University of Virginia Library

1. THE FIRST PICTURE.

THE LIGHT OF THE PICTURE.

It was in the ancient time, when Religion
dwelt in the shadows of the solemn temple, and
the lofty fane, and made her home amid the
recesses of age-worn altars, the time of glorious
deeds and magnificent superstitions, when Romance
came forth from the minds of men, and
walked abroad, a thing of visible life, the age of
war and love and song, on the afternoon of a
bright summer's day, that a young Student paced
the aisles of a gorgeous cathedral, with slow and
measured steps, while the melancholy echoes
sprang from pillar to pillar, and leaped from
gloomy arch to shadowy niche.

Advancing from the shadow of a massive column,
the student paused for a moment, where the
warm sunbeams, streaming thro' a lofty window,
gaudy with rare emblazonings, fell with all their
golden light, over a simple altar, tinting the
opened missal with a ruddy glow, and flinging
a halo around the cross, which rose above
the altar like a thing of sacred hopes and hallowed
affections.

As the student paused in his walk, and standing
in front of the altar, clasped his hands upon his
priestly robe, in reverence of the holy symbol, the
sunbeams fell warmly upon the outline of his
youthful figure, and his face, with its darkened
hue, the forehead broad and high, and pale with
thought, relieved by clustering masses of lustrous
brown hair, sweeping in ringlets to his shoulders,
the marked eyebrows curving with the frown of
meditation, the dark grey eyes, brilliant with fancy,
the bold nose, the expressive mouth, and the
rounded chin, all were shown in the warm glow
of the golden light; and the head and features of the
Neophyte stood out from the background of gloom
and shadow, like a picture, wrought by the hand
of an inspired master.

He bowed his head, low on his breast, and
raising his clasped hands in the sunlight, in a low
and deep-toned voice, he spoke—

“A solemn place and a hallowed hour”—he
murmured in that rich, melodious voice, with
which the full heart ever whispers its mysteries
to the silent air.—“A solemn place, and a hallowed
hour. Let others chose the glittering scenes
of the courtly hall, the music of the war-trump, or
the glare of the gay and flitting world. For me
—Ah, thanks to the Ever-Living, whose emblem
is the Holy Cross—For me, my home is made
amid the solitude of these quiet aisles and solemn
arches. The music of the organ, lofty and sublime,
fills my soul with vague and dreamy emotions—more
solemn, more grand, because most
vague and dreamy. And the scenes of the far-extending
procession where golden crosses
glitter, and sacred banners wave—the High Mass
when the Host is elevated, while the million bow
their heads in speechless adoration—the still melancholy
of the vesper hour, when the dying day
with its thousand sounds, re-echoes the twilight
calls to prayer—ah, these scenes to me are far
more dear, far more hallowed than all the pomp,
the show, and the glitter of the world.”

And raising his full grey eyes solemnly upward,
while his youthful face, warming with all
the inspiration that lightens the soul whose
thoughts are in the far-world of the unreal, glowed
and brightened in the light of the mellow sunbeams,
in a voice made holy by intense and absorbing
feeling, the Neophyte exclaimed—

“Thanks be unto God, the Ever-Living—
thanks be unto the Saviour, called the Blessed—
and unto the Holy Mary, the Pure Woman and
the Sublime Divinity; the thanks of the heart, and
the adoration of the soul be rendered; now and
forevermore.”

“Benedicite!” said a calm and solemn voice—
“Benedicite, my son!”

The youth turned and beheld an aged man
clad in robes of undimmed white, with the mitre
of an Abbot, surmounting his high and thoughtful
brow. His blue eyes gleamed with the calm
light of a soul that knows no thoughts save
those that are of the Awful Unseen, while floating
along his wrinkled cheeks and over his shoulders,
the locks of snow white hair, gave grandeur
and dignity to the appearance of the holy
man.

“Holy Father, thy son returns thee thanks and
blessing!” said the youth in a solemn tone as he
bowed low before the venerable Abbot.

“Adrian my son,” said the Abbot, in the mild,
soft voice of a father, speaking to a beloved child,
“like the sweet sound of far-off music, melting away
among twilight hills comes the voice of youthful
enthusiasm over my heart. Adrian, my boy, thy
voice is now deep-toned, and thy heart throbs with
the warm feeling of youth—how oft have I heard
the voice of youth, deep-toned as thine, change to
the shrill and piercing laugh of reckless despair—
how oft have I noted hearts throbbing with youth
and hope like thine, wither and die, beneath the
cold death-chill of the first heart-break. But with
thee Adrian this may never be.”

THE GLORY.

“Never, father, thanks be to Him above, never!”
said the Neophyte solemnly raising his eyes to the
vaulted roof—“Here amid the holy cloisters have
I grown from infancy to youth—here when
thought and memory first awoke within me, did I
wander silently beneath the shadow of the Holy
Cross, and here afar from the world, afar from
the strife of men, afar from the woe, the wrong,
the passion, the despair that attends Life in her
pilgrimage without these hallowed walls, here
will I die! Here, while the sound of the swelling
organ, and the melody of the vesper hymn break
on my freezing ear—the last of earthly sounds—
here, where my last look shall be met by the
vision of the solemn cross, made more glorious by
the beams of the setting sun, here will the orphan
give back to God, the spirit which he gave, without
a sigh, without a pang. Father, mother,
brother, sister, have I none—but—”

“God is thy Father—Christ the Blessed thy
Brother—the Virgin thy Mother!”

And as the grey-haired Abbot passed his thin
and withered hands along the brow of the Neophyte
with the gesture of benediction, a tear dimmed
the eye of the youth, but it was a tear of holy
joy, of sublime enthusiasm, a tear of hope and
heaven-born love—and as that tear sparkled between
the eyelids of the youthful face, it shone
like a star, trembling along the pathway of the
skies.

“Adrian, my son—” the Abbot continued, as
they paced toward the emblazoned window—
“Thy life has been a strange mystery. Since the
day—the cold winter's day, when the friendless
foundling first entered these walls—well do I
remember it! 'Tis now more than nineteen years
gone,—on the return of the next Mass of Christ
'twill be twenty years—since that dark and desolate
day, thou hast not passed beyond the cloisters
of this our monastery of St. Benedict, in the good
city of Florence the Fair. The world with its
good and evil is all unknown to thee, save from
the rare knowledge gained from the tomes of the
sacred library. And yet thou hast made passing
wondrous advancement in the holy mystery of
music. Who in this good city may wake such
sounds of melody from the chords of the harp, as
swell along the air when the strings are touched
by thy fingers? Nay, blush not, my son—'tis no
mock-praise I offer thee. Who in all our House
of St. Benedict, may illuminate the holy missal
of devotion, with such rare emblazonings as warm
the parchment when touched by thy pencil? Thou
art a strangely gifted youth, my brother—nay, my
son—and thy life has been a wondrous mystery.
Still when I look on that young brow of thine,
methinks there must be, within thy heart a lurking
desire, to mingle with the world without the
convent walls? What sayst Adrian?”

The Neophyte turned to the Abbot, and as he
turned the warm glow of the setting sun, fell in a
veil of light over his features. As he stood there
on the tesselated pavement, with every lineament
of his countenance brightening with enthusiasm,
the grey eyes sparkling with the light of inward
soul, the lips parted with sudden rapture, the
cheek flushed, and the brow unclouded, as thus he
stood with his hands upraised and his youthful
form elevated with a feeling of heaven-born dignity,
the holy father looked upon him, and started
as he thought, how much the youth seemed like
the pictures of the Saint John, which were hung
along the gallery of the convent.

“Mingle with the world without, reverend
father!” exclaimed the Neophyte—“A wish ever
cross my heart to mingle with its scenes of earthly
triumph, and earthly toil? Look around, holy
father, and gaze upon this sacred place! Above,
the fretted roof wrapped in gloom and shadow—
beneath, the tesselated pavement, with soft gleams
of sunlight breaking the misty veil that is thrown
around the lofty pillars—yonder the high altar,
with its cross—See! how the light of the setting
sun gleams over the face of the Blessed One!—
Look around, father, and mark this solemn place,
with its light and its gloom—its pillars rich with
age-worn sculpturings—its rare paintings, where
Genius waits at Devotion's shrine—its altar and
its cross—its sublime roof—and then father as
you mark the solemn silence that rests upon this
hour, think, here has been my home since infancy!
Here have I wandered while visions of
God lifted my soul to that Brighter World—at
the foot of yonder cross have I knelt prostrate
while the glories of the Unreal have been bared

to the eye of Faith! Look, holy father, look,
and then think how poor, how vile the soul, that
would prefer the scenes of the world without to
the holy hours of this awful temple!”

THE SHADOW.

“And yet, my son, thou must endure the trial!
Well thou knowest the rule of our order which
declares, that once in a hundred years, a brother
shall be selected from among the brotherhood, to
take a vow, yet more solemn, more awful than the
vow uttered by a simple monk. It is the vow of
eternal separation from the world, and from sight
of the faces of men. Hidden in his solitary cell,
the One Set-apart, shall pass his days, his nights,
in one unending solitude, save that once in every
year, it is enjoined upon him, to appear unto the
sight of the world, for one hour, while from the
pulpit of the Grand Chapel of the Cathedral, he
shall speak to the multitude of the wonderful
revelations made to his soul in the passing year.
From thy childhood, Adrian, thou hast been
selected as the one set-apart. One month hence
thou wilt take this solemn vow of eternal separation.
Yet stay—there is another condition to be
complied with first. It is the rule of our Order
that the month previous to the taking of the vow,
shall be spent, by the Neophyte, amid the glare
and glitter of the world. When the end of that
period arrives, should the One Set-apart still desire
to take the solemn vow, 'tis well. But should
his heart fail him, after his eye has feasted upon
the vanities of life—then it is also well. He may
recede; he may refuse to take the vow, and God
will still be honored, for He asks of his children,
none other than a willing service. To-morrow
Adrian, the Carnival begins, here in Florence.—
And to-morrow, Adrian, thou wilt commence the
TRIAL.”

The Neophyte bowed low, and folded his hands
upon his priestly robe.

“Come hither, Adrian, to this emblazoned window.
The sun has set, in the west, and the new
moon gleams through the azure. When that
moon has attained her full orbed glory, here in
this solemn cathedral—thy month of trial passed
—on the last day of the Carnival, when the folly
and mirth of that mad time shall have swelled to
universal riot and revel, then, if thou art still firm,
in this temple shalt thou take the solemn vow—
the oath of oaths—and all Florence shall hail thee
as the sacred—as the One Set-apart!”

“So may it be, my holy father!” said the Neophyte
with a voice of prayer.

“Adrian I have thought of this, thy solemn trial
with much pain. A dim and shadowy fear has
crossed my mind, that thou wert not strong
enough for the ordeal. Yet methinks, I have
discovered a way which hedged in as it is by the
fires of the ordeal, may still guide thee through
the trial unscathed. Hast ever heard of the fair
Countess Rose, Heiress of the Palaces and Lands
of Ellarini?”

“Father,” replied the youth, “in the still solitudes
of these walls, but little of the gossip of the
world without breaks upon the student's ear.—
Still it were hard to wait at the altar, where the
gay cavaliers of Florence throng to worship, without
hearing the name of the Lady Rose, which is
whispered by every gay tongue, and repeated by
every gallant voice. The fame of her beauty has
been echoed even within the shadows of these
walls.”

“One month hence, my son, the Countess Di
Ellarini will succeed to the broad lands of her
deceased father. On the last day of the Carnival,
the Holy Church will celebrate the sacrament of
matrimony between this fair lady, and the gallant
Lord Urban Di Capello—Hast heard his name!”

“All Florence repeat the praises of the rich
lord—and report speaks him young and handsome.”

“Well, my son—thus runs my story. It is the
desire of the fair lady, to procure from our convent
a brother skilled in the mystery of music. I
know none more gifted than thou. Haste thee
away to the Palace Di Ellarini. Thy name will
gain thee audience with the fair lady—commence
thy instructions this very night. Thy harp
shall be sent after thee as well as thy missals of
devotion, by the hands of a lay brother. Thou
art to remain in the palace, until the last day of
the Carnival, save that one hour each night, thou
art to spend in thy cell in this convent. And
now my son away—yet, hold, I will open this
postern door.”

THE GLOOM.

And a small door, curiously fixed amid the intricate
panelling, along the side of the lofty casement,
flew suddenly open, and the beams of the
rising moon flung a line of silvery light through
the aperture over the pavement of the cathedral.

The Neophyte advanced. One foot rested upon
the threshold.

Beyond was the world. Mountains sleeping
in the moonlight—shadowy vallies—streams of
silver. The azure sky and the silvery moon.—
The distant horizon where the outline of the
heavens was broken by uprising columns of ruined
temples—the foreground of the view, where
the foliage of a massive forest, floated with undulations,
like those of the ocean wave.

His foot was upon the threshold.

His face to the world, his back to the cathedral,
with its far-extending pavement its roof supported
by giant columns, its gleams of light, and its
masses of shadow.

“Farewell, place of glooms, scene of glories.—
Home of my heart—farewell. Bless me, father!”

And as he looked over his shoulders backward,
into the gloom of the cathedral, the hands of the
Abbot were laid upon his dark brown locks, while
his eyes were raised to heaven in prayer.

“Thou goest forth pure, my son, come thou back
unscathed! The God in Heaven grant it!”

A loud, wild laugh, broke on the air, directly
over the heads of the abbot and the neophyte.—
It awoke the solemn echoes, and rang along the
cathedral arches, like a sound from the Spirit.
Land.

“Ha! my son, what unreal mockery is that?
Hark! how it echoes along the cathedral aisles!”

“My father, that unearthly laugh thrills through
me, as though my blood were turned to ice. In
old legends I have read, that the echoes of this
solemn cathedral are aroused by laughter wild and
dread as this, but once in an hundred years. It
is a sound of fearful omen—the laugh of Despair,
bidding Hope farewell!”

And as the beams of the rising moon, floating
through the opened doorway, shone over the aged
form of the Abbot, robed in white, and for a moment
touched the deep black tunic of the neophyte
with gleams of silver, that wild, dread laugh
echoed along the cathedral aisles again and yet
again; the youth cast one look back into the
cloister, and then sprung over the threshold;
while behind was heard the sound of the closing
door, and around, startling the still air of night,
with its fearful discord, broke that sound of unreal
laughter, commingling with a hollow whisper that
had its origin in no mortal voice.

“Forth thou goest Youth—High in Heart—
Bold in Thought! Thou comest back—and a
crushed heart and a withered soul are thine—Ha
—Ha—Ha!”