Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 6, April, 1858 by Various
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Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 6, April, 1858
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IV.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration,
Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in;
But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden,
Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever,
Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,--
Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless, unfruitful blossom.
Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine,
Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaus
Rose, sympathetic in grief, to his lovelorn Laodamia,
Evermore growing, and, when in their growth to the prospect attaining,
Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,
Withering still at the sight which still they upgrew to encounter.
Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces,
Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions,
Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not,
Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow,
Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall
return to,
Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination!
Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
V.--MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER,--_from Florence_.
Dearest Miss Roper,--Alas, we are all at Florence quite safe, and
You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing!
We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the
troubles.
Now you are really besieged! They tell us it soon will be over;
Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city.
Do you see Mr. Claude?--I thought he might do something for you.
I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful.
What is he doing? I wonder;--still studying Vatican marbles?
Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
VI.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?
Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage, or steamer,
And, _pour passer le temps_, till the tedious journey be ended,
Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one;
And, _pour passer le temps_, with the terminus all but in
prospect,
Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.
Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion!
Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only!
Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion,
Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our
knowledge!
But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance,
Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage-procession?
But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service?
But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract?
But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?--
Ah, but the bride, meantime,--do you think she sees it as he does?
But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,
Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action?
But for assurance within of a limitless ocean divine, o'er
Whose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surface
Breaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,--
But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it,
Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here?
Ah, but the women,--God bless them!--they don't think at all about it.
Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beings
Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,
Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding,
Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not,
Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,--
Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided.
Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.
Ah, but the women, alas, they don't look at it in that way!
Juxtaposition is great;--but, my friend, I fear me, the maiden
Hardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her,
Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up
with,--
Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told her
That she is but for a space, an _ad-interim_ solace and
pleasure,--
That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,
Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,--
Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not.
Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving and so exacting,
Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you?
Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,
Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and--leave you?
VII.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
Juxtaposition is great,--but, you tell me, affinity greater.
Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,
Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favor of juxtaposition,
Potent, efficient, in force,--for a time; but none, let me tell you,
Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,
None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.
Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,
_Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,--
Vir sum, nihil faeminei_,--and e'en to the uttermost circle,
All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are Nature's.
Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,
That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:
I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;
I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,
Here on the stones of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,
Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;
Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint, but a faithful assurance,
E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the
forest,
Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greet me,
And, to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and
perversions,
Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,
Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.
VIII.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;
Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful;
And I proceed on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.
Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;
As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,
As is a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,
Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate only
This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,
Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.
IX.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
_Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:_
So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase a
Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honor.
But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of drumming and
shouting,
Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,
And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings
Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o'er
_Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters._
Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,
No, you should not have used it. But, O great Heavens, I repel it!
Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly
Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonor,
Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signature! Ah, no!
I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.
No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,
This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.
No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;
Bind and engage myself deep;--and lo, on the following morning
It was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.
Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performance
At the first step breaking down in its pitiful role of evasion,
When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,
Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,--
Stood unexpecting, unconscious. _She_ spoke not of obligations,
Knew not of debt,--ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.
X.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
Hang this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!
Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man's chamber,
Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber
pursuing.
What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of Men? Have compassion!
Be favorable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge!
Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the field, my brothers,
Tranquilly, happily lie,--and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!
XI.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio
Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;
Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,
With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,
Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:--
So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,
Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,
Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me.[A]
Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,
Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!
Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair under Monte Gennaro,
(Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wonder and gaze, of the shadows,
Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,)
Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,
Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:--
So not seeing I sung; so now,--nor seeing, nor hearing,
Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,
Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,
Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,
But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the
Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,
Which, by the grace of the Tiber, proclaim themselves Rome of the
Romans,--
But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapory mountains,
Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,--
But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by me,
Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.
[Footnote A:
----domus Albuneae resonantis,
Et praeceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis.]
XII.--MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER.
Dear Miss Roper,--It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, said
Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.
Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.
It is _so_ disagreeable, and so annoying, to think of!
If it could only be known, though we never may meet him again, that
It was all George's doing and we were entirely unconscious,
It would extremely relieve--Your ever affectionate Mary.
P.S. (1).
Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.
So you have seen him,--indeed,--and guessed,--how dreadfully clever!
What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?
Charming!--but wait for a moment, I have not read through the letter.
P.S. (2).
Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.
If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.
Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.
It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled for.
Do as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.
Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.
Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,
That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it.
P.S. (3).
I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday.
Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manage
Not to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.
It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactly
As if it had not occurred; and I do not think he would like it.
I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is over
We shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan,
There to meet friends of Papa's, I am told, at the Croce di Malta;
Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England.
XIII.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.
Yes, on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city,--
So it appears; though then I was quite uncertain about it.
So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding.
I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to Florence.
Only the day before, the foolish family Vernon
Made some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging together,
As to intentions, forsooth, and so forth. I was astounded,
Horrified quite; and obtaining just then, as it chanced, an offer
(No common favor) of seeing the great Ludovisi collection,
Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must excuse me.
How could I go? Great Heaven! to conduct a permitted flirtation
Under those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers!
Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic inquiries,
Find from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman,
Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for removal,
That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown,--not, I think, by Georgina:
She, however, ere this,--and that is the best of the story,--
She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and gone--honey-mooning.
So--on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city.
Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had dreamt of;
Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio's waters, nor deep en-
Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace;
Tibur I shall not see;--but something better I shall see.
Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the horses;
Twice I have tried and failed: this time it shall not be a failure.
* * * * *
Therefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envineyarded ruins!
Therefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, and domes!
Therefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic Albano,
Seen from Montorio's height, Tibur and Aesula's hills!
Ah, could we once, ere we go, could we stand, while, to ocean
descending,
Sinks o'er the yellow dark plain slowly the yellow broad sun,
Stand, from the forest emerging at sunset, at once in the champaign,
Open, but studded with trees, chestnuts umbrageous and old,
E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy beautiful hollow,
Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the hill!--
Therefore farewell, ye plains, and ye hills, and the City Eternal!
Therefore farewell! We depart, but to behold you again!
[To be continued.]
THE CATACOMBS OF ROME.
[Continued.]
Vix fama nota est, abditis
Quam plena sancti Roma sit;
Quam dives urbanum solum
Sacris sepulchris floreat.
PRUDENTIUS.
Mille victoriose chiare palme.
PETRARCH.
II.
The results of the investigations in the catacombs during the last three
or four years have well rewarded the zeal of their explorers. Since the
great work of the French government was published, in 1851-55, very
curious and important discoveries have been made, and many new minor
facts brought to light. The interest in the investigations has become
more general, and no visit to Rome is now complete without a visit to
one at least of the catacombs. Strangely enough, however, the Romans
themselves, for the most part, feel less concern in these new
revelations of their underground city than the strangers who come from
year to year to make their pilgrimages to Rome. It is an old complaint,
that the Romans care little for their city. "Who are there to-day," says
Petrarch, in one of his letters, "more ignorant of Roman things than the
Roman citizens? And nowhere is Rome less known than in Rome itself." It
is, however, to the Cavaliere de Rossi, himself a Roman, that the most
important of these discoveries are due,--the result of his marvellous
learning and sagacity, and of his hard-working and unwearied energy. The
discovery of the ancient entrance to the Catacombs of St. Callixtus,
and of the chapel within, where St. Cecilia was originally buried, is
a piece of the very romance of Archaeology. The whole history of St.
Cecilia, the glorious Virgin Martyr and the Saint of Music, as connected
with the catacombs, is, indeed, one of the most curious to be found in
the annals of the Church. Legend and fact are strangely mingled in it,
and over it hangs a perplexing mist of doubt, but not so dense as wholly
to conceal all certainty. It is a story of suffering, of piety, of
enthusiasm, of superstition, and of science;--it connects itself in many
points with the progress of corruption in the Church, and it has been
a favorite subject for Art in all ages. The story is at last finished.
Begun sixteen hundred years ago, it has just reached its last chapter.
In order to understand it, we must go back almost to its introduction.
According to the legend of the Roman Church, as preserved in the "Acts
of St. Cecilia," this young and beautiful saint was martyred in the year
of our Lord 230.[A] She had devoted herself to perpetual virginity,
but her parents had insisted upon marrying her to a youthful and noble
Roman, named Valerian. On the night of her marriage, she succeeded in
so far prevailing upon her husband as to induce him to visit the pope,
Urban, who was lying concealed from his persecutors in the catacombs
which were called after and still bear the name of his predecessor,
Callixtus,[B] on the Appian Way, about two miles from the present walls
of the city. The young man was converted to the Christian faith. The
next day witnessed the conversion of his brother, Tiburtius. Their lives
soon gave evidence of the change in their religion; they were brought
before the prefect, and, refusing to sacrifice to the heathen gods, were
condemned to death. Maximus, an officer of the prefect, was converted
by the young men on the way to execution. They suffered death with
constancy, and Maximus soon underwent the same fate. Nor was Cecilia
long spared. The prefect ordered that she should be put to death in her
own house, by being stifled in the _caldarium_, or hot-air chamber of
her baths. The order was obeyed, and Cecilia entered the place of death;
but a heavenly air and cooling dews filled the chamber, and the fire
built up around it produced no effect. For a whole day and night the
flames were kept up, but the Saint was unharmed. Then Almachius sent an
order that she should be beheaded. The executioner struck her neck three
times with his sword, and left her bleeding, but not dead, upon the
pavement of the bathroom. For three days she lived, attended by faithful
friends, whose hearts were cheered by her courageous constancy; "for she
did not cease to comfort those whom she had nurtured in the faith of the
Lord, and divided among them everything which she had." To Pope Urban,
who visited her as she lay dying, she left in charge the poor whom she
had cared for, and her house, that it might be consecrated as a church.
With this her life ended.[C] Her wasted body was reverently lifted, its
position undisturbed, and laid in the attitude and clothing of life
within a coffin of cypress-wood. The linen cloths with which the blood
of the Martyr had been soaked up were placed at her feet, with that care
that no precious drop should be lost,--a care, of which many evidences
are afforded in the catacombs. In the night, the coffin was carried out
of the city secretly to the Cemetery of Callixtus, and there deposited
by Urban in a grave near to a chamber destined for the graves of the
popes themselves. Here the "Acts of St. Cecilia" close, and, leaving her
pure body to repose for centuries in its tomb hollowed out of the rock,
we trace the history of the catacombs during those centuries in other
sources and by other ways.
[Footnote A: _The Acts of St. Cecilia_ are generally regarded by the
best Roman Catholic authorities as apochryphal. They bear internal
evidence of their want of correctness, and, in the condition in which
they have come down to us, the date of their compilation cannot be set
before the beginning of the fifth century. At the very outset two facts
stand in open opposition to their statements. The martyrdom of St.
Cecilia is placed in the reign of Alexander Severus, whose mildness
of disposition and whose liberality towards the Christians are well
authenticated. Again, the prefect who condemns her to death, Turchius
Almachius, bears a name unknown to the profane historians of Rome. Many
statements of not less difficulty to reconcile with fact occur in the
course of the _Acts_. But, although their authority in particulars be
thus destroyed, we see no reason for questioning the reality of the
chief events upon which they are founded. The date of the martyrdom of
St. Cecilia may be wrong, the reports of her conversations may be as
fictitious as the speeches ascribed by grave historians to their heroes,
the stories of her miracles may have only that small basis of reality
which is to be found in the effects of superstition and excited
imagination,--but the essential truth of the martyrdom of a young,
beautiful, and rich Roman girl, of her suffering and her serene faith,
and of the veneration and honor in which her memory was held by those
who had known her, may be accepted without reserve. At least, it is
certain, that as early as the beginning of the fourth century the name
of St. Cecilia was reverenced in Rome, and that from that time she has
been one of the chief saints of the Roman calendar.]
[Footnote B: The Catacombs of St. Callixtus are among the most important
of the underground cemeteries. They were begun before the time of
Callixtus, but were greatly enlarged under his pontificate [A.D.
219-223]. Saint though he be, the character of Callixtus, if we may
judge by the testimony of another saint, Hippolytus, stood greatly in
need of purification. His story is an amusing illustration of the state
of the Roman episcopacy in those times. He had been a slave of a rich
Christian, Carpophorus. His master set him up as a money-dealer in the
Piscina Publica, a much frequented quarter of the city. The Christian
brethren (and widows also are mentioned by Hippolytus) placed their
moneys in his hands for safe-keeping, his credit as the slave of
Carpophorus being good. He appropriated these deposits, ran away to sea,
was pursued, threw himself into the water, was rescued, brought back to
Rome, and condemned to hard labor. Carpophorus bailed him out of the
workhouse,--but he was a bad fellow, got into a riot in a Jewish
synagogue, and was sent to work in the Sardinian mines. By cheating he
got a ticket of leave and returned to Rome. After some years, he was
placed in charge of the cemetery by the bishop or pope, Zephyrinus, and
at his death, some time later, by skilful intrigues he succeeded in
obtaining the bishopric itself. The cemetery is now called that of
_Saint_ Callixtus,--and in the saint the swindler is forgotten.]
[Footnote C: The passage in the _Acts of St. Cecilia_ which led to her
being esteemed the patroness of music is perhaps the following, which
occurs in the description of the wedding ceremonies: "Cantantibus
organis, Caecilia in corde suo soli Domino decantabat, dicens: 'Fiat cor
meum et corpus meum immaculatum, ut non confundar.'"]
The consequences of the conversion of Constantine exhibited themselves
not more in the internal character and spirit of the Church than in
its outward forms and arrangements. The period of worldly prosperity
succeeded speedily to a period of severest suffering, and many who
had been exposed to the persecution of Diocletian now rejoiced in the
imperial favor shown to their religion. Such contrasts in life are
not favorable to the growth of the finer spiritual qualities; and the
sunshine of state and court is not that which is needed for quickening
faith or developing simplicity and purity of heart. Churches above
ground could now be frequented without risk, and were the means by which
the wealth and the piety of Christians were to be displayed. The newly
imperialized religion must have its imperial temples, and the little
dark chapels of the catacombs were exchanged for the vast and ornamental
spaces of the new basilicas. It was no longer needful that the dead
should be laid in the secret paths of the rock, and the luxury of
magnificent Christian tombs began to rival that of the sepulchres of
the earlier Romans. The body of St. Peter, which had long, according
to popular tradition, rested in the catacombs of the Vatican, was now
transferred to the great basilica which Constantine, despoiling for the
purpose the tomb of Hadrian of its marbles, erected over the entrance to
the underground cemetery. So, too, the Basilica of St. Paul, on the way
to Ostia, was built over his old grave; and the Catacombs of St. Agnes
were marked by a beautiful church in honor of the Saint, built in part
beneath the soil, that its pavement might be on a level with the upper
story of the catacombs and the faithful might enter them from the
church.
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