No More Learning

The family proceeded to church in procession, Mr. Ferrar and
Inglesant walking first. The church was kept in great order;
the altar being placed upon a raised platform at the east end,
and covered with tapestry stretching over the floor all round it,
and adorned with plate and tapers. Mr. Ferrar bowed with great


## p. 13368 (#174) ##########################################

13368
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
reverence several times on approaching the altar, and directed
Inglesant to sit in a stalled seat opposite the reading-pew, from
which he said the evening prayer. The men of the family knelt
on the raised step before the altar, the ladies and servants sitting
in the body of the church. The church was very sweet, being
decked with flowers and herbs, and the soft autumn light rested
over it. From the seat where Inglesant knelt, he could see the
faces of the girls as they bent over their books at prayers. They
were all in black, except one, who wore a friar's gray gown; this
was the one who was called the Patient, as Inglesant had been
told in the house, and the singularity of her dress attracted his
eye towards her during the prayers. The whole scene, strange
and romantic as it appeared to him, the devout and serious
manner of the worshipers, very different from much that was
common in churches at that day, and the abstracted and devout
look upon the faces of the girls,-struck his fancy, so liable
to such influences and so long trained to welcome them; and he
could not keep his eyes from this one face, from which the gray
hood was partly thrown back. It was a passive face, with well-
cut delicate features and large and quiet eyes.
Prayers being over, the ladies saluted Inglesant from a dis-
tance, and left the church with the rest, in the same order as
they had come, leaving Mr. Ferrar and Johnny alone. They re-
mained some time discoursing on worship and church ceremonies,
and then returned to the house. It was now late, and Mr. Ferrar,
who was evidently much pleased with his guest, invited him to
stay the night, and even extended his hospitality by asking him
to stay over the next, which was Saturday, and the Sunday; upon
which, as it was the first Sunday in the month, the holy sacra-
ment would be administered, and several of Mr. Ferrar's friends
from Cambridge would come over and partake of it, and to pass
the night and day in prayer and acts of devotion. To this propo-
sition Inglesant gladly consented; the whole proceeding appearing
to him full of interest and attraction. Soon after they returned
to the house, supper was served, all the family sitting down to-
gether at a long table in the hall. During supper some portion
of Fox's Book of the Martyrs' was read aloud. Afterwards two
hours were permitted for diversion, during which all were allowed
to do as they pleased.
The young ladies, having found out that Inglesant was a
queen's page, were very curious to hear of the court and royal
16


## p. 13369 (#175) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13369
family from him; which innocent request Mr. Ferrar encouraged,
and joined in himself. One reason of the success with which his
mother and he had ruled this household appears to have been his
skill in interesting and attracting all its inmates by the variety
and pleasant character of their occupations. He was also much.
interested himself in what Johnny told him,- for in this se-
cluded family, themselves accustomed to prudence, Inglesant felt
he might safely speak of many things upon which he was gen-
erally silent: and after prayers, when the family were retired to
their several rooms, Mr. Ferrar remained with him some time,
while Johnny related to him the aspect of religious parties at
the moment; and particularly all that he could tell, without vio-
lating confidence, of the papists and of his friend the Jesuit.
The next morning they rose at four; though two of the fam-
ily had been at prayer all night, and did not go to rest till the
others rose. They went into the oratory in the house itself to
prayers, for they kept six times of prayer during the day. At
six they said the psalms of the hour,- for every hour had its
appropriate psalms, and at half past six went to church for
matins. When they returned at seven o'clock, they said the
psalm of the hour, sang a short hymn, and went to breakfast.
After breakfast, when the younger members of the family were
at their studies, Mr. Ferrar took Inglesant to the school where
all the children in the neighborhood were permitted to come.
At eleven they went to dinner; and after dinner there was no
settled occupation till one, every one being allowed to amuse
himself as he chose. The young ladies had been trained not
only to superintend the house, but to wait on any sick persons
in the neighborhood who came to the house at certain times for
assistance, and to dress the wounds of those who were hurt, in
order to give them readiness and skill in this employment, and
to habituate them to the virtues of humility and tenderness of
heart. A large room was set apart for this purpose, where Mr.
Ferrar had instructed them in the necessary skill; having been
himself Physic Fellow at Clare Hall in Cambridge, and under
the celebrated professors at Padua, in Italy. This room Inglesant
requested to see, thinking that he should in this way also see
something of and be able to speak to the young ladies, whose
acquaintance he had hitherto not had much opportunity of culti-
vating. Mr. Ferrar told his nephew to show it him-young
Nicholas Ferrar, a young man of extraordinary skill in languages,


## p. 13370 (#176) ##########################################

13370
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
who was afterwards introduced to the King and Prince Charles,
some time before his early death.
When they entered the room, Inglesant was delighted to find
that the only member of the family there was the young lady
in the gray friar's habit, whose face had attracted him so much
in church. She was listening to the long tiresome tale of an old
woman; following the example of George Herbert, who thought
on a similar occasion, that "it was some relief to a poor body to
be heard with patience. " Johnny, who in spite of his Jesuit-
ical and court training was naturally modest, and whose sense
of religion made him perfectly well-bred, accosted the young lady
very seriously, and expressed his gratitude at having been per-
mitted to stay and see so many excellent and improving things.
as that family had to show. The liking which the head of the
house had evidently taken for Inglesant disposed the younger
members in his favor, and the young lady answered him simply
and unaffectedly, but with manifest pleasure.
Inglesant inquired concerning the assumed names of the sis-
ters, and how they sustained their respective qualities, and what
exercises suited to these qualities they had to perform. She
replied that they had exercises, or discourses, which they per-
formed at the great festivals of the year, Christmas and Easter;
and which were composed with reference to their several quali-
ties. All of these, except her own, were enlivened by hymns
and odes composed by Mr. Ferrar, and set to music by the music-
master of the family, who accompanied the voices with the viol
or the lute. But her own, she said, had never any music or
poetry connected with it: it was always of a very serious turn,
and much longer than any other, and had not any historical
anecdote or fable interwoven with it; the contrivance being to
exercise that virtue to which she was devoted. Inglesant asked
her with pity if this was not very hard treatment; and she only
replied, with a smile, that she had the enjoyment of all the lively
performances of the others.
He asked her whether they looked forward to passing all their
lives in this manner, or whether they allowed the possibility of
any change; and if she had entirely lost her own name in her
assumed one, or whether he might presume to ask it, that he
might have wherewithal to remember her by, as he surely should
as long as he had life. She said her name was Mary Collet;
and that as to his former question, two of her sisters had had, at


## p. 13371 (#177) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13371
one time, a great desire to become veiled virgins,-to take
upon them a vow of perpetual chastity, with the solemnity of at
bishop's blessing and ratification, but on going to Bishop Will-
iams he had discouraged and at last dissuaded them from it.
Inglesant and the young lady remained talking in this way.
for some time, young Nicholas Ferrar having left them; but
at last she excused herself from staying any longer, and he was
obliged to let her go. He ventured to say that he hoped they
would remember him; that he was utterly ignorant of the future
that lay before him, but that whatever fate awaited him, he
should never forget the "Nuns of Gidding" and their religious
life. She replied that they would certainly remember him, as
they did all their acquaintances, in their daily prayer; especially
as she had seldom seen her uncle so pleased with a stranger as
he had been with him. With these compliments they parted, and
Inglesant returned to the drawing-room, where more visitors had
arrived.
In the afternoon there came from Cambridge Mr. Crashaw
the poet, of Peterhouse,- who afterwards went over to the pap-
ists, and died canon of Loretto,—and several gentlemen, under-
graduates of Cambridge, to spend the Sunday at Gidding, being
the first Sunday of the month. Mr. Crashaw, when Inglesant was
introduced to him as one of the queen's pages, finding that he
was acquainted with many Roman Catholics, was very friendly,
and conversed with him apart. He said he conceived a great
admiration for the devout lives of the Catholic saints, and of the
government and discipline of the Catholic Church; and that he
feared that the English Church had not sufficient authority to
resist the spread of Presbyterianism, in which case he saw no
safety except in returning to the communion of Rome. Walking
up and down the garden paths, after evening prayers in church,
he spoke a great deal on this subject, and on the beauty of a
retired religious life; saying that here at Little Gidding and at
Little St. Marie's Church, near to Peterhouse, he had passed the
most blissful moments of his life, watching at midnight in prayer
and meditation.
That night Mr. Crashaw, Inglesant, and one or two others,
remained in the church from nine till twelve, during which time.
they said over the whole Book of Psalms in the way of antiph-
ony, one repeating one verse and the rest the other. The time
of their watch being ended they returned to the house, went to


## p. 13372 (#178) ##########################################

13372
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
Mr. Ferrar's door and bade him good-morrow, leaving a lighted.
candle for him. They then went to bed; but Mr. Ferrar arose,
according to the passage of Scripture "At midnight I will arise
and give thanks," and went into the church, where he betook
himself to religious meditation.
Early on the Sunday morning the family were astir and said
prayers in the oratory. After breakfast many people from the
country around, and more than a hundred children, came in.
These children were called the Psalm children, and were regu-
larly trained to repeat the Psalter, and the best voices among
them to assist in the service on Sundays. They came in every
Sunday, and according to the proficiency of each were presented
with a small piece of money, and the whole number entertained
with a dinner after church. The church was crowded at the
morning service before the sacrament. The service was beau-
tifully sung, the whole family taking the greatest delight in
church music, and many of the gentlemen from Cambridge being
amateurs. The sacrament was administered with the greatest
devotion and solemnity. Impressed as he had been with the
occupation of the preceding day and night, and his mind excited
with watching and want of sleep and with the exquisite strains.
of the music, the effect upon Inglesant's imaginative nature was
excessive.
Above the altar, which was profusely bedecked with flowers,
the antique glass of the east window, which had been carefully
repaired, contained a figure of the Savior, of an early and se-
vere type. The form was gracious and yet commanding, having
a brilliant halo round the head, and being clothed in a long
and apparently seamless coat; the two forefingers of the right
hand were held up to bless. Kneeling upon the half-pace, as
he received the sacred bread and tasted the holy wine, this gra-
cious figure entered into Inglesant's soul; and stillness and peace
unspeakable, and life, and light, and sweetness, filled his mind.
He was lost in a sense of rapture; and earth and all that sur-
rounded him faded away. When he returned a little to himself,
kneeling in his seat in the church, he thought that at no period
of his life, however extended, should he ever forget that morn-
ing, or lose the sense and feeling of that touching scene, of
that gracious figure over the altar, of the bowed and kneeling
figures, of the misty autumn sunlight and the sweeping autumn
wind. Heaven itself seemed to have opened to him, and one


## p. 13373 (#179) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13373
fairer than the fairest of the angelic hosts to have come down
to earth.
After the service, the family and all the visitors returned to
the mansion house in the order in which they had come, and the
Psalm children were entertained with a dinner in the great hall;
all the family and visitors came in to see them served, and Mrs.
Collet, as her mother had always done, placed the first dish on
the table herself to give an example of humility. Grace having
been said, the bell rang for the dinner of the family, who, together
with the visitors, repaired to the great dining-room, and stood in
order round the table. While the dinner was being served, they
sang a hymn accompanied by the organ at the upper end of the
room. Then grace was said by the priest who had celebrated
the communion, and they sat down. All the servants who had
received the sacrament that day sat at table with the rest. Dur-
ing dinner, one of the young people whose turn it was read a
chapter from the Bible; and when that was finished, conversa-
tion was allowed,- Mr. Ferrar and some of the other gentlemen
endeavoring to make it of a character suitable to the day, and
to the service they had just taken part in. After dinner they
went to church again for evening prayer; between which service
and supper, Inglesant had some talk with Mr. Ferrar concerning
the papists, and Mr. Crashaw's opinion of them.
"I ought to be a fit person to advise you," said Mr. Ferrar
with a melancholy smile, "for I am myself, as it were, crushed
between the upper and nether millstone of contrary reports; for
I suffer equal obloquy- and no martyrdom is worse than that of
continual obloquy - both for being a papist and a Puritan. You
will suppose there must be some strong reason why I, who value
so many things among the papists so much, have not joined them
myself. I should probably have escaped much violent invective
if I had done so. You are very young, and are placed where
you can see and judge of both parties. You possess sufficient
insight to try the spirits, whether they be of God. Be not hasty
to decide; and before you decide to join the Romish communion,
make a tour abroad, and if you can, go to Rome itself. When I
was in Italy and Spain, I made all the inquiries and researches
I could. I bought many scarce and valuable books in the lan-
guages of those countries, in collecting which I had a principal
eye to those which treated on the subjects of spiritual life, devo-
tion, and religious retirement; but the result of all was that I
am now, and I shall die,- as I believe and hope shortly,- in


## p. 13374 (#180) ##########################################

13374
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
the communion of the English Church. This day, as I believe,
the blessed sacrament has been in the church before our eyes;
and what can you or I desire more? "
The next morning before Inglesant left, Mr. Ferrar showed
him his foreign collections, his great treasure of rarities and of
prints of the best masters of that time, mostly relative to his-
torical passages of the Old and New Testaments. Inglesant
dined with the family, of whom he took leave with a full heart;
saluting the ladies with the pleasant familiarity which the man-
ners of the time permitted. Mr. Ferrar went with him to the
borders of the parish, and gave him his blessing. They never
saw each other again, for two months afterwards Nicholas Ferrar
was in his grave.
THE VISIT TO THE ASTROLOGER
From John Inglesant'
A
FTER two or three days, Eustace [Inglesant] told his brother
one morning that he was ready to go into the West; but
before starting, he said he wished Johnny to accompany
him to a famous astrologer in Lambeth Marsh, to whom already
he had shown the horoscope, and who had appointed a meeting
that night to give his answer, and who had also promised to con-
sult a crystal as an additional means of obtaining information of
the future.
Accordingly, late in the afternoon, they took a wherry at the
Temple Stairs, and were ferried over to Lambeth Marsh, a wide
extent of level ground between Southwark and the Bishop's
Palace, on which only a few straggling houses had been built.
The evening was dark and foggy, and a cold wind swept across
the marsh, making them wrap their short cloaks closely about
them. It was almost impossible to see more than a yard or two
before them; and they would probably have found great difficulty
in finding the wizard's house, had not a boy with a lantern met
them a few paces from the river, who inquired if they were
seeking the astrologer. This was the wizard's own boy, whom,
with considerable worldly prudence at any rate, he had dis-
patched to find his clients and bring them to the house. The
boy brought them into a long low room, with very little furni-
ture in it, a small table at the upper end, with a large chair


## p. 13375 (#181) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13375
behind it, and three or four high-backed chairs placed along the
wall. On the floor, in the middle of the room, was a large double
circle; but there were no figures or signs of any kind about it.
On the table was a long thin rod. A lamp which hung from the
roof over the table cast a faint light about the room, and a bra-
zier of lighted coals stood in the chimney.
The astrologer soon entered the room, with the horoscope.
Eustace had left with him in his hand. He was a fine-looking
man, with a serious and lofty expression of face, dressed in a
black gown, with the square cap of a divine, and a fur hood or
tippet. He bowed courteously to the gentlemen, who saluted him
with great respect. His manner was coldest to John Inglesant,
whom he probably regarded with suspicion as an amateur. He
however acknowledged that Inglesant's criticisms on the horo-
scope were correct; but pointed out to him that in his own read-
ing of it many of the aspects were very adverse. John Inglesant
knew this, though he had chosen to conceal it from his brother.
The astrologer then informed them that he had drawn out a
scheme of the heavens himself at the moment when first con-
sulted by Eustace; and that, in quite different ways and by very
different aspects, much the same result had been arrived at. "As,
however," he went on to say, "the whole question is to some
extent vitiated by the suspicion of foul play, and it will be
impossible for any of us to free our minds entirely from these
suspicions, I do not advise any farther inquiry; but I propose
that you should consult a consecrated beryl or crystal, a mode of
inquiry far more high and certain than astrology,-so much so,
indeed, that I will seriously confess to you that I use the latter
but as the countenance and blind; but this search in the crystal
is by the help of the blessed spirits, and is open only to the
pure from sin, and to men of piety, humility, and charity. "
As he said these words, he produced from the folds of his
gown a large crystal or polished stone, set in a circle of gold,
supported by a silver stand. Round the circle were engraved
the names of angels. He placed this upon the table, and con-
tinued:
-:
"We must pray to God that he will vouchsafe us some
insight into this precious stone: for it is a solemn and serious
matter upon which we are, second only to that of communication
with the angelical creatures themselves; which indeed is vouch-
safed to some, but only to those of the greatest piety, to which


## p. 13376 (#182) ##########################################

13376
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
we may not aspire. Therefore let us kneel down and humbly
pray to God. "
They all knelt; and the adept, commencing with the Prayer
Book collect for the festival of St. Michael, recited several other
prayers, all for extreme and spotless purity of life.
He then rose, the two others continuing on their knees, and
struck a small bell, upon which the boy whom they had before
seen entered the room by a concealed door in the wainscot. He
was a pretty boy, with a fair and clean skin, and was dressed
in a surplice similar to those worn by choristers.
He took up a
position by the crystal, and waited his master's orders.
"I have said," continued the adept, "that these visions can
be seen only by the pure, and by those who, by long and intense
looking into the spiritual world, have at last penetrated somewhat
into its gloom. I have found these mostly to be plain and sim-
ple people, of an earnest faith,-country people, grave-diggers,
and those employed to shroud the dead, and who are accustomed
to think much upon objects connected with death. This boy is
the child of the sexton of Lambeth Church, who is himself a
godly man. Let us pray to God. "
Upon this he knelt down again and remained for some time
engaged in silent prayer. He then rose and directed the boy to
look into the crystal, saying, "One of these gentlemen desires
news of his wife. "
The boy looked intently into the crystal for some moments,
and then said, speaking in a measured and low voice:-
-
"I see a great room, in which there is a bed with rich hang-
ings; pendent from the ceiling is a silver lamp. A tall dark
man, with long hair, and a dagger in his belt, is bending over
the bed with a cup in his hand. "
"It is my wife's room," said Eustace in a whisper, "and it is
no doubt the Italian: he is tall and dark. ”
The boy continued to look for some time into the crystal, but
said nothing; then he turned to his master and said, "I can see
nothing; some one more near to this gentleman must look; this
other gentleman," he said suddenly, and turning to John Ingle-
sant, "if he looks, will be able to see. "
The astrologer started. "Ah! " he said, "why do you say
that, boy? "
"I can tell who will see aught in the crystal, and who will
not," replied the boy: "this gentleman will see. "


## p. 13377 (#183) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13377
The astrologer seemed surprised and skeptical, but he made a
sign to Inglesant to rise from his knees, and to take his place by
the crystal.
He did so, and looked steadily into it for some seconds; then
he shook his head.
"I can see nothing," he said.
«
Nothing! " said the boy: "can you see nothing? "
I see clouds and mist. "
«No.
"You have been engaged," said the boy, "in something that
was not good-something that was not true; and it has dimmed.
the crystal sight. Look steadily, and if it is as I think, that your
motive was not false, you will see more. "
Inglesant looked again; and in a moment or two gave a start,
saying, "The mist is breaking! I see;-I see a large room, with
a chimney of carved stone, and a high window at the end; in the
window and on the carved stone is the same coat many times
repeated, three running greyhounds proper, on a field vert. "
"I know the room," said Eustace: "it is the inn parlor at
Mintern, not six miles from Oulton. It was the manor of the
Vinings before the wars, but is now an inn; that was their coat. "
"Do you see aught else? " said the adept.
Inglesant gave a long look; then he stepped back, and gazed
at the astrologer, and from him to his brother, with a faltering
and ashy look.
"I see a man's figure lie before the hearth, and the hearth-
stone is stained, as if with blood. Eustace, it is either you or I! "
"Look again," said the adept eagerly, "look again! "
"I will look no more! " said Inglesant fiercely; "this is the
work of a fiend, to lure men to madness or despair! "
As he spoke, a blast of wind-sudden and strong-swept
through the room; the lamp burned dim; and the fire in the
brazier went out. A deathly coldness filled the apartment, and
the floor and the walls seemed to heave and shake. A loud
whisper, or muffled cry, seemed to fill the air; and a terrible awe
struck at the hearts of the young men. Seizing the rod from
the table, the adept assumed a commanding attitude, and waved
it to and fro in the air; gradually the wind ceased, the dread
coldness abated, and the fire burned again of its own accord.
The adept gazed at Inglesant with a stern and set look.
"You are of a strange spirit, young sir," he said: "pure in
heart enough to see things which many holy men have desired
XXIII-837


## p. 13378 (#184) ##########################################

13378
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
in vain to see; and yet so wild and rebellious as to anger the
blessed spirits with your self-will and perverse thoughts. You
will suffer fatal loss, both here and hereafter, if you learn not to
give up your own will, and your own fancies, before the heavenly
will and call. "
Inglesant stared at the man in silence. His words seemed
to him to mean far more than perhaps he himself knew. They
seemed to come into his mind, softened with anxiety for his
brother, and shaken by these terrible events, with the light of
a revelation. Surely this was the true secret of his wasted life,
however strange might be the place and action which revealed
it to him.
Whatever he might think afterwards of this night,
it might easily stand to him as an allegory of his own spirit, set
down before him in a figure. Doubtless he was perverse and
headstrong under the pressure of the Divine Hand; doubtless
he had followed his own notions rather than the voice of the
inward monitor he professed to hear; henceforth, surely, he would
give himself up more entirely to the heavenly voice.
Eustace appeared to have seen enough of the future, and to
be anxious to go. He left a purse of gold upon the wizard's
table; and hurried his brother to take his leave.
Outside, the air was perfectly still; a thick motionless fog
hung over the marsh and the river; not a breath of wind stirred.
"That was a strange wind that swept by as you refused to
look," said Eustace to his brother: "do you really think the spir-
its were near, and were incensed? »
Inglesant did not reply: he was thinking of another spirit than
that the wizard had evoked.
They made their way through the fog to Lambeth, and took
boat again to the Temple Stairs.
JOHN INGLESANT MAKES A JOURNEY, AND MEETS HIS
BROTHER'S MURDERER
From John Inglesant ›
I'
WAS long before sunrise that Inglesant set out, accompanied
by his train, hoping to cross the mountains before the heat
began. His company consisted of several men-at-arms, with
their grooms and horse-boys, and the Austrian page. They
ascended the mountains in the earlier part of the night, and


## p. 13379 (#185) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13379
towards dawn they reached a flat plain. The night had been
too dark to allow them to see the steep and narrow defiles, full
of oaks and beech; and as they passed over the dreary plain in
the white mist, their figures seemed vast and indistinct in the
dim light: but now, as the streaks of the dawn grew brighter in
the east behind them, they could see the fir-trees clothing the
distant slopes, and here and there one of the higher summits
still covered with white snow. The scene was cold and dead
and dreary as the grave. A heavy mist hung over the mountain
plain, and an icy lake lay black and cold beneath the morning
sky. As they reached the crest of the hill the mist rose, stirred
by a little breeze at sunrise, and the gorges of the descent lay
clear before them. The sun arose behind them, gilding the
mountain-tops, and tracing streaks and shades of color on the
rising mist sparkling with glittering dewdrops; while dark and
solemn beneath them lay the pine-clothed ravines and sloping
valleys, with here and there a rocky peak; and farther down still
the woods and hills gave place at last to the plain of the Tiber,
at present dark and indistinguishable in the night.
As the sun arose behind them, one by one the pine ravines
became lighted, and the snowy summits, soft and pink with radi-
ant light, stood out against the sky, which became every instant
of a deeper blue. The sunlight, stealing down the defiles and
calling forth into distinct shape and vision tree and rock and
flashing stream, spread itself over the oak woods in the valleys,
and shone at last upon the plain, embossed and radiant with
wood and green meadow, and marble towers and glistering water
- the waters of the Tiber running onward towards Rome. Mys-
terious forms and waves of light, the creatures of the morning
and of the mist, floated before the sight, and from the dark fir-
trees murmurs and mutterings of ethereal life fell upon the ear.
Sudden and passionate flushes of color tinted the pine woods and
were gone; and beneath the branches and across the paths, fairy
lights played for a moment and passed away.
The party halted more than once, but it was necessary to
make the long descent before the heat began, and they com-
menced carefully to pick their way down the stony mountain
road, which wound down the ravines in wild unequal paths. The
track, now precipitous, now almost level, took them round corners
and masses of rock sometimes hanging above their heads, reveal-
ing continually new reaches of valleys and new defiles clothed


## p. 13380 (#186) ##########################################

13380
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
with fir and oak.
Mountain flowers and trailing ivy and creep-
ing plants hung in festoons on every side, lizards ran across the
path, birds fluttered above them or darted into the dark recesses
where the mountain brooks were heard; everything sang the
morning psalm of life, with which, from field and mountain soli-
tudes, the free children of nature salute the day.
The Austrian boy felt the beauty of the scene, and broke out
into singing.
"When the northern gods," he said to Inglesant, "rode on
their chevisance, they went down into the deep valleys singing
magic songs. Let us into this dark valley, singing magic songs,
also go down: who knows what strange and hidden deity, since
the old pagan times lost and forgotten, we may find among the
dark fir dingles and the laurel shades? "
And he began to sing some love ditty.
Inglesant did not hear him. The beauty of the scene, ethereal
and unreal in its loveliness, following upon the long dark mountain
ride, his sleepless nights and strange familiarity with approaching
death by the couch of the old duke, confused his senses, and a
presentiment of impending fate filled his mind. The recollec-
tion of his brother rose again in his remembrance, distinct and
present as in life; and more than once he fancied that he heard
his voice, as the cry of some mountain beast or sound of moan-
ing trees, came up the pass. No other foreshadowing than this
very imperfect one warned him of the approaching crisis of his
life.
The sun was fully up, and the light already brilliant and
intense, when they approached a projecting point where the slope
of wood ended in a tower of rock jutting upon the road. The
path by which they approached it was narrow and ragged; but
beyond the rock the ground spread itself out, and the path was
carried inward towards the right, having the sloping hillside on
the one hand covered with scattered oaks, while on the other
a slip of ground separated it from the ravine. At the turning.
of the road, where the opening valley lay before them as they
reached the corner, face to face with Inglesant as he checked
his horse was the Italian, the inquisitive stranger of the theatre
at Florence, the intruder into the Conclave, the masque of the
Carnival ball, the assassin of the Corso,- that Malvolti who had
treacherously murdered his brother and sought his own life.
Alone and weary, his clothes worn and threadbare, he came


## p. 13381 (#187) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13381
toiling up the pass. Inglesant reined in his horse suddenly, a
strange and fierce light in his eyes and face. The Italian started
back like some wild creature of the forest brought suddenly to
bay, a terrified cry broke from him, and he looked wildly round
as if intending flight. The nature of the ground caught him as
in a trap: on the one hand the sloping hillside, steep and open,
on the other tangled rugged ground, slightly rising between the
road and the precipice, cut off all hope of sudden flight. He
looked wildly round for a moment; then, when the horsemen
came round the rocky wall and halted behind their leader, his
eyes came back to Inglesant's face, and he marked the smile
upon his lips and in his eyes, and saw his hand steal downward
to the hunting-piece he carried at the saddle; then with a terri-
ble cry he threw himself on his knees before the horse's head,
and begged for pity,-pity and life.
Inglesant took his hand from his weapon, and turning slightly
to the page and to the others behind him, he said:-
"This man, messeri, is a murderer and a villain, steeped in
every crime; a cruel secret midnight cut-throat and assassin; a
lurker in secret corners to murder the innocent.
He took my
brother, a noble gentleman whom I was proud to follow, treach-
erously at an advantage, and slew him. I see him now before
me lying in his blood. He tried to take my life,-I, who scarcely
even knew him,-in the streets of Rome. Now he begs for
mercy. What say you, gentlemen? what is his due? "
"Shoot the dog through the head. Hang him on the nearest
tree. Carry him into Rome and torture him to death. "
-
The Italian still continued on his knees, his hands clasped
before him, his face working with terror and agony that could
not be disguised.
"Mercy, monsignore," he cried. "Mercy! I cannot, I dare
not, I am not fit to die. For the blessed Host, monsignore, have
mercy- for the love of Jesu- for the sake of Jesu. "
―――
As he said these last words Inglesant's attitude altered, and
the cruel light faded out of his eyes. His hand ceased to finger
the carabine at his saddle; and he sat still upon his horse, look-
ing down upon the abject wretch before him, while a man might
count fifty. The Italian saw, or thought he saw, that his judge.
was inclining to mercy, and he renewed his appeals for pity.
"For the love of the crucifix, monsignore; for the Blessed
Virgin's sake. "


## p. 13382 (#188) ##########################################

13382
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
But Inglesant did not seem to hear him. He turned to the
horsemen behind him, and said:-
"Take him up, one of you, on the crupper. Search him first
for arms. Another keep his eye on him; and if he moves or
attempts to escape, shoot him dead. You had better come qui-
etly," he continued: "it is your only chance for life. "
Two of the men-at-arms dismounted and searched the pris-
oner, but found no arms upon him. He seemed indeed to be
in the greatest distress from hunger and want, and his clothes
were ragged and thin. He was mounted behind one of the sol-
diers and closely watched; but he made no attempt to escape,
and indeed appeared to have no strength or energy for such an
effort.
They went on down the pass for about an Italian league. The
country became more thickly wooded; and here and there on the
hillsides, patches of corn appeared, and once or twice in a shel-
tered spot a few vines. At length, on the broad shoulder of the
hill round which the path wound, they saw before them a few
cottages; and above them on the hillside, in a position that com-
manded the distant pass till it opened on the plain, was a chapel,
the bell of which had just ceased ringing for mass.
Inglesant turned his horse's head up the narrow stony path;
and when the gate was reached, he dismounted and entered the
chapel, followed by his train. The cappella had apparently been
built of the remains of some temple or old Roman house; for
many of the stones of the front were carved in bold relief. It
was a small narrow building, and possessed no furniture save
the altar and a rude pulpit built of stones; but behind the altar,
painted on the plaster of the wall, was the rood or crucifix, the
size of life. Who the artist had been, cannot now be told: it
might have been the pupil of some great master, who had caught
something of the master's skill; or perhaps, in the old time, some
artist had come up the pass from Borgo San Sepolcro, and had
painted it for the love of his art and of the Blessed Virgin; but
whoever had done it, it was well done, and it gave a sanctity
to the little chapel, and possessed an influence, of which the
villagers were not unconscious, and of which they were even
proud.
The mass had commenced some short time as the train
entered, and such few women and peasants as were present
turned in surprise.


## p. 13383 (#189) ##########################################

JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
13383
Inglesant knelt upon the steps before the altar, and the men-
at-arms upon the floor of the chapel; the two who guarded the
prisoner keeping close behind their leader.
The priest, who was an old and simple-looking countryman,
continued his office without stopping, but when he had received
the sacred elements himself, he turned, and, influenced probably
by his appearance and by his position at the altar, he offered
Inglesant the sacrament. He took it; and the priest, turning
again to the altar, finished the mass.
Then Inglesant rose; and when the priest turned again he was
standing before the altar, with his drawn sword held lengthwise
across his hands.
"My father," he said, "I am the Cavaliere di San Giorgio;
and as I came across the mountains this morning on my way
to Rome, I met my mortal foe, the murderer of my brother,-
a wretch whose life is forfeit by every law either of earth or
heaven, a guilty monster steeped in every crime. Him, as soon
as I had met him,- sent by this lonely and untrodden way as it
seems to me by the Lord's hand,— I thought to crush at once,
as I would a venomous beast, though he is worse than any beast.
But, my father, he has appealed from me to the adorable name
of Jesus, and I cannot touch him. But he will not escape. I
give him over to the Lord. I give up my sword into the Lord's
hands, that He may work my vengeance upon him as it seems
to Him good. Henceforth he is safe from earthly retribution,
but the Divine Powers are just. Take this sword, reverend
father, and let it lie upon the altar beneath the Christ himself;
and I will make an offering for daily masses for my brother's
soul. "
-
The priest took the sword; and kneeling before the altar,
placed it thereon like a man acting in a dream.
He was one of those childlike peasant-priests to whom the
great world was unknown; and to whom his mountain solitudes
were peopled as much by the saints and angels of his breviary,
as by the peasants who shared with him the solitudes and the
legends that gave to these mountain fastnesses a mysterious
awe. To such a man as this it seemed nothing strange that the
blessed St. George himself, in jeweled armor, should stand before
the altar in the mystic morning light, his shining sword in his
hand.
He turned again to Inglesant, who had knelt down once more.


## p. 13384 (#190) ##########################################

13384
JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE
"It is well done, monsignore," he said, "as all that thou doest
doubtless is most well. The sword shall remain here as thou
sayest, and the Lord doubtless will work his blessed will. But
I entreat, monsignore, thy intercession for me, a poor sinful
man; and when thou returnest to thy place, and seest again the
Lord Jesus, that thou wilt remind him of his unworthy priest.
Amen. "
Inglesant scarcely heard what he said, and certainly did not
understand it. His sense was confused by what had happened,
and by the sudden overmastering impulse upon which he had
acted. He moved as in a dream; nothing seemed to come
strange to him, nothing startled him, and he took slight heed of
what passed. He placed his embroidered purse, heavy with gold,
in the priest's hand, and in his excitement totally forgot to name
his brother, for whose repose masses were to be said.
He signed to his men to release the prisoner; and, his trum-
pets sounding to horse before the chapel gate, he mounted and.
rode on down the pass.
But his visit was not forgotten: and long afterward — per-
haps even to the present day-popular tradition took the story
up, and related that once, when the priest of the mountain chapel
was a very holy man, the blessed St. George himself, in shining
armor, came across the mountains one morning very early, and
himself partook of the sacrament, and all his train; and appealed
triumphantly to the magic sword, set with gold and precious.
stones, that lay upon the altar from that morning,- by virtue
of which no harm can befall the village, no storm strike it, and
above all, no pillage of armed men or any violence can occur.


## p. 13384 (#191) ##########################################



## p. 13384 (#192) ##########################################


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## p. 13384 (#193) ##########################################

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## p. 13384 (#194) ##########################################

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## p. 13385 (#195) ##########################################

13385
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
(1554-1586)
BY PITTS Duffield
HEN I was a boy nine years old," says Aubrey the antiquary,
"I was with my father at one Mr. Singleton's, an alderman
and woollen draper, in Gloucester, who had in his parlour
over the chimney the whole description of Sir Philip Sidney's funer-
all, engraved and printed on papers pasted together, which at length
was, I believe, the length of the room at least. But he had contrived
it to be twined upon two pinnes, that turning one of them made the
figures march all in order. It did make such a strong impression
on my young tender phantasy that I remember it as if it were but
yesterday. " The pageantry of Sir Philip Sidney's life and death is
still potent to impress the tender fancy, young or old; it cannot be
forgotten by anybody who to-day would meddle with the estimate
put upon him by his contemporaries. That he was the embodied ideal
of all the Elizabethan world held noble in life and art, there is an
almost inconceivable amount of tribute to testify. All England and
most of Europe went into mourning at his death; and while he lived,
the name of Astrophel was one that poets conjured with. Bruno
the philosopher, Languet the Huguenot, enshrined him in their affec-
tions; and Sir Fulke Greville the thinker, in the never-to-be-forgotten
epitaph, was proud to remember that besides having been servant to
Queen Elizabeth and counselor to King James, he had been also Sir
Philip Sidney's friend.
The extraordinary charm of this celebrated personality is hardly
to be accounted for completely by the flavor of high romance about
him, or by attributing to him what nowadays has been called per-
sonal magnetism. Something of temperamental magic there must
have been, to be sure; but even in his short life there was something
also of distinct purpose and achievement. When in his thirty-second
year-for he was born November 29th, 1554, and died October 5th,
1586- he received his death wound at the siege of Zutphen, he
had already gained the reputation of more than ordinary promise
in statesmanship, and had made himself an authority in questions of
letters. The results of modern scholarship seem to show, on the
whole, that his renown was more richly deserved than subsequent
opinion has always been willing to admit.


## p. 13386 (#196) ##########################################

13386
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
In the first place, Sidney's devotion to art was steadfast and
sincere. Throughout his travels on the Continent, whether in the
midst of the terrors of St. Bartholomew in Paris, or of the degener-
ative Italy, which for its manifold temptations old Roger Ascham
declared a Circe's court of vice,- he held a high-spirited philosophy
which kept him alike from evil and from bigotry. Dante and Pe-
trarch more than any fleshly following were his companions in Italy.
On the grand tour or in his foreign missions, as his writings always
show, he was ever the true observer. In the splendors of Eliza-
beth's court-such as, for instance, the Kenilworth progress, which
his uncle the Earl of Leicester devised for the gratification of the
Queen's Majesty - he had always an eye for the romantic aspects of
things, and a thought for the significance of them. The beautiful
face in the Warwick Castle portrait-lofty with the truth of a soul
that derives itself from Plato- cannot have been the visage of a
nature careless of its intellectual powers or its fame; but of one most
serious, as his friend Fulke Greville testifies, and strenuous in his
public duty. The celebrated romance of 'Arcadia'—which he wrote
for his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke, in retirement at Pens-
hurst, his birthplace, after his courageous letter of remonstrance to
the Queen concerning the French match—is entirely the outcome of
a mind that did its own thinking, and made even its idle thoughts
suggestive in the study of the literature.
At first sight the Countess of Pembroke's 'Arcadia' may seem,
indeed, but the "vain amatorious poem" which Milton condemned
Charles I. for using upon the scaffold. Sidney himself might have
called it a poem: for "it is not rhyming and versing," he says, "that
maketh a poet; but it is that feigning notable images of virtues,
vices, or what else, with that delightful teaching, which must be the
right describing note to know a poet by:" and he did call it, in his
dedication, "an idle work," "a trifle and trifling handled. " But it
is to be noted that what Charles used of it was a prayer put origi-
nally in the mouth of Pamela, and that Dr. Johnson declared his use
of it was innocent. Pamela also, in spite of the trifling diversions of
Philip and his sister the Countess, has a way of pretty often growing
eloquent on serious matters. "You say yesterday was as to-day,"
she exclaims. "O foolish woman, and most miserably foolish since
wit makes you foolish, what does that argue but that there is a
constancy in the everlasting governor? " And Pamela's exposition of
her faith, in Book iii. , is more theology than many a trifler would
care to read or write to-day. Altogether this elaborate compound of
Spanish, Italian, and Greek pastoral, and romantic incident, has its
fair share of the moral element which the English nature inevitably
craves.
-
T


## p. 13387 (#197) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13387
Another element in it, less peculiar to the Saxon race, but always
characteristic of Sidney, is its strong instinctive art. In form, of
course, though Sidney had a leaning toward the unities,-it is
purely romantic. Its art is to be found in the most distinctive char-
acteristic of the Elizabethans,- the art of putting together canorous
words and phrases. When Sidney retired to Penshurst in 1580, the
whole world was reading John Lyly's 'Euphues'; in which the love of
elaborate language found vent in complicated systems of alliteration,
antitheses, and similes borrowed from an artificial natural history.
Sidney, though like Shakespeare after him he did not entirely escape
this craze,
was not slow to transmute the rather mechanical sys-
tem of Lyly into something more really musical. His style shows
traces also of the foreign models he set himself; but in the end, like
the matter he borrowed, it resolves itself into something individual,
in its persistent aim in saying what it has to say simply (according
to his lights) and beautifully. More specifically, its verse contains
also many experiments in the classic metres, which Harvey, Spenser,
and other literary men of the day hoped to introduce into English;
but Sidney, whatever were his failures, never held anything but the
loftiest estimate of the real poet or worker in words. His eloquent
defense of "poesie," written soon after the Arcadia, and before Eng-
land had produced more than a very few of the works for which her
literature is now famous, is a marvel of prophetic sympathy. In
spite of his sometimes academic judgments, the very fact of his crit-
icism shows that he had an interest in the then unfashionable and
sordid theatre; and more than any of the criticising pamphleteers of
his time, he had an ear for the poetry of the common people. "Cer-
tainly," he says, in the famous passage in the 'Defense of Poesie,'
"I must confess mine own barbarousness: I never heard the old song
of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than
with a trumpet; and yet it is sung but by some blind crowder, with
no rougher voice than rude style,- which being so evilly appareled
in the dust and cobwebs of that uncivil age, what would it work
trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar? »
It is with this notion of Sidney as a literary man of wide sym-
pathy and high thoughts, if of a somewhat too bookish Muse, that we
can most easily apprehend his last and perhaps greatest work,-the
series of sonnets and poems called 'Astrophel and Stella. ' Literary
gossip and scholarship are still busy with the question whether the
Stella of the Sonnets, Penelope Devereux, was already Lady Rich,
and so a married woman, when Astrophel made his poetical love to
her. The important thing to-day is that there was a Stella at all.
Lady Rich, married against her will to an unworthy spouse, remains
true to him, in the Sonnets at least; and Sidney in the end, having
-


## p. 13388 (#198) ##########################################

13388
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
pledged his hand to Frances Walsingham, the daughter of his friend
Sir Francis Walsingham, transcends his earthly love in a love of
eternal and spiritual things. "The argument cruel Chastity," says
Thomas Nash, his first editor; "the prologue Hope, the epilogue
Despair. " "My theory of the love which it portrays," says Mr.
Symonds, one of his recent biographers, "is that this was latent
up to the time of her betrothal, and that the consciousness of the
irrevocable at that moment made it break into the kind of regretful
passion which is peculiarly suited for poetic treatment. " Certainly it
was not the mere amatorious element in the poems which made the
name of Astrophel dear to men like Jonson, Crashaw, Wither, and
stately Sir Thomas Browne; nor is it the artificial element that need
concern the reader in these days. Without either of these, there is
plenty of lettered charm, searching thought into the relations of the
body and the soul, high and beautiful speculation on the conditions
of earthly life, expressed everywhere in the spirit of one who, as
Wotton says, was "the very essence of congruity. "
Pets Duffinca
THE ARRIVAL IN ARCADIA
M
USIDORUS (who, besides he was merely unacquainted in the
country, had his wits astonished with sorrow) gave easy
consent to that, from which he saw no reason to disagree,
and therefore (defraying the mariners with a ring bestowed upon
them) they took their journey together through Laconia: Claius
and Strephon by course carrying his chest for him, Musidorus.
only bearing in his countenance evident marks of a sorrowful
mind supported with a weak body; which they perceiving, and
knowing that the violence of sorrow is not at the first to be
striven withal (being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with fol-
lowing than overthrown by withstanding), they gave way unto it
for that day and the next,- never troubling him either with
asking questions or finding fault with his melancholy, but rather
fitting to his dolor, dolorous discourses of their own and other
folks' misfortunes. Which speeches, though they had not a lively
entrance to his senses shut up in sorrow, yet like one half asleep
he took hold of much of the matters spoken unto him, so as a
man may say, e'er sorrow was aware, they made his thoughts
}


## p. 13389 (#199) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13389
bear away something else beside his own sorrow: which wrought
so in him that at length he grew content to mark their speeches;
then to marvel at such wit in shepherds; after to like their
company; and lastly to vouchsafe conference: so that the third
day after, in the time that the morning did strew roses and vio-
lets in the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the
nightingales (striving one with the other which could in most.
dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put
off their sleep; and rising from under a tree (which that night
had been their pavilion) they went on their journey, which by-
and-by welcomed Musidorus's eyes (wearied with the wasted soil
of Laconia) with delightful prospects. There were hills which
garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys,
whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver
rivers; meadows enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers;
thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were wit-
nessed so too by the cheerful disposition of so many well-tuned
birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober secur-
ity, while the pretty lambs with bleating oratory craved the
dam's comfort: here a shepherd's boy piping as though he should
never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal
singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to
work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. As for the
houses of the country (for many houses came under their eye),
they were all scattered, no two being one by the other, as yet
not so far off as that it barred mutual succor: a show as it
were of an accompanable solitariness and of a civil wildness. I
pray you (said Musidorus, then first unsealing his long-silent lips),
what countries be these we pass through which are so diverse in
show, the one wanting no store, the other having no store but
of want?
-
The country (answered Claius) where you were cast ashore,
and now are past through, is Laconia, not so poor by the bar-
renness of the soil (though in itself not passing fertile) as by
a civil war, which being these two years within the bowels of
that estate, between the gentlemen and the peasants (by them
named Helots), hath in this sort as it were disfigured the face of
nature, and made it so unhospitable as now you have found it:
the towns neither of the one side nor the other willingly opening
their gates to strangers, nor strangers willingly entering for fear
of being mistaken.


## p. 13390 (#200) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13390
But the country where now you set your foot is Arcadia;
and even hard by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead
you. This country being thus decked with peace, and (the child
of peace) good husbandry, these houses you see so scattered are
of men, as we two are, that live upon the commodity of their
sheep; and therefore in the division of the Arcadian estate are
termed shepherds: a happy people, wanting little because they
desire not much. What cause then, said Musidorus, made you
venture to leave this sweet life, and put yourself in yonder un-
pleasant and dangerous realm? Guarded with poverty (answered
Strephon) and guided with love. But now (said Claius), since it
hath pleased you to ask anything of us, whose baseness is such
as the very knowledge is darkness, give us leave to know some-
thing of you, and of the young man you so much lament; that
at least we may be the better instructed to inform Kalander, and
he the better know how to proportion his entertainment. Musi-
dorus (according to the agreement between Pyrocles and him
to alter their names) answered, that he called himself Palladius,
and his friend Daiphantus: but till I have him again (said he)
I am indeed nothing, and therefore my story is of nothing; his
entertainment (since so good a man he is) cannot be so low as I
account my estate: and in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may
be to help me by some means to seek my friend.
They perceived he was not willing to open himself farther,
and therefore, without farther questioning, brought him to the
house; about which they might see (with fit consideration both
of the air, the prospect, and the nature of the ground) all such
necessary additions to a great house as might well show Kalander
knew that provision is the foundation of hospitality, and thrift
the fuel of magnificence. The house itself was built of fair and
strong stone, not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of
fineness, as an honorable representing of a firm stateliness. The
lights, doors, and stairs rather directed to the use of the guest
than to the eye of the artificer; and yet as the one chiefly heeded,
so the other not neglected: each place handsome without curiosity,
and homely without loathsomeness; not so dainty as not to be
trod on, nor yet slubbered up with good-fellowship: all more
lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceed-
ing lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful.
The servants not so many in number, as cleanly in apparel and
serviceable in behavior; testifying even in their countenances, that


## p. 13391 (#201) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13391
their master took as well care to be served as of them that did
serve. One of them was forthwith ready to welcome the shep-
herds as men who, though they were poor, their master greatly
favored; and understanding by them that the young man with
them was to be much accounted of,- for that they had seen
tokens of more than common greatness, howsoever now eclipsed
with fortune,— he ran to his master, who came presently forth,
and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but especially applying
him to Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all what he knew
of him, and particularly that he found this stranger was loth to
be known.
No, said Kalander (speaking aloud), I am no herald to inquire
of men's pedigrees: it sufficeth me if I know their virtues; which
(if this young man's face be not a false witness) do better
apparel his mind than you have done his body. While he was
thus speaking, there came a boy, in show like a merchant's
'prentice, who, taking Strephon by the sleeve, delivered him a
letter, written jointly both to him and to Claius from Urania;
which they no sooner had read, but that with short leave-taking
of Kalander (who quickly guessed and smiled at the matter), and
once again (though hastily) recommending the young man unto
him, they went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to part with
them, for the good conversation he had had of them, and obliga-
tion he accounted himself tied in unto them: and therefore, they
delivering his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have
presented them with two very rich jewels, but they absolutely
refused them, telling him that they were more than enough
rewarded in the knowing of him; and without hearkening unto
a reply (like men whose hearts disdained all desires but one) got
speedily away, as if the letter had brought wings to make them
fly.