University of Virginia Library


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The rays of the setting sun were imparting even more
than their wonted cheerfulness to the airy and bustling
streets of Milan. There was the usual rush and roar of busy
life which mark the great city, and the display of gay costumes
and brilliant trappings proper to a ducal capital which
at that time gave the law to Europe in all matters of taste
and elegance, even as Paris does now. It was, in fact, from
the reputation of this city in matters of external show that
our English term Milliner was probably derived; and one
might well have believed this, who saw the sweep of the
ducal cortege at this moment returning in pomp from the
afternoon airing. Such glittering of gold-embroidered mantles,
such bewildering confusion of colors, such flashing of
jewelry from cap and dagger-hilt and finger-ring, and even
from bridle and stirrup, testified that the male sex at this
period in Italy were no whit behind the daughters of Eve in
that passion for personal adornment which our age is wont to
consider exclusively feminine. Indeed, all that was visible
to the vulgar eye of this pageant was wholly masculine;
though no one doubted that behind the gold-embroidered
curtains of the litters which contained the female notabilities
of the court still more dazzling wonders might be concealed.
Occasionally a white jewelled hand would draw aside one
of these screens, and a pair of eyes brighter than any gems


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would peer forth; and then there would be tokens of a visible
commotion among the plumed and gemmed cavaliers
around, and one young head would nod to another with jests
and quips, and there would be bowing and curveting and all
the antics and caracolings supposable among gay young
people on whom the sun shone brightly, and who felt the
world going well around them, and deemed themselves the
observed of all observers.

Meanwhile, the mute, subservient common people looked
on all this as a part of their daily amusement. Meek dwellers
in those dank, noisome caverns, without any opening but
a street-door; which are called dwelling-places in Italy, they
lived in uninquiring good-nature, contentedly bringing up
children on coarse bread, dirty cabbage-stumps, and other
garbage, while all that they could earn was sucked upward
by capillary attraction to nourish the extravagance of those
upper classes on which they stared with such blind and ignorant

This was the lot they believed themselves born for, and
which every exhortation of their priests taught them to
regard as the appointed ordinance of God. The women, to
be sure, as women always will be, were true to the instinct
of their sex, and crawled out of the damp and vile-smelling
recesses of their homes with solid gold ear-rings shaking in
their ears, and their blue-black lustrous hair ornamented with
a glittering circle of steel pins or other quaint coiffure.
There was sense in all this: for had not even Dukes of
Milan been found so condescending and affable as to admire
the charms of the fair in the lower orders, whence had come
sons and daughters who took rank among princes and princesses?
What father, or what husband, could be insensible
to prospects of such honor? What priest would not readily


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absolve such sin? Therefore one might have observed more
than one comely dark-eyed woman, brilliant as some tropical
bird in the colors of her peasant dress, who cast coquettish
glances toward high places, not unacknowledged by patronizing
nods in return, while mothers and fathers looked on in
triumph. These were the days for the upper classes: the
Church bore them all in her bosom as a tender nursing-mother,
and provided for all their little peccadilloes with
even grandmotherly indulgence, and in return the world was
immensely deferential towards the Church; and it was
only now and then some rugged John Baptist, in raiment of
camel's hair, like Savonarola, who dared to speak an indecorous
word of God's truth in the ear of power, and Herod
and Herodias had ever at hand the good old recipe for quieting
such disturbances. John Baptist was beheaded in prison,
and then all the world and all the Scribes and Pharisees
applauded; and only a few poor disciples were found to take
up the body and go and tell Jesus.

The whole piazza around the great Cathedral is at this
moment full of the dashing cavalcade of the ducal court,
looking as brilliant in the evening light as a field of poppy,
corn-flower, and scarlet clover at Sorrento; and there, amid
the flutter and rush, the amours and intrigues, the court
scandal, the laughing, the gibing, the glitter, and dazzle,
stands that wonderful Cathedral, that silent witness, that
strange, pure, immaculate mountain of airy, unearthly loveliness,
— the most striking emblem of God's mingled vastness
and sweetness that ever it was given to human heart
to devise or hands to execute. If there be among the many
mansions of our Father above, among the houses not made
with hands, aught purer and fairer, it must be the work of
those grand spirits who inspired and presided over the erection


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of this celestial miracle of beauty. In the great, vain,
wicked city, all alive with the lust of the flesh, the lust of
the eye, and the pride of life, it seemed to stand as much
apart and alone as if it were in the solemn desolation of the
Campagna, or in one of the wide deserts of Africa, — so
little part or lot did it appear to have in anything earthly,
so little to belong to the struggling, bustling crowd who
beneath its white dazzling pinnacles seemed dwarfed into
crawling insects. They who could look up from the dizzy,
frivolous life below saw far, far above them, in the blue
Italian air, thousands of glorified saints standing on a thousand
airy points of brilliant whiteness, ever solemnly adoring.
The marble which below was somewhat touched and
soiled with the dust of the street seemed gradually to refine
and brighten as it rose into the pure regions of the air, till
at last in those thousand distant pinnacles it had the ethereal
translucence of wintry frost-work, and now began to
glow with the violet and rose hues of evening, in solemn

The ducal cortege sweeps by; but we have mounted the
dizzy, dark staircase that leads to the roof, where, amid the
bustling life of the city, there is a promenade of still and
wondrous solitude. One seems to have ascended in those
few moments far beyond the tumult and dust of earthly
things, to the silence, the clearness, the tranquillity of
ethereal regions. The noise of the rushing tides of life
below rises only in a soft and distant murmur; while
around, in the wide, clear distance, is spread a prospect
which has not on earth its like or its equal. The beautiful
plains of Lombardy lie beneath like a map, and the
northern horizon-line is glittering with the entire sweep
of the Alps, like a solemn senate of archangels with diamond


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mail and glittering crowns. Mont Blanc, Monte
Rosa with its countenance of light, the Jungfrau and all
the weird brothers of the Oberland, rise one after another
to the delighted gaze, and the range of the Tyrol melts
far off into the blue of the sky. On another side, the
Apennines, with their picturesque outlines and cloud-spotted
sides, complete the enclosure. All around, wherever the
eye turns, is the unbroken phalanx of mountains; and this
temple, with its thousand saintly statues standing in attitudes
of ecstasy and prayer, seems like a worthy altar and shrine
for the beautiful plain which the mountains enclose: it seems
to give all Northern Italy to God.

The effect of the statues in this high, pure air, in this
solemn, glorious scenery, is peculiar. They seem a meet
companionship for these exalted regions. They seem to
stand exultant on their spires, poised lightly as ethereal
creatures, the fit inhabitants of the pure blue sky. One
feels that they have done with earth; one can fancy them
a band of white-robed kings and priests forever ministering
in that great temple of which the Alps and the Apennines
are the walls and the Cathedral the heart and centre.
Never were Art and Nature so majestically married by
Religion in so worthy a temple.

One form could be discerned standing in rapt attention,
gazing from a platform on the roof upon the far-distant
scene. He was enveloped in the white coarse woollen gown
of the Dominican monks, and seemed wholly absorbed in
meditating on the scene before him, which appeared to move
him deeply; for, raising his hands, he repeated aloud from the
Latin Vulgate the words of an Apostle: —

“Accessistis ad Sion montem et civitatem Dei viventis,
Ierusalem cælestem, et multorum millium angelorum fre


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quentiam, ecclesiam primitivorum, qui inscripti sunt in

At this moment the evening worship commenced within
the Cathedral, and the whole building seemed to vibrate
with the rising swell of the great organ, while the grave,
long-drawn tones of the Ambrosian Liturgy rose surging in
waves and dying away in distant murmurs, like the rolling
of the tide on some ocean-shore. The monk turned and
drew near to the central part of the roof to listen, and as he
turned he disclosed the well-known features of Father Antonio.

Haggard, weary, and travel-worn, his first impulse, on entering
the city, was to fly to this holy solitude, as the wandering
sparrow of sacred song sought her nest amid the
altars of God's temple. Artist no less than monk, he found
in this wondrous shrine of beauty a repose both for his
artistic and his religious nature; and while waiting for
Agostino Sarelli to find his uncle's residence, he had determined
to pass the interval in this holy solitude. Many
hours had he paced alone up and down the long promenades
of white marble which run everywhere between forests of dazzling
pinnacles and flying buttresses of airy lightness. Now
he rested in fixed attention against the wall above the choir,
which he could feel pulsating with throbs of sacred sound, as
if a great warm heart were beating within the fair marble
miracle, warming it into mysterious life and sympathy.

“I would now that boy were here to worship with me,”
he said. “No wonder the child's faith fainteth: it takes
such monuments as these of the Church's former days to
strengthen one's hopes. Ah, woe unto those by whom such
offence cometh!”


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At this moment the form of Agostino was seen ascending
the marble staircase.

The eye of the monk brightened as he came towards him.
He put out one hand eagerly to take his, and raised the
other with a gesture of silence.

“Look,” he said, “and listen! Is it not the sound of
many waters and mighty thunderings?”

Agostino stood subdued for the moment by the magnificent
sights and sounds; for, as the sun went down, the distant
mountains grew every moment more unearthly in their brilliancy,
— and as they lay in a long line, jewelled brightness
mingling with the cloud-wreaths of the far horizon, one
might have imagined that he in truth beheld the foundations
of that celestial city of jasper, pearl, and translucent gold
which the Apostle saw, and that the risings and fallings of
choral sound which seemed to thrill and pulsate through the
marble battlements were indeed that song like many waters
sung by the Church Triumphant above.

For a few moments the monk and the young man stood
in silence, till at length the monk spoke.

“You have told me, my son, that your heart often troubles
you in being more Roman than Christian; that you sometimes
doubt whether the Church on earth be other than a
fiction or a fable. But look around us. Who are these,
this great multitude who praise and pray continually in this
temple of the upper air? These are they who have come
out of great tribulation, having washed their robes and made
them white in the blood of the Lamb. These are not the
men that have sacked cities, and made deserts, and written
their triumphs in blood and carnage. These be men that
have sheltered the poor, and built houses for orphans, and
sold themselves into slavery to redeem their brothers in


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Christ. These be pure women who have lodged saints,
brought up children, lived holy and prayerful lives. These
be martyrs who have laid down their lives for the testimony
of Jesus. There were no such churches in old Rome, — no
such saints.”

“Well,” said Agostino, “one thing is certain. If such be
the True Church, the Pope and the Cardinals of our day
have no part in it; for they are the men who sack cities and
make desolations, who devour widows' houses and for a pretence
make long prayers. Let us see one of them selling
himself into slavery for the love of anybody, while they
seek to keep all the world in slavery to themselves!”

“That is the grievous declension our master weeps over,”
said the monk. “Ah, if the Bishops of the Church now
were like brave old Saint Ambrose, strong alone by faith
and prayer, showing no more favor to an unrepentant Emperor
than to the meanest slave, then would the Church be a
reality and a glory! Such is my master. Never is he afraid
of the face of king or lord, when he has God's truth to
speak. You should have heard how plainly he dealt with
our Lorenzo de' Medici on his death-bed, — how he refused
him absolution, unless he would make restitution to the poor
and restore the liberties of Florence.”

“I should have thought,” said the young man, sarcastically,
“that Lorenzo the Magnificent might have got absolution
cheaper than that. Where were all the bishops in
his dominion, that he must needs send for Jerome Savonarola?”

“Son, it is ever so,” replied the monk. “If there be a
man that cares neither for Duke nor Emperor, but for God
alone, then Dukes and Emperors would give more for his
good word than for a whole dozen of common priests.”


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“I suppose it is something like a rare manuscript or a
singular gem: these virtuosi have no rest till they have
clutched it. The thing they cannot get is always the thing
they want.”

“Lorenzo was always seeking our master,” said the monk.
“Often would he come walking in our gardens, expecting
surely he would hasten down to meet him; and the brothers
would run all out of breath to his cell to say, `Father, Lorenzo
is in the garden.' `He is welcome,' would he answer,
with his pleasant smile. `But, father, will you not descend
to meet him?' `Hath he asked for me?' `No.' `Well,
then, let us not interrupt his meditations,' he would answer,
and remain still at his reading, so jealous was he lest he
should seek the favor of princes and forget God, as does all
the world in our day.”

“And because he does not seek the favor of the men of
this world he will be trampled down and slain. Will the
God in whom he trusts defend him?”

The monk pointed expressively upward to the statues
that stood glorified above them, still wearing a rosy radiance,
though the shadows of twilight had fallen on all the
city below.

“My son,” he said, “the victories of the True Church are
not in time, but in eternity. How many around us were
conquered on earth that they might triumph in heaven!
What saith the Apostle? `They were tortured, not accepting
deliverance, that they might obtain a better resurrection.'”

“But, alas!” said Agostino, “are we never to see the
right triumph here? I fear that this noble name is written
in blood, like so many of whom the world is not worthy.
Can one do nothing to help it?”


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“How is that? What have you heard?” said the monk,
eagerly. “Have you seen your uncle?”

“Not yet; he is gone into the country for a day, — so say
his servants. I saw, when the Duke's court passed, my
cousin, who is in his train, and got a moment's speech with
him; and he promised, that, if I would wait for him here,
he would come to me as soon as he could be let off from
his attendance. When he comes, it were best that we
confer alone.”

“I will retire to the southern side,” said the monk, “and
await the end of your conference;” and with that he crossed
the platform on which they were standing, and, going down
a flight of white marble steps, was soon lost to view amid the
wilderness of frost-like carved work.

He had scarcely vanished, before footsteps were heard
ascending the marble staircase on the other side, and the
sound of a voice humming a popular air of the court.

The stranger was a young man of about five-and-twenty,
habited with all that richness and brilliancy of coloring
which the fashion of the day permitted to a young exquisite.
His mantle of purple velvet falling jauntily off from
one shoulder disclosed a doublet of amber satin richly embroidered
with gold and seed-pearl. The long white plume
which drooped from his cap was held in its place by a large
diamond which sparkled like a star in the evening twilight.
His finely moulded hands were loaded with rings, and ruffles
of the richest Venetian lace encircled his wrists. He had
worn over all a dark cloak with a peaked hood, the usual
evening disguise in Italy; but as he gained the top-stair of
the platform, he threw it carelessly down and gayly offered
his hand.

“Good even to you, cousin mine! So you see I am as


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true to my appointment as if your name were Leonora or
Camilla instead of Agostino. How goes it with you? I
wanted to talk with you below, but I saw we must have a
place without listeners. Our friends the saints are too high
in heavenly things to make mischief by eavesdropping.”

“Thank you, Cousin Carlos, for your promptness. And
now to the point. Did your father, my uncle, get the letter
I wrote him about a month since?”

“He did; and he bade me treat with you about it. It 's
an abominable snarl this they have got you into. My father
says, your best way is to come straight to him in France,
and abide till things take a better turn: he is high in favor
with the King and can find you a very pretty place at court,
and he takes it upon him in time to reconcile the Pope. Between
you and me, the old Pope has no special spite in the
world against you: he merely wants your lands for his son,
and as long as you prowl round and lay claim to them, why,
you must stay excommunicated; but just clear the coast and
leave them peaceably and he will put you back into the
True Church, and my father will charge himself with your
success. Popes don't last forever, or there may come another
falling out with the King of France, and either way
there will be a chance of your being one day put back into
your rights; meanwhile, a young fellow might do worse than
have a good place in our court.”

During this long monologue, which the young speaker
uttered with all the flippant self-sufficiency of worldly people
with whom the world is going well, the face of the young
nobleman who listened presented a picture of many strong
contending emotions.

“You speak,” he said, “as if man had nothing to do in
this world but seek his own ease and pleasure. What lies


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nearest my heart is not that I am plundered of my estates,
and my house uprooted, but it is that my beautiful Rome, the
city of my fathers, is a prisoner under the heel of the tyrant.
It is that the glorious religion of Christ, the holy faith in
which my mother died, the faith made venerable by all these
saints around us, is made the tool and instrument of such
vileness and cruelty that one is tempted to doubt whether it
were not better to have been born of heathen in the good
old times of the Roman Republic, — God forgive me for
saying so! Does the Most Christian King of France know
that the man who pretends to rule in the name of Christ is
not a believer in the Christian religion, — that he does not
believe even in a God, — that he obtained the holy seat by
simony, — that he uses all its power to enrich a brood of
children whose lives are so indecent that it is a shame to
modest lips even to say what they do?”

“Why, of course,” said the other, “the King of France is
pretty well informed about all these things. You know old
King Charles, when he marched through Italy, had more
than half a mind, they say, to pull the old Pope out of his
place; and he might have done it easily. My father was
in his train at that time, and he says the Pope was frightened
enough. Somehow they made it all up among them,
and settled about their territories, which is the main thing,
after all; and now our new King, I fancy, does not like to
meddle with him: between you and me, he has his eye in
another direction here. This gay city would suit him admirably,
and he fancies he can govern it as well as it is governed
now. My father does not visit here with his eyes
shut, I can tell you. But as to the Pope — Well, you
see such things are delicate to handle. After all, my dear
Agostino, we are not priests, — our business is with this


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world; and, no matter how they came by them, these fellows
have the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and one cannot
afford to quarrel with them, — we must have the ordinances,
you know, or what becomes of our souls? Do you suppose,
now, that I should live as gay and easy a life as I do, if I
thought there were any doubt of my salvation? It 's a
mercy to us sinners that the ordinances are not vitiated by
the sins of the priests; it would go hard with us, if they
were: as it is, if they will live scandalous lives, it is their
affair, not ours.”

“And is it nothing,” replied the other, “to a true man
who has taken the holy vows of knighthood on him, whether
his Lord's religion be defamed and dishonored and made a
scandal and a scoffing? Did not all Europe go out to save
Christ's holy sepulchre from being dishonored by the feet of
the Infidel? and shall we let infidels have the very house
of the Lord, and reign supreme in His holy dwelling-place?
There has risen a holy prophet in Italy, the greatest since
the time of Saint Francis, and his preaching hath stirred
all hearts to live more conformably with our holy faith; and
now for his pure life and good works he is under excommunication
of the Pope, and they have seized and imprisoned
him, and threaten his life.”

“Oh, you mean Savonarola,” said the other. “Yes, we
have heard of him, — a most imprudent, impracticable fellow,
who will not take advice nor be guided. My father, I
believe, thought well of him once, and deemed that in the
distracted state of Italy he might prove serviceable in forwarding
some of his plans: but he is wholly wrapt up in his
own notions; he heeds no will but his own.”

“Have you heard anything,” said Agostino, “of a letter
which he wrote to the King of France lately, stirring him up


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to call a General Council of the Christian Church to consider
what is to be done about the scandals at Rome?”

“Then he has written one, has he?” replied the young
man; “then the story that I have heard whispered about
here must be true. A man who certainly is in a condition
to know told me day before yesterday that the Duke had
arrested a courier with some such letter, and sent it on to
the Pope: it is likely, for the Duke hates Savonarola. If
that be true, it will go hard with him yet; for the Pope has
a long arm for an enemy.”

“And so,” said Agostino, with an expression of deep concern,
“that letter, from which the good man hoped so much,
and which was so powerful, will only go to increase his

“The more fool he! — he might have known that it was
of no use. Who was going to take his part against the

“The city of Florence has stood by him until lately,” said
Agostino, — “and would again, with a little help.”

“Oh, no! never think it, my dear Agostino! Depend
upon it, it will end as such things always do, and the man
is only a madman that undertakes it. Hark ye, cousin, what
have you to do with this man? Why do you attach yourself
to the side that is sure to lose? I cannot conceive what you
would be at. This is no way to mend your fortunes. Come
to-night to my father's palace: the Duke has appointed us
princely lodgings, and treats us with great hospitality, and
my father has plans for your advantage. Between us, there
is a fair young ward of his, of large estates and noble blood,
whom he designs for you. So you see, if you turn your
attention in this channel, there may come a reinforcement of
the family property, which will enable you to hold out until


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the Pope dies, or some prince or other gets into a quarrel
with him, which is always happening, and then a move may
be made for you. My father, I 'll promise you, is shrewd
enough, and always keeps his eye open to see where there
is a joint in the harness, and have a trusty dagger-blade all
whetted to stick under. Of course, he means to see you
righted; he has the family interest at heart, and feels as
indignant as you could at the rascality which has been perpetrated;
but I am quite sure he will tell you that the way is
not to come out openly against the Pope and join this fanatical

Agostino stood silent, with the melancholy air of a man
who has much to say, and is deeply moved by considerations
which he perceives it would be utterly idle and useless to
attempt to explain. If the easy theology of his friend were
indeed true, — if the treasures of the heavenly kingdom,
glory, honor, and immortality, could indeed be placed in
unholy hands, to be bought and sold and traded in, — if holiness
of heart and life, and all those nobler modes of living
and being which were witnessed in the histories of the thousand
saints around him, were indeed but a secondary thing
in the strife for worldly place and territory, — what, then,
remained for the man of ideas, of aspirations? In such a
state of society, his track must be like that of the dove
in sacred history, who found no rest for the sole of her

Agostino folded his arms and sighed deeply, and then
made answer mechanically, as one whose thoughts are afar

“Present my duty,” he said, “to my uncle, your father
and say to him that I will wait on him to-night.”

“Even so,” said the young man, picking up his cloak and


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folding it about him. “And now, you know, I must go.
Don't be discouraged; keep up a good heart; you shall see
what it is to have powerful friends to stand by you; all will
be right yet. Come, will you go with me now?”

“Thank you,” said Agostino, “I think I would be alone a
little while. My head is confused, and I would fain think
over matters a little quietly.”

“Well, au revoir, then. I must leave you to the company
of the saints. But be sure and come early.”

So saying, he threw his cloak over his shoulder and sauntered
carelessly down the marble steps, humming again the
gay air with which he had ascended.

Left alone, Agostino once more cast a glance on the
strangely solemn and impressive scene around him. He
was standing on a platform of the central tower which overlooked
the whole building. The round, full moon had now
risen in the horizon, displacing by her solemn brightness the
glow of twilight; and her beams were reflected by the delicate
frost-work of the myriad pinnacles which rose in a
bewildering maze at his feet. It might seem to be some
strange enchanted garden of fairy-land, where a luxuriant
and freakish growth of Nature had been suddenly arrested
and frozen into eternal stillness. Around in the shadows at
the foot of the Cathedral the lights of the great gay city
twinkled and danced and veered and fluttered like fireflies
in the damp, dewy shadows of some moist meadow in summer.
The sound of clattering hoofs and rumbling wheels,
of tinkling guitars and gay roundelays, rose out of that
obscure distance, seeming far off and plaintive like the dream
of a life that is past. The great church seemed a vast
world; the long aisles of statued pinnacles with their pure
floorings of white marble appeared as if they might be the


Page 317
corridors of heaven; and it seemed as if the crowned and
sceptred saints in their white marriage-garments might come
down and walk there, without ever a spot of earth on their
unsullied whiteness.

In a few moments Father Antonio had glided back to the
side of the young man, whom he found so lost in reverie
that not till he laid his hand upon his arm did he awaken
from his meditations.

“Ah!” he said, with a start, “my father, is it you?”

“Yes, my son. What of your conference? Have you
learned anything?”

“Father, I have learned far more than I wished to

“What is it, my son? Speak it at once.”

“Well, then, I fear that the letter of our holy father to
the King of France has been intercepted here in Milan,
and sent to the Pope.”

“What makes you think so?” said the monk, with an
eagerness that showed how much he felt the intelligence.

“My cousin tells me that a person of consideration in the
Duke's household, who is supposed to be in a position to
know, told him that it was so.”

Agostino felt the light grasp which the monk had laid
upon his arm gradually closing with a convulsive pressure,
and that he was trembling with intense feeling.

“Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight!”
he said, after a few moments of silence.

“It is discouraging,” said Agostino, “to see how little
these princes care for the true interests of religion and the
service of God, — how little real fealty there is to our Lord

“Yes,” said the monk, “all seek their own, and not the


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things that are Christ's. It is well written, `Put not your
trust in princes.'”

“And what prospect, what hope do you see for him?”
said Agostino. “Will Florence stand firm?”

“I could have thought so once,” said the monk, — “in
those days when I have seen counsellors and nobles and
women of the highest degree all humbly craving to hear the
word of God from his lips, and seeming to seek nothing so
much as to purify their houses, their hands, and their hearts,
that they might be worthy citizens of that commonwealth
which has chosen the Lord Jesus for its gonfalonier. I have
seen the very children thronging to kiss the hem of his robe,
as he walked through the streets; but, oh, my friend, did
not Jerusalem bring palms and spread its garments in the
way of Christ only four days before he was crucified?”

The monk's voice here faltered. He turned away and
seemed to wrestle with a tempest of suppressed sobbing. A
moment more, he looked heavenward and pointed up with a

“Son,” he said, “you ask what hope there is. I answer,
There is hope of such crowns as these wear who came out
of great tribulation and now reign with Christ in glory.”


“Ye are come unto Mount Sion, and unto the city of the living God,
the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels, to the
general assembly and church of the first-born, which are written in heaven.”