wished to convince myself, without being recognized, whether the soul of the beautiful princess, whose hand I wish to gain, were like her rare charms. My hope has not deceived me, and my confidence in your majesty's grace will surely be justified to the favor of the two innocent suppliants whom I recommend to your mercy."

The queen bowed pleasantly to the prince. Eliza, overcome by delighted surprise, clung bashfully to her mother. The king reached his hand to the prince and spoke with light reproach.

...

"The young hero, who is so welcome to my court, had no need of dissimulation in order to call out my justice. His word alone" ....

"Sire!" The prince interrupted him, "I flattered myself that the circumstances themselves would speak to the heart of the wisest of kings more than any word of the undistinguished man who would consider himself happy if the ruler whom he so admires would allow him to become his student and belong to his family."

The ambition of the king was so flattered by these words from a descendant of an old royal family that he, with joyful pride, led the exultant Julius to Eliza, with the words, "My prince, your bride." Turning toward the baroness, he spoke, "You have placed yourself under the protection of the queen. I will not have seen you, but a woman who conspires against me I will not endure in my kingdom. Go back. An amount sufficient to meet your expenses shall show that I do not allow private vengence to work against you--I cannot do more."