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Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone
And love to raise the languid eye,
When, like an angel's wing, they feel him flitting by.
A stanza one can hardly quote without fancying it suggested by Scutari and Florence Nightingale.
Borromeo's excellences stand out in the most prominent relief from the circumstances of his social position, and the temptations to which his affinity to the Pope subjected him. He was nephew to Pius IV.; but, as the historian of the Popes remarks, he regarded this relationship, and the contact into which it brought him with the weightiest affairs of government, not as conveying to him a right to any selfish indulgence, but as imposing duties to which he was to devote himself with all assiduity. "It redounds very greatly to his praise," says Jerome Lorenzo, in reference to Borromeo's early career, "that in the prime of his years, nephew to a pope whose favour he fully enjoys, and residing at a court where he might procure himself every kind of pleasure, he leads so exemplary a life." At this period his chief recreation seems to have been the collecting learned men about him of an evening-réunions commemorated by one of his biographers under the title of Noctes Vaticanæ— when the young præses would adroitly direct the conversation from Epictetus and old heathen
Budge doctors of the stoic fur,
to questions of Church polity, doctrine, and discipline-lest any one of the Noctes should close on the ecclesiastic with the reflection, Perdidi diem. Man of action as Borromeo became, he was yet a littérateur on no insignificant scale. In 1747 his works were collected in five volumes folio-a world of print! His Manual of Religion has been warmly applauded by Frederic Schlegelf for its excellence philosophical, theological, and literary.
There is another monument, however, by means of which Borromeo is had in remembrance more vividly and far more widely than by any Remains in folio. Every traveller to Milan makes a point of seeing the chapel where the body of the Saint lies magnificently enshrined-the chosen spot indicated in his own epitaph, Cupiens hoc loco sibi monumentum vivens elegit-an epitaph duly inscribed
When Borromeo to the tomb
Was borne 'mid all-pervading gloom,
".... Every new error-every new shape which the old Proteus may assume in the changing spirit of time, requires, not indeed a new philosophy. but a new direction and form given to philosophy, a new resuscitation of its powers. Indeed, the venerable bishop and holy man of God, St. Charles Borromeo, had in his Manual of Religion furnished an example, in which we see the utmost profundity of ascetic science united with a beautiful clearness of expression, and the greatest simplicity and purity of taste."-Schlegel's Philosophy of History, xvii.
We need scarcely remind the reader that this Schlegel, the younger of the brothers, had himself "gone over" to the Church of St. Charles, when he thus
no mere "windy suspiration of forced breath," a stranger assures us, that Scottish minstrel who turns, however, from mourning over Borromeo to congratulate Gaspar Visconti on his promotion to the vacant see. From the books of travel, by Englishmen of mark, which, at sundry times, and in divers manners, have described this time-honoured "lying in state," we select two passages to the purpose-one from Addison, the other from Talfourd-with a century and a half between.
"There is just before the entrance of the choir," writes Addison, little subterraneous chapel, dedicated to St. Charles Borromée, where I saw his body, in episcopal robes, lying upon the altar in a shrine of rockcrystal. His chapel is adorned with abundance of silver work. He was but two-and-twenty years old when he was chosen Archbishop of Milan, and forty-six at his death; but made so good use of so short a time, by his works of charity and munificence, that his countrymen bless his memory, which is still fresh among them. He was canonised about a hundred years ago; and, indeed," adds the future Tatler and Spectator, in the true spirit of those coming shadows-"if this honour were due to any man, I think such public-spirited virtues may lay a juster claim to it, than a sour retreat from mankind, a fiery zeal against Heterodoxies, a set of chimerical visions, or of whimsical penances, which are generally the qualifications of Roman saints."+
"During the three days we spent at Milan," writes the late Mr. Justice Talfourd, "we made several visits to the cathedral, returning wearied from other sights to seek unfailing refreshment in beholding it; and, at last, we applied the silver key of five francs to the sepulchre where the great and good Cardinal Borromeo, in his proper person, lies amidst treasures of gold and gems. Whether the wealth be real or simulated is a question of little moment"-especially, we may remark in passing, to the cardinal himself;" in either case the mockery of earthly pomp is the same; but the exhibition of the actual remains of famed and titled mortality has a freezing interest for us poor humans.' That chamber of the grave, which Sir Thomas Browne would think too garish, preserves something nearer to life than a skeleton or a mummy, in the quintessence of dust' which it contains. On that skin of parchment yet lingers-or seems to linger an expression of anxious benevolence; painful like that which lives in the memory of all those who knew the living Charles Lamb, but retaining still a trace of ineffable sweetness yet claimed from the grave. In gazing on it with admiring sympathy, I felt assured that of all human qualities gentleness is the most imperishable in death as in life; because gentleness has in it none of the elements of decay which blend with fierce passions and proud virtues. Here, not only did the ashes of the just' in moral power achieve a victory over the grave, but the very dust itself bore witness to the angelic nature which possessed it living."
*Crichton. See Translations appended to Ainsworth's "Ballads, &c."
† Addison's "Remarks on Several Parts of Italy, &c., in the Years 1701, 1702, 1703."
Talfourd's "Supplementary Vacation Rambles," ch. vii.
FIVE THOUSAND A YEAR.
BY THE AUTHOR OF ASHLEY."
ON a comfortable sofa by the side of a large fire in a spacious drawingroom, lay a lady, young and handsome. Not, however, in the extreme of youth, or in girlhood, for she had been a wife and mother some years, and was getting towards eight or nine and twenty. Her face was deathly to look upon. Not a shade of colouring appeared in its features, even in the lips; and the eyes were not like eyes, but like two lumps of lead set in there. She had recently passed through a perilous illness, and though so far recovered as to be in the drawing-room, it could not be said she was out of danger. Excessive debility, continued inward fever, and a cough that could not be got rid of, struggled with each other now, and kept her down. She was lying with her eyes closed, awake, but in a sort of unresisting stupor: she mostly lay so all day long, and had done so for the last ten weeks. One, drawing near, could have heard her laboured breathing, rendering her sentences, when she did speak, abrupt and broken.
The room door opened, and a lad of six came in ; too boisterously-but how impart thoughtfulness to young children? He had his mother's handsome features, her expressive dark eyes, and her naturally fine colour. She slowly opened her eyes.
"I want to say good-by to you, mamma. Sophy was going to take me without, but I ran away from her."
"And have woke up your ma, like an obstinate boy as you are!" broke in Sophy. "I wonder, ma'am, you don't forbid his coming in, unless you please to ring for him."
"I thought you were already at school, Algernon," she panted. it not late?"
Half-past two," said Sophy.
It was on the stroke of three, but the servants had sat gossiping over their dinner, and Sophy did not hurry herself to move. She thought her mistress, lying there, would not know whether it was late or early. The child drew near to kiss her.
Sophy, did you ask Mrs. Smith
"No, ma'am, I didn't think of it. She looked as usual." Mrs. Smith was Algernon's governess. She kept a day school. She was not strong, often complained of feeling ill, and Mrs. Grainger had got into the habit of asking Sophy how she was.
"Algernon, darling, be a good boy. this morning how she was ?"
They left the room, and Mrs. Grainger relapsed into stillness. But thought came across her, troubling her mind, as it often did; though it made no outward sign.
Should she live? Or would this illness be her consignment to the grave? She could not bear to think of it: though her great weakness caused her to feel all anxiety, even this, less poignantly than would one in health. She could not bear to think of leaving her children; she
could not bear to think that another might ever usurp her place with her husband; be his wife, and their second mother. And yet-unless she speedily got better
The room door opened again, and the same child entered. Sophy also. "What has brought you back?" asked Mrs. Grainger.
"Mrs. Smith's very poorly, ma'am. Her head is so bad she felt it impossible to keep school this afternoon, so she has sent them all back again."
"How tiresome!" feebly uttered Mrs. Grainger.
"She desired her respects to you, ma'am, and she hoped you would excuse it for once, but that indeed she was too ill to bear their noise."
Well, well; children are troublesome when one is ill. into the nursery, Sophy, and help nurse to amuse them. Algie, dear child, I am not well enough to have you here."
The boy bounded off, full of life and spirits, intending to play with, or tease, his sister Isabel: and what with thinking, dozing, and restlessly turning, the invalid got through another hour or two. The servants came in now and then, to see to the fire, or to urge refreshment on their mistress, and the next interruption was from Mr. Grainger.
He was a remarkably good-looking man, full of spirits as his little son, and he came in with a merry smile on his face, and a cheering word. No words but cheering ones were ever heard from him. He edged himself on to the sofa, and leaning over his wife, kissed her repeatedly.
"Adam," she sighed, "I feel so low this afternoon! I know I shall never get better."
"You foolish girl! You are a mile and a half better than you were a week ago. And I have got some news for you."
"Yes?" she languidly answered.
"It's this. I called on Dr. Rice as I came home, and he assured me you were progressing towards recovery as fast as one, so ill as you have been, can progress. And he has engaged us to go there this day month, for he knows you will be ready for it."
"How stupid he is!"
"You will not say so when you find him right. You have not had the baby in worrying you; or Algernon ?"
"No; not any of them."
"That's right! Did cook get you the oysters and do them nicely?" "She got them, but it was of no use. I cannot eat."
"But you must eat, Margaret," he answered, in a more serious tone. "It is no good going on, day after day, saying you cannot eat; you must eat."
"How can I? Everything I try to swallow is like dry chips in my throat. If my appetite should ever come back
"If! Now Margaret! How can you talk so? It is coming back. In a week's time you will be asking for mutton-chops all day long, and instead of your port wine being coddled into jelly, to take out the spirit and strength, you will be drinking half a dozen glasses a day."
She made no reply. Only sighed and got possession of his hand, lying with it pressed close to her, her eyes closed. He gazed at her in silence; and, now that she was not looking, the hopeful expression faded from his own face. He knew she was in a precarious state.
"Little has got into a splendid thing," he said, presently.
"Some mines in Cornwall. He and some more fellows are going to work them. I expect, when the thing's regularly afoot, Little will be netting his thousands a year. It is astonishing to hear his account of the wealth opening to them. I have half a mind to drop my spare cash
"Of course I must hear more about it first, and be all sure. going out after dinner to meet Little, and look at his plans and papers." "You will not stay late?" she said, anxiously. "I feel so dull in an evening."
"No fear, Margaret. I'll be off the minute dinner's over, and be back by eight; or half-past at latest. But don't you sit up till then: when you feel tired, go to bed."
Mr. Grainger's getting back at eight, proved to be ten. His head was whirling round with the grand projects for making wealth, just unfolded to him. They went out of it, however, when he found his wife still in the drawing-room, and he inquired, almost in anger, how she could be so imprudent.
"I waited for you," she said, scarcely able, now, to speak from exhaustion. "And I have too much bed. Up from it late, and going to it early! It makes me weaker. I know it does. To-morrow I shall get up to breakfast."
"Margaret! how can you speak so foolishly ?"
"I shall. I shall get up and try it."
'Very well," he cheerfully said. He would not contest the point then, for she was in no state for it.
And the following morning she did get up. Not to breakfast, but directly after it. By ten o'clock she was in the drawing-room. Standing for a moment at the window, and looking out on the gay London street, she saw Sophy cross the road with Algernon in her hand, towards the house of the schoolmistress. It was partly within view, down a side street, at right angles with their own. "Ten
"Sad management!" she exclaimed, turning to her sofa. o'clock, and the child not taken! It is a sign I am away from everything."
She lay down, and presently, to her surprise, she heard the voice of Algernon on the stairs, talking to one of the servants. Sophy came in alone. "What have you brought him back for?" her mistress said, almost sharply.
"If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Smith is dead."
Mrs. Grainger rose up and looked at her, really doubting her ears. "What do you say, Sophy ?"
"Mrs. Smith is dead."
"Dead, ma'am. She died in the night. Her husband says it was decline, and she knew she should not get well, but she bore up to the last to keep the scholars together. I expect they had nothing else to live upon, for he gets no teaching at his foreign languages. He is cut up