 | CHAPTER I. Marie, or, The fugitive |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
The autumnal moon had already been risen a full hour, as a horseman
drew rein upon the summit of a hill which commanded a prospect of the domes
and towers of the city towards which he was journeying. He paused a moment
as he attained the brow of the eminence over which his road wound, to survey
the scene spread out before him.
Less than a league distant towered `The City of the Three Hills,' its spires
glittering like needles in the moon's beams, and a thousand windows reflecting
its golden radiance: for the moon is always golden in the autumnal months.
Between the horseman and the city were fields and villas, gardens and pleasant
lawns; and farther on beyond these lay shining like a silvery lake the waters
of the Charles river, which, with those of the Western bay, clasped the Metropolis
in a belt of sparkling waves.
The long dark lines of the numerous bridges, with their ranges of lights,
communicating with the city, stretched before his gaze, with the broad green
sweep of the encircling shores extending away to the right in the direction
of Brooklyn and Roxbury. Immediately before him the view opened towards
the harbor, with its black ships dotting the moonlit waters, and the islands
breaking, here and there, the gleaming surface of the beauteous Bay.
Nearer still, tall, silent and grand, rose skyward the grey obelisk which marks
to all time the spot where the Eagle of Freedom first unfolded her blood
stained pinions. He gazed awhile on this object as it stood in its lonely grandeur,
casting its shadow far across the city at its feet, and reflected how peaceful
now was all the scene, aforetime over which rolled the roar of battle, the shouts
of warriors, the smoke of conflagration.
He then turned himself in his saddle to enjoy a moment the beauty of the
inland scene of woods and meadows, and cottages half hid in trees, and villa es
with their white mansions glancing in the moonlight like edifices of alabaster.
Grand and imposing, though seen indistinctly through the hazy sheen of the
soft October atmosphere, the walls of the venerable University were just visible
above the noble groves in which they were embosomed.
All around him was still. There was a balmy stillness in the air, and a
repose in the hour which was congenial to his feelings; and he sat a few moments
in his saddle both to rest his steed as well as to enjoy the loveliness of
the scene. At his left on the north side of the way, a grove of maples grew
close to the road and hid his view in that direction; but as he saw the wood
was not deep, and a path led through it to the open eminence which he
could see glimmering through the vistas between the tall black trunks, he resolved
to turn in and see what view presented itself in that quarter; for he
thought he caught glimpse of a ruin.
`And if it be a ruin, i'faith;' said he gaily, `I must needs go and look at it;
for ruins are full rare sights for a traveler in these lands. It needs only a
this height. Domes and towers, spires and roofs, waters and isles, woodlands
and lawns, villas and monuments, hills and lakes seen in the glorious light of
an autumn moon, as if through a veil of intermingled threads of silver and
gold, all these I have beheld, all this has charmed my sight and gladdened with
a calm soothing joy the depths of my soul. Now all that remains is a ruin by
moonlight, if yonder be a ruin.'
The next moment the horseman had turned from the road and was cantering
along through the woodland in the path, which soon terminated, and brought him
upon an open space, a little higher in elevation than the road from which he
had come.
On reaching the field he saw with an exclamation of surprise at the discovery,
a vast, imposing ruin, covering as it seemed in the indistinct view of night,
the summit of a hill still beyond that from which he beheld it.—The base of
the ruin was lying in shadow, but the stern outlines of its jagged walls were
boldly and sharply defined against the sky.
He remained a few moments viewing it from the spot where he was, and
then dismounting he secured his horse to a hedge that enclosed the field he was
in, and crossing it descended the hill and traversing the interspace of the vale
below he, in a few minutes, stood upon the height crowned by the ruin, the
discovery of which, from the road, had awakened his curiosity.
The eminence which it occupied was even more commanding than that which
he had left and embraced not only all the wide and beautiful scenes he had beheld
from that, but also a noble prospect to the North, which had been concealed
from him before by the wood.
`This ruin must have been placed here for the picturesque,' he said, after
observing it awhile in silence; `for, from whichsoever point this wide landscape
of city and country is viewed, this must form a striking and prominent
feature.'
He walked slowly along the noble front, the moon shining full upon it and
lighting up with the distinctness of noon day the architectural details of its
lofty facade; the broken angles rising boldly into the air and overhanging
themselves as if each instant about to fall. The crumbling door-ways yawning
wide and blackened with smoke, the charred architraves and half-burnt columns,
told him, as he walked slowly along the overgrown lawn before it, that fire
had been one of the instruments of the devastation. The edifice was still majestic
in its ruins, and spoke eloquently, in its silence, of former state and
dignity. The moon beams streamed brightly through the numerous gaping
crevices of the arched windows in the tall walls, and leaving portions in the
blackest shadow it brought other parts out full into its brightest radiance,
silvering a sharp point of the ruin at one angle and leaving a cavernous passage
beneath it unillumined by a single ray; exposing in the cloisters a single
column, shining like snow, while it failed to penetrate the remoter depths of
the cloistered archway.
The ruins of the chief edifice, remarkable and interesting as they were, did
not alone attract his curiosity. It was excited by discovering near it, half overgrown
with wild vines, those of a small chapel, in which were traces of an altar;
its top lying in fragments on the ground. A moonbeam fell through the roof
and resting in a bright bar of light upon it, he reverently lifted his cap, for,
by the radiance, he beheld upon it the fragment of a crucifix, the pedestal and
a part of the feet only remaining.
He remained standing with his head bared a few moments, gazing upon the
spot with sad feelings—wonder and melancholy mingled in his emotions.
He, for awhile, imagined himself once more in Europe, once more gazing by
the light of an Italian moon uponthe religious ruins of that olden land, where
cathedrals, like the worshippers in them, grow old and crumble to dust, from
which they sprung, majestic and venerable, and sacred still, even in their
decay.
All around him was a scene of desolation. The garden walls around had
fallen, or been thrown down by violence, and the pleasant walks were grown
up with grass, and the toad with his hoarse night cry, and the lizard moving
in his shining and noiseless track, were now the only living things seen
there. Close by him, half-hidden beneath dark vines, he saw that there
fate which had fallen on all he beheld; but, to his surprise, as he put aside
the tangled and matted tendrils, with which Nature would fain conceal what
accident or human passions had left exposed, he beheld the portals of the
house of death broken down, the marble bands of the tomb shivered, its walls
wrested from their foundations, as if by some terrible convulsion, and its dark
womb sacriligiously open to the eye of the day. While he remained gazing
in and wondering still more what could have been the instrument of devastation
which had not left sacred even the sealed habitations of the dead,
a whitish object upon the ground grew gradually into form, and outline to his
eye. Suspecting its nature he drew aside the shrubbery so as to let the
moon-light fall upon it, when he saw that it was the skeleton of a human
hand. He stooped and raised it from the ground, and reverently laid it
upon the broken pedestal of the crucifix on the shattered altar, saying, as he
did so,
`In the resurrection Christ, at whose feet I leave thee, shall raise thee up
with the body wherever it lieth, be it in the deep sea or upon the green earth!
For this corruption must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality!'
`Thou hast spoken well, my son,' said a voice so near, that it caused him to
start back a step. As he looked he saw advancing from behind the altar, a
man in a monk's cowl and gown; the cowl being thrown back, leaving his head
bare. The light in which he stood was so exceedingly dim that the traveller
could not discern his face. He saw, however, that he was a man of a dignified
presence, and the sound of his voice, though sad, was pleasing to the
ear and singularly impressive in its tones. The travelller though astonished and
not a little moved at first, neither felt alarm nor cherished a suspicion of personal
danger at this abrupt encounter of a stranger in such a place at such an
hour. The blood bounded a little quicker for a moment or too through his veins,
but as the monk came farther into the light, he replied firmly—
`I was not prepared, sir, from the desolation around me, to encounter a human
being here! Is there, then, any portion of this ruin inhabited, reverend father,
for such I see that you are from your dress?'
`No, my son! There dwells no longer in this holy spot any of those who once
inhabited it!' answered the monk in a voice at once melancholy and serene.
`Why do I find you here, father? From thus encountering one like you,
in such a place, and from the character of these ruins, am I right in supposing
these are the relics of a religious house; for I discover what I did not before
notice the fragment of a gigantic gilt cross lying across that broken fountain in
the court?'
`You are right, my son. This melancholly spot is all that remains of a noble
edifice dedicated to piety and benevolence. You stand, my son, upon Mont St.
Benedict, and around you, dark and stern in their desolation, are the ruins of
the Convent of St. Ursula!'
The traveller remained silent and seemed thoughtful, while the priest closely
observed his face as if expecting to see surprise visible upon it at this announcement.
At length he said,
`The ruins of Convents I have often seen in the old world, father, but they
were the hallowed and peaceful relics of Time, which, as he slowly crumbled
the marble and stone into dust, he flung over the gradual desolation garlands
of ivy, and with moss and soft grasses rounded every angle and lined every crevice;
so that though no longer a majestic pile lifting its walls and towers and
graceful pinnacles to Heaven a proud manifestation of man's skill and a nobler
one of his piety, yet it was an imposing and picturesque ruin; and while it no
longer resounded with prayers and anthems, it no less inspired the humble heart
with solemn reflections and healthful admonitions upon the perishable nature of
all things earthly. But here all I behold is stern and savage. The emotions
these frowning and harsh ruins excite are painful rather than pleasing. They
bear the marks of violence and fire, and instead of being the work of gentle
Time, seem to be the forced desecration of ruthless hands.'
`Thou hast spoken truly, my son. In telling thee where thou wert, supposing
thee to be a stranger to the spot, I believed I had only to give the name
to awaken the memories in your mind of what has occurred on this spot. You
Convent reached not your ears; though its cry went up to God, and its report
swept over the land, grieving every true Catholic's spirit, and startling even
the Protestant millions of the nation. Nay, the tale thrilled through the Catholic
heart of Europe and filled Rome with astonishment!'
`Now thou hast mentioned it so particularly, father,' said the young traveller,
gazing with admiration and deep respect upon the noble outlines of the monk's
face as he stood now in the full light of the moon, his features animated with
holy indignation; `now thou hast named it thus particularly, I do recollect the
circumstances. Did it not occur in the summer of 1834? I was in Italy at
the time and recollect hearing of the event even there! Your words recall the
circumstances, though faintly. These then are the ruins of that Convent!'
added he gazing around upon the gloomy walls with a new interest and new
emotions. `Were it not so late, reverend father, I would ask you briefly to
relate to me the particular causes which led to this melancholy event.'
`You shall know, my son, if you have leisure to read a manuscript which
I have in my possession written by a young priest who is now no more. This
manuscript is in the shape of a romance; but it will, while it amuses you,
convey to you in an agreeable garb, the principal features of an event that,'
added the monk, elevating his voice and speaking as if he were an inspired
prophet of his church, `has sown the seed of a Roman Catholic harvest in this
great land! From the dust of these ruins, from the thousand fragments of this
altar shall be upbuilded for every stone that has been thrown down, a Convent,
for every fragment of this altar a cathedral. For the thousand wicked men who
levelled these walls shall a hundred thousand good men give their strength to
the uprearing vast temples on whose summits shall tower the deserted cross!'
The monk ceased speaking a moment and then kneeling before the altar, he
pressed his lips to the sacred feet of the crucifix and then uplifting his face towards
the deep blue Heavens visible through the broken roof, he added, in the
deep voice of faith:
`Thou, Lord Jesus, will do it in thy time.' He then rose and turning to the
traveller said—
`Son, I was kneeling behind the altar praying for this thing, for the prayers
of the children of the church, put up here, will be upon these ruins as dew and
rain upon the dry grass, and bring ere long the harvest of our hopes! I saw
thy act, and I heard thy words as thou didst decently lay the hand of the dead
upon the altar. I saw that thou wert a son of the church and my heart opened
towards thee! To satisfy thy curiosity will give me satisfaction. Come with me.
I live not far distant; thou canst see not half a mile off beyond the edge of the
wood the white walls of my cottage gleaming from among the trees.'
`I have a horse near that woodland, father,' answered the young man; `I
will get him—and overtake you ere you make the road.'
The traveller then left the ruin in the direction he had approached it, and
mounting his horse soon overtook the monk, who had taken a shorter path to
the highway.
The Manuscript obtained by the traveller from the monk, how obtained from
the former by us being a mystery, will be presented to the reader in the next
chapter, under the title of
| CHAPTER I. Marie, or, The fugitive | |