Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 54, April, 1862 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 54, April, 1862

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The door opened, and a man advancing stealthily behind laid a hand
kindly on his shoulder, saying softly, "So, so, brother!"

Father Antonio looked up, and, dashing his hand hastily across his
eyes, grasped that of the new-comer convulsively, and saying only, "Oh,
Baccio! Baccio!" hid his face again.

The eyes of the other filled with tears, as he answered gently,--

"Nay, but, my brother, you are killing yourself. They tell me that you
have eaten nothing for three days, and slept not for weeks; you will die
of this grief."

"Would that I might! Why could not I die with him as well as Fra
Domenico? Oh, my master! my dear master!"

"It is indeed a most heavy day to us all," said Baccio della Porta,
the amiable and pure-minded artist better known to our times by his
conventual name of Fra Bartolommeo. "Never have we had among us such a
man; and if there be any light of grace in my soul, his preaching first
awakened it, brother. I only wait to see him enter Paradise, and then
I take farewell of the world forever. I am going to Prato to take the
Dominican habit, and follow him as near as I may."

"It is well, Baccio, it is well," said Father Antonio; "but you must not
put out the light of your genius in those shadows,--you must still paint
for the glory of God."

"I have no heart for painting now," said Baccio, dejectedly. "He was my
inspiration, he taught me the holier way, and he is gone."

At this moment the conference of the two was interrupted by a knocking
at the door, and Agostino Sarelli entered, pale and disordered.

"How is this?" he said, hastily. "What devils' carnival is this which
hath broken loose in Florence? Every good thing is gone into dens and
holes, and every vile thing that can hiss and spit and sting is crawling
abroad. What do the princes of Europe mean to let such things be?"

"Only the old story," said Father Antonio,--"_Principes convenerunt in
unum adversus Dominum, adversus Christum ejus_."

So much were all three absorbed in the subject of their thoughts, that
no kind of greeting or mark of recognition passed among them, such as is
common when people meet after temporary separation. Each spoke out from
the fulness of his soul, as from an overflowing bitter fountain.

"Was there no one to speak for him,--no one to stand up for the pride of
Italy,--the man of his age?" said Agostino.

"There was one voice raised for him in the council," said Father
Antonio. "There was Agnolo Niccolini: a grave man is this Agnolo, and of
great experience in public affairs, and he spoke out his mind boldly. He
told them flatly, that, if they looked through the present time or the
past ages, they would not meet a man of such a high and noble order as
this, and that to lay at our door the blood of a man the like of whom
might not be born for centuries was too impious and execrable a thing to
be thought of. I'll warrant me, he made a rustling among them when he
said that, and the Pope's commissary--old Romalino--then whispered
and frowned; but Agnolo is a stiff old fellow when he once begins a
thing,--he never minded it, and went through with his say. It seems to
me he said that it was not for us to quench a light like this, capable
of giving lustre to the faith even when it had grown dim in other parts
of the world,--and not to the faith alone, but to all the arts and
sciences connected with it. If it were needed to put restraint on him,
he said, why not put him into some fortress, and give him commodious
apartments, with abundance of books, and pen, ink, and paper, where he
would write books to the honor of God and the exaltation of the holy
faith? He told them that this might be a good to the world, whereas
consigning him to death without use of any kind would bring on our
republic perpetual dishonor."

"Well said for him!" said Baccio, with warmth; "but I'll warrant me, he
might as well have preached to the north wind in March, his enemies are
in such a fury."

"Yes, yes," said Antonio, "it is just as it was of old: the chief
priests and Scribes and Pharisees were instant with loud voices,
requiring he should be put to death; and the easy Pilates, for fear of
the tumult, washed their hands of it."

"And now," said Agostino, "they are putting up a great gibbet in the
shape of a cross in the public square, where they will hang the three
holiest and best men of Florence!"

"I came through there this morning," said Baccio, "and there were young
men and boys shouting, and howling, and singing indecent songs, and
putting up indecent pictures, such as those he used to preach against.
It is just as you say. All things vile have crept out of their lair, and
triumph that the man who made them afraid is put down; and every house
is full of the most horrible lies about him,--things that they said he
confessed."

"Confessed!" said Father Antonio,--"was it not enough that they tore
and tortured him seven times, but they must garble and twist the very
words that he said in his agony? The process they have published is
foully falsified,--stuffed full of improbable lies; for I myself have
read the first draught of all he did say, just as Signor Ceccone took it
down as they were torturing him. I had it from Jacopo Manelli, canon of
our Duomo here, and he got it from Ceccone's wife herself. They not only
can torture and slay him, but they torture and slay his memory with
lies."

"Would I were in God's place for one day!" said Agostino, speaking
through his clenched teeth. "May I be forgiven for saying so."

"We are hot and hasty," said Father Antonio, "ever ready to call down
fire from heaven,--but, after all, 'the Lord reigneth, let the earth
rejoice.' 'Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness.' Our
dear father is sustained in spirit and full of love. Even when they
let him go from the torture, he fell on his knees, praying for his
tormentors."

"Good God! this passes me!" said Agostino, striking his hands together.
"Oh, wherefore hath a strong man arms and hands, and a sword, if he
must stand still and see such things done? If I had only my hundred
mountaineers here, I would make one charge for him to-morrow. If I could
only _do_ something!" he added, striding impetuously up and down the
cell and clenching his fists. "What! hath nobody petitioned to stay this
thing?"

"Nobody for him," said Father Antonio. "There was talk in the city
yesterday that Fra Domenico was to be pardoned; in fact, Romalino was
quite inclined to do it, but Battista Albert talked violently against
it, and so Romalino said, 'Well, a monk more or less isn't much matter,'
and then he put his name down for death with the rest. The order was
signed by both commissaries of the Pope, and one was Fra Turiano, the
general of our order, a mild man, full of charity, but unable to stand
against the Pope."

"Mild men are nuisances in such places", said Agostino, hastily; "our
times want something of another sort."

"There be many who have fallen away from him even in our house here,"
said Father Antonio,--"as it was with our blessed Lord, whose disciples
forsook him and fled. It seems to be the only thought with some how they
shall make their peace with the Pope."

"And so the thing will be hurried through to-morrow," said Agostino,
"and when it's done and over, I'll warrant me there will be found kings
and emperors to say they meant to have saved him. It's a vile, evil
world, this of ours; an honorable man longs to see the end of it. But,"
he added, coming up and speaking to Father Antonio, "I have a private
message for you."

"I am gone this moment," said Baccio, rising with ready courtesy; "but
keep up heart, brother."

So saying, the good-hearted artist left the cell, and Agostino said,--

"I bring tidings to you of your kindred. Your niece and sister are here
in Florence, and would see you. You will find them at the house of one
Gherardo Rosselli, a rich citizen of noble blood."

"Why are they there?" said the monk, lost in amazement.

You must know, then, that a most singular discovery hath been made
by your niece at Rome. The sister of her father, being a lady of the
princely blood of Colonna, hath been assured of her birth by the
confession of the priest that married him; and being driven from Rome by
fear of the Borgias, they came hither under my escort, and wait to see
you. So, if you will come with me now, I will guide you to them."

"Even so," said Father Antonio.

CHAPTER XXXI.

MARTYRDOM.

In a shadowy chamber of a room overlooking the grand square of Florence
might be seen, on the next morning, some of the principal personages of
our story. Father Antonio, Baccio della Porta, Agostino Sarelli, the
Princess Paulina, Agnes, with her grandmother, and mixed crowd of
citizens and ecclesiastics who all spoke in hushed and tremulous voices,
as men do in the chamber of mourners at a funeral. The great, mysterious
bell of the Campanile was swinging with dismal, heart-shaking toll, like
a mighty voice from the spirit-world; and it was answered by the
tolling of all the bells in the city, making such wavering clangors and
vibrating circles in the air over Florence that it might seem as if it
were full of warring spirits wrestling for mastery.

Toll! toll! toll! O great bell of the fair Campanile! for this day the
noblest of the wonderful men of Florence is to offered up. Toll! for an
era is going out,--the era of her artists, her statesmen, her poets, and
her scholars. Toll! for an era is coming in,--the era of her disgrace
and subjugation and misfortune!

The stepping of the vast crowd in the square was like the patter of a
great storm, and the hum of voices rose up like the murmur of the ocean;
but in the chamber all was so still that one could have heard the
dropping of a pin.

Under the balcony of this room were seated in pomp and state the Papal
commissioners, radiant in gold and scarlet respectability; and Pilate
and Herod, on terms of the most excellent friendship, were ready to act
over again the part they had acted fourteen hundred years by before. Now
has arrived the moment when the three followers of the Man of Calvary
are to be degraded from the fellowship of His visible Church.

Father Antonio, Agostino, and Baccio stood forth in the balcony, and,
drawing in their breath, looked down, as the three men of the hour, pale
and haggard with imprisonment and torture, were brought up amid the
hoots and obscene jests of the populace. Savonarola first was led before
the tribunal, and there, with circumstantial minuteness, endued with
all his priestly vestments, which again, with separate ceremonies of
reprobation and ignominy, were taken from him. He stood through it all
serene as stood his Master when stripped of His garments on Calvary.
There is a momentary hush of voices and drawing in of breaths in the
great crowd. The Papal legate takes him by the hand and pronounces the
words, "Jerome Savonarola, I separate thee from the Church Militant and
the Church Triumphant."

He is going to speak.

"What says he?" said Agostino, leaning over the balcony.

Solemnly and clear that impressive voice which so often had thrilled the
crowds in that very square made answer,--

"From the Church Militant you _may_ divide me; but from the Church
Triumphant, _no,--that_ is above your power!"--and a light flashed out
in his face as if a smile from Christ had shone down upon him.

"Amen!" said Father Antonio; "he hath witnessed a good confession,"--and
turning, he went in, and, burying his face in his hands, remained in
prayer.

"When like ceremonies had been passed through with the others, the three
martyrs were delivered to the secular executioner, and, amid the scoffs
and jeers of the brutal crowd, turned their faces to the gibbet.

"Brothers, let us sing the Te Deum," said Savonarola.

"Do not so infuriate the mob," said the executioner,--"for harm might be
done."

"At least let us repeat it together," said he, "lest we forget it."

And so they went forward, speaking to each other of the glorious company
of the apostles, the goodly fellowship of the prophets, the noble army
of martyrs, and giving thanks aloud in that great triumphal hymn of the
Church of all Ages.

When the lurid fires were lighted which blazed red and fearful through
that crowded square, all in that silent chamber fell on their knees, and
Father Antonio repeated prayers for departing souls.

To the last, that benignant right hand which had so often pointed the
way of life to that faithless city was stretched out over the crowd
in the attitude of blessing; and so loving, not hating, praying with
exaltation, and rendering blessing for cursing, the souls of the martyrs
ascended to the great cloud of witnesses above.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CONCLUSION.

A few days after the death of Savonarola, Father Antonio was found one
morning engaged in deep converse with Agnes.

The Princess Paulina, acting for her family, desired to give her hand to
the Prince Agostino Sarelli, and the interview related to the religious
scruples which still conflicted with the natural desires of the child.

"Tell me, my little one," said Father Antonio, "frankly and truly, dost
thou not love this man with all thy heart?"

"Yes, my father, I do," said Agnes; "but ought I not to resign this love
for the love of my Saviour?"

"I see not why," said the monk. "Marriage is a sacrament as well as holy
orders, and it is a most holy and venerable one, representing the divine
mystery by which the souls of the blessed are united to the Lord. I do
not hold with Saint Bernard, who, in his zeal for a conventual life,
seemed to see no other way of serving God but for all men and women to
become monks and nuns. The holy order is indeed blessed to those souls
whose call to it is clear and evident, like mine; but if there be a
strong and virtuous love for a worthy object, it is a vocation unto
marriage, which should not be denied."

"So, Agnes," said the knight, who had stolen into the room unperceived,
and who now boldly possessed himself of one of her hands--"Father
Antonio hath decided this matter," he added, turning to the Princess
and Elsie, who entered, "and everything having been made ready for
my journey into France, the wedding ceremony shall take place on the
morrow, and, for that we are in deep affliction, it shall be as private
as may be."

And so on the next morning the wedding ceremony took place, and the
bride and groom went on their way to France, where preparations
befitting their rank awaited them.

Old Elsie was heard to observe to Monica, that there was some sense in
making pilgrimages, since this to Rome, which she had undertaken so
unwillingly, had turned out so satisfactory.

In the reign of Julius II., the banished families who had been plundered
by the Borgias were restored to their rights and honors at Rome; and
there was a princess of the house of Sarelli then at Rome, whose
sanctity of life and manners was held to go back to the traditions of
primitive Christianity, so that she was renowned not less for goodness
than for rank and beauty.

In those days, too, Raphael, the friend of Fra Bartolommeo, placed in
one of the grandest halls of the Vatican, among the Apostles and Saints,
the image of the traduced and despised martyr whose ashes had been cast
to the winds and waters in Florence. His memory lingered long in Italy,
so that it was even claimed that miracles were wrought in his name and
by his intercession. Certain it is, that the living words he spoke were
seeds of immortal flowers which blossomed in secret dells and obscure
shadows of his beautiful Italy.

* * * * *

EXODUS.

Hear ye not how, from all high points of Time,--
From peak to peak adown the mighty chain
That links the ages,--echoing sublime
A Voice Almighty,--leaps one grand refrain,
Wakening the generations with a shout,
And trumpet-call of thunder,--Come ye out!

Out from old forms and dead idolatries;
From fading myths and superstitious dreams;
From Pharisaic rituals and lies,
And all the bondage of the life that seems!
Out,--on the pilgrim path, of heroes trod,
Over earth's wastes, to reach forth after God!

The Lord hath bowed His heaven, and come down!
Now, in this latter century of time,
Once more His tent is pitched on Sinai's crown!
Once more in clouds must Faith to meet Him climb!
Once more His thunder crashes on our doubt
And fear and sin,--"My people! come ye out!

"From false ambitions and base luxuries;
From puny aims and indolent self-ends;
From cant of faith, and shams of liberties,
And mist of ill that Truth's pure daybeam bends:
Out, from all darkness of the Egypt-land,
Into My sun-blaze on the desert sand!

"Leave ye your flesh-pots; turn from filthy greed
Of gain that doth the thirsting spirit mock;
And heaven shall drop sweet manna for your need,
And rain clear rivers from the unhewn rock!
Thus saith the Lord!" And Moses--meek, unshod--
Within the cloud stands hearkening to his God!

Show us our Aaron, with his rod in flower!
Our Miriam, with her timbrel-soul in tune!
And call some Joshua, in the Spirit's power,
To poise our sun of strength at point of noon!
God of our fathers! over sand and sea,
Still keep our struggling footsteps close to Thee!

* * * * *

THEN AND NOW IN THE OLD DOMINION.

The history of Virginia opens with a romance. No one will be surprised
at this, for it is a habit histories have. There is Plymouth Rock, for
example; it would be hard to find anything more purely romantic than
that. Well do we remember the sad day when a friend took us to the
perfectly flat wharf at Plymouth, and recited Mrs. Hemans's humorous
verse,--

"The breaking waves dashed high,
On a stern and rock-bound coast."

"Such, then," we reflected, "is History! If Plymouth Rock turns out to
be a myth, why may not Columbus or Santa Claus or Napoleon, or anything
or anybody?" Since then we have been skeptical about history even where
it seems most probable; at times doubt whether Rip Van Winkle really
slept twenty years without turning over; are annoyed with misgivings as
to whether our Western pioneers Boone, Crockett, and others, _did_ keep
bears in their stables for saddle-horses, and harness alligators as we
do oxen. So we doubted the story of John Smith and Pocahontas with which
Virginia opens. In one thing we had already caught that State making a
mythical statement: it was named by Queen Elizabeth Virginia in honor of
her own virgin state,--which, if Cobbett is to be believed, was also a
romance. Well, America was named after a pirate, and Sir Walter Raleigh,
who suggested the name of the Virgin Queen, was fond of a joke.

But notwithstanding the suspicion with which we entered upon the
investigation, we are convinced that the romance of Pocahontas is true.
As only a portion of the story of this Indian maiden, "the colonial
angel," as she was termed by the settlers, is known, and that not
generally with exactness, we will reproduce it here.

It will be remembered that Pocahontas, when about thirteen years of age,
saved the young English captain, John Smith, from the death which her
father, Powhatan, had resolved he should suffer. As the tomahawk was
about to descend on his head, the girl rushed forward and clasped that
head in her arms. The stern heart of Powhatan relented, and he consented
that the captive should live to make tomahawks for him and beads and
bells for Pocahontas. Afterward Powhatan agreed that Smith should return
to Jamestown, on condition of his sending him two guns and a grindstone.
Soon, after this Jamestown with all its stores was destroyed by fire,
and the colonists came near perishing from cold and hunger. Half of them
died; and the rest were saved only by Pocahontas, who appeared in the
midst of their distress, bringing bread, raccoons, and venison.

John Smith and his companions after this explored a large portion of the
State, and a second time came to rest at the home of Powhatan and his
beautiful daughter. The name of the place was Werowocomoco. His visit
this time fell on the eve of the coronation of Powhatan. The king,
being absent when Smith came, was sent for; meanwhile Pocahontas called
together a number of Indian maidens to get up a dramatic entertainment
and ballet for the handsome young Englishman and his companions. They
made a fire in a level field, and Smith sat on a mat before it. A
hideous noise and shrieking were suddenly heard in the adjoining woods.
The English snatched up their arms, apprehending foul play. Pocahontas
rushed forward, and asked Smith to slay her rather than suspect her of
perfidy; so their apprehensions were quieted. Then thirty young Indian
maidens issued suddenly from the wood, all naked except a cincture of
green leaves, their bodies painted. Pocahontas was a complete picture of
an Indian Diana: a quiver hung on her shoulder, and she held a bow and
arrow in her hand; she wore, also, on her head a beautiful pair of
buck's horns, an otter's skin at her girdle, and another on her arm. The
other nymphs had antlers on their heads and various savage decorations.
Bursting from the forest, they circled around the fire and John Smith,
singing and dancing for an hour. They then disappeared into the wood as
suddenly as they had come forth. When they reappeared, it was to invite
Smith to their habitations, where they danced around him again, singing,
"Love you not me? Love you not me?" They then feasted him richly, and,
lastly, with pine-knot torches lighted him to his finely decorated
apartments.

Captain John Smith was, without doubt, an imperial kind of man. His
personal appearance was fine, his sense and tact excellent, his manners
both cordial and elegant. There is no doubt, as there is no wonder, that
the Indian maiden felt some tender palpitations on his account. Once
again, when, owing to some misunderstanding, Powhatan had decreed the
death of all the whites, Pocahontas spent the whole pitch-dark night
climbing hills and toiling through pathless thickets, to save Smith and
his friends by warning them of the imminent danger. Smith offered her
many beautiful presents on this occasion, evidently not appreciating the
sentiment that was animating her. To this offer of presents she replied
with tears; and when their acceptance was urged, Smith himself relates,
that, "with the teares running downe her cheeks, she said she durst not
be seen to have any, for, if Powhatan should know it, she were but dead;
and so she ran away by herself, as she came."

There is no doubt what the Muse of History ought to do here: were she a
dame of proper sensibilities, she would have Mr. John Smith married to
Miss P. Powhatan as soon as a parson could be got from Jamestown. Were
it a romance, this would be the result. As it is, we find Smith going
off to England in two years, and living unmarried until his death; and
Pocahontas married to the Englishman John Rolfe, for reasons of state,
we fear,--a link of friendship between the Reds and the Whites being
thought desirable. She was of course Christianized and baptized, as any
one may see by Chapman's picture in the Rotunda at Washington, unless
Zouave criticism has demolished it. Immediately she went with her
husband to England. At Brentford, where she was staying,. Captain John
Smith went to visit her. Their meeting was significant and affecting.
"After a modest salutation, without uttering a word, she turned away and
hid her face as if displeased.". She remained thus motionless for two or
three hours. Who can know what struggles passed through the heart of
the Indian bride at this moment,--emotions doubly unutterable to this
untaught stranger? It seems that she had been deceived by Rolfe and his
friends into thinking that Smith was dead, under the conviction that she
could not be induced to marry him, if she thought Smith alive. After
her long, sad silence, before mentioned, she came forward to Smith and
touchingly reminded him, there in the presence of her husband and a
large company, of the kindness she had shown him in her own country,
saying, "You did promise Powhatan what was yours should be his, and he
the like to you; you called him 'Father,' being in his land a stranger,
and for the same reason so I must call you." After a pause, during which
she seemed to be under the influence of strong emotion, she said, "I
will call you Father, and you shall call me Child, and so I will be
forever and ever your countrywoman." Then she added, slowly and with
emphasis, "_They did tell us always you were dead, and I knew no other
till I came to Plimoth; yet Powhatan did command Uttamattomakin to seeke
you and know the truth, because your countrymen will lie much_." It was
not long after this interview that Pocahontas died: she never returned
to Virginia. Her death occurred in 1617. The issue of her marriage was
one child, Thomas Rolfe; so it is through him that the First Families of
Virginia are so invariably descended from the Indian Princess. Captain
Smith lived until 1631, and, as we have said, never married. He was a
noble and true man, and Pocahontas was every way worthy to be his wife;
and one feels very ill-natured at Rolfe and Company for the cruel
deception which, we must believe, was all that kept them asunder, and
gave to the story of the lovely maiden its almost tragic close.

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