Annie Hamilton Donnell - "Rebecca Mary"

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Horatio Alger [supposed] - "Nothing to Eat"

Lucy Maud Montgomery - "Kilmeny of the Orchard"

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Books: Lothair

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Lothair




"It is the anniversary of the greatest event of time," said Lothair;
"and I should be sorry if any of my Church did not entirely regard it,
though they may show that regard in a way different from your own."

"Yes, yes," murmured Lady St. Jerome; "there should be no difference
between our Churches, if things were only properly understood. I would
accept all who really bow to the name of Christ; they will come to the
Church at last; they must. It is the atheists alone, I fear, who are
now carrying every thing before them, and against whom there is no
comfort, except the rock of St. Peter."

Miss Arundel crossed the room, whispered something to her aunt, and
touched her forehead with her lips, and then left the apartment.

"We must soon separate, I fear," said Lady St. Jerome; "we have an
office to-night of great moment; the Tenebrae commence to-night. You
have, I think, nothing like it; but you have services throughout this
week."

"I am sorry to say I have not attended them," said Lothair. "I did at
Oxford; but I don't know how it is, but in London there seems no
religion. And yet, as you sometimes say, religion is the great business
of life; I sometimes begin to think the only business."

"Yes, yes," said Lady St. Jerome, with much interest, "if you believe
that you are safe. I wish you had a clergyman near you while you are
here. See Mr. Claughton, if you like; I would; and, if you do not,
there is Father Coleman. I cannot convey to you how satisfactory
conversation is with him on religious matters. He is the holiest of
men, and yet he is a man of the world; he will not invite you into any
controversies. He will speak with you only on points on which we agree.
You know there are many points on which we agree?"

"Happily," said Lothair. "And now about the office to-night: tell me
about these Tenebrae. Is there any thing in the Tenebrae why I ought not
to be present?"

"No reason whatever; not a dogma which you do not believe; not a
ceremony of which you cannot approve. There are Psalms, at the end of
which a light on the altar is extinguished. There is the Song of Moses,
the Canticle of Zachary, the Miserere -- which is the 50th Psalm you
read and chant regularly in your church -- the Lord's Prayer in silence;
and then all is darkness and distress -- what the Church was when our
Lord suffered, what the whole world is now except His Church."

"If you will permit me," said Lothair, "I will accompany you to the
Tenebrae."

Although the chapel at Vauxe was, of course, a, private chapel, it was
open to the surrounding public, who eagerly availed themselves of a
permission alike politic and gracious.

Nor was that remarkable. Manifold art had combined to create this
exquisite temple, and to guide all its ministrations. But to-night it
was not the radiant altar and the splendor of stately priests, the
processions and the incense, the divine choir and the celestial
harmonies resounding lingering in arched roofs, that attracted many a
neighbor. The altar was desolate, the choir was dumb; and while the
services proceeded in hushed tones of subdued sorrow, and sometimes even
of suppressed anguish, gradually, with each psalm and canticle, a light
of the altar was extinguished, till at length the Miserere was muttered,
and all became darkness. A sound as of a distant and rising wind was
heard, and a crash, as it were the fall of trees in a storm. The earth
is covered with darkness, and the veil of the temple is rent. But just
at this moment of extreme woe, when all human voices are silent, and
when it is forbidden even to breathe "Amen" -- when every thing is
symbolical of the confusion and despair of the Church at the loss of her
expiring Lord -- a priest brings forth a concealed light of silvery
flame from a corner of the altar. This is the light of the world, and
announced the resurrection, and then all rise up and depart in silence.

As Lothair rose, Miss Arundel passed him with streaming eyes.

"There is nothing in this holy office," said Father Coleman to Lothair,
"to which every real Christian might not give his assent."

"Nothing," said Lothair, with great decision.



CHAPTER 15


There were Tenebrae on the following days, Maundy Thursday and Good
Friday, and Lothair was present on both occasions.

"There is also a great office on Friday," said Father Coleman to
Lothair, "which perhaps you would not like to attend -- the mass of the
pre-sanctified. We bring back the blessed sacrament to the desolate
altar, and unveil the cross. It is one of our highest ceremonies, the
adoration of the cross, which the Protestants persist in calling
idolatry, though I presume they will give us leave to know the meaning
of our own words and actions, and hope they will believe us when we tell
them that our genuflexions and kissing of the cross are no more than
exterior expressions of that love which we bear in our hearts to Jesus
crucified; and that the words adoration and adore, as applied to the
cross, only signify that respect and veneration due to things
immediately relating to God and His service."

"I see no idolatry in it," said Lothair, musingly.

"No impartial person could," rejoined Father Coleman; "but unfortunately
all these prejudices were imbibed when the world was not so well
informed as at present. A good deal of mischief has been done, too, by
the Protestant versions of the Holy Scriptures; made in a hurry, and by
men imperfectly acquainted with the Eastern tongues, and quite ignorant
of Eastern manners. All the accumulated research and investigation of
modern times have only illustrated and justified the offices of the
Church."

"That is very interesting," said Lothair.

"Now, this question of idolatry," said Father Coleman, "that is a
fertile subject of misconception. The house of Israel was raised up to
destroy idolatry because idolatry thou meant dark images of Moloch
opening their arms by machinery, and flinging the beauteous first-born
of the land into their huge forms, which were furnaces of fire; or
Ashtaroth, throned in moonlit groves, and surrounded by orgies of
ineffable demoralization. It required the declared will of God to
redeem man from such fatal iniquity, which would have sapped the human
race. But to confound such deeds with the commemoration of God's
saints, who are only pictured because their lives are perpetual
incentives to purity and holiness, and to declare that the Queen of
Heaven and the Mother of God should be to human feeling only as a sister
of charity or a gleaner in the fields, is to abuse reason and to outrage
the heart."

"We live in dark times," said Lothair, with an air of distress.

"Not darker than before the deluge," exclaimed Father Coleman; "not
darker than before the nativity; not darker even than when the saints
became martyrs. There is a Pharos in the world, and, its light will
never be extinguished, however black the clouds and wild the waves. Man
is on his trial now, not the Church; but in the service of the Church
his highest energies may be developed, and his noblest qualities
proved."

Lothair seemed plunged in thought, and Father Coleman glided away as
Lady St. Jerome entered the gallery, shawled and bonneted, accompanied
by another priest, Monsignore Catesby.

Catesby was a youthful member of an ancient English house, which for
many generations had without a murmur, rather in a spirit of triumph,
made every worldly sacrifice for the Church and court of Rome. For that
cause they had forfeited their lives, broad estates, and all the honors
of a lofty station in their own land. Reginald Catesby, with
considerable abilities, trained with consummate skill, inherited their
determined will, and the traditionary beauty of their form and
countenance. His manners were winning, and, he was as well informed in
the ways of the world as he was in the works of the great casuists.

"My lord has ordered the char- -banc, and is going to drive us all to
Chart, where we will lunch," said Lady St. Jerome; "'tis a curious
place, and was planted, only seventy years ago, by my lord's
grandfather, entirely with spruce-firs, but with so much care and skill,
giving each plant and tree ample distance, that they have risen to the
noblest proportions, with all their green branches far-spreading on the
ground like huge fans."

It was only a drive of three or four miles entirely in the park. This
was a district that had been added to the ancient enclosure -- a
striking scene. It was a forest of firs, but quite unlike such as might
be met with in the north of Europe or of America. Every tree was
perfect -- huge and complete, and full of massy grace. Nothing else was
permitted to grow there except juniper, of which there were abounding
and wondrous groups, green and spiral; the whole contrasting with the
tall brown fern, of which there were quantities about, cut for the deer.

The turf was dry and mossy, and the air pleasant. It was a balmy day.
They sat down by the great trees, the servants opened the
luncheon-baskets, which were a present from Balmoral. Lady St. Jerome
was seldom seen to greater advantage than distributing her viands under
such circumstances. Never was such gay and graceful hospitality.
Lothair was quite fascinated as she playfully thrust a paper of
lobster-sandwiches into his hand, and enjoined Monsignore Catesby to
fill his tumbler with Chablis.

"I wish Father Coleman were here," said Lothair to Miss Arundel.

"Why?" said Miss Arundel.

"Because we were in the midst of a very interesting conversation on
idolatry and on worship in groves, when Lady St. Jerome summoned us to
our drive. This seems a grove where one might worship."

"Father Coleman ought to be at Rome," said Miss Arundel. "He was to
have passed Holy Week there. I know not why he changed his plans."

"Are you angry with him for it?"

"No, not angry, but surprised; surprised that any one might be at Rome,
and yet be absent from it."

"You like Rome?"

"I have never been there. It is the wish of my life."

"May I say to you what you said to me just now -- why?"

"Naturally, because I would wish to witness the ceremonies of the Church
in their most perfect form."

"But they are fulfilled in this country, I have heard, with much
splendor and precision."

Miss Arundel shook her head.

"Oh! no," she said; "in this country we are only just emerging from the
catacombs. If the ceremonies of the Church were adequately fulfilled
in England, we should hear very little of English infidelity."

"That is saying a great deal," observed Lothair, inquiringly.

"Had I that command of wealth of which we hear so much in the present
day, and with which the possessors seem to know so little what to do, I
would purchase some of those squalid streets in Westminster, which are
the shame of the metropolis, and clear a great space and build a real
cathedral, where the worship of heaven should be perpetually conducted
in the full spirit of the ordinances of the Church. I believe, were
this done, even this country might be saved."



CHAPTER 16


Lothair began to meditate on two great ideas -- the reconciliation of
Christendom, and the influence of architecture on religion. If the
differences between the Roman and Anglican Churches, and between the
papacy and Protestantism generally arose, as Father Coleman assured him,
and seemed to prove, in mere misconception, reconciliation, though
difficult, did not seem impossible, and appeared to be one of the most
efficient modes of defeating the atheists. It was a result which, of
course, mainly depended on the authority of Reason; but the power of the
imagination might also be enlisted in the good cause through the
influence of the fine arts, of which the great mission is to excite, and
at the same time elevate, the feelings of the human family. Lothair
found himself frequently in a reverie over Miss Arundel's ideal fane;
and, feeling that he had the power of buying up a district in forlorn
Westminster, and raising there a temple to the living God, which might
influence the future welfare of millions, and even effect the salvation
of his country, he began to ask himself whether he could incur the
responsibility of shrinking from the fulfilment of this great duty.

Lothair could not have a better adviser on the subject of the influence
of architecture on religion than Monsignore Catesby. Monsignore Catesby
had been a pupil of Pugin; his knowledge of ecclesiastical architecture
was only equalled by his exquisite taste. To hear him expound the
mysteries of symbolical art, and expatiate on the hidden revelations of
its beauteous forms, reached even to ecstasy. Lothair hung upon his
accents like a neophyte. Conferences with Father Coleman on those
points of faith on which they did not differ, followed up by desultory
remarks on those points of faith on which they ought not to differ --
critical discussions with Monsignore Catesby on cathedrals, their forms,
their purposes, and the instances in several countries in which those
forms were most perfect and those purposes best secured -- occupied a
good deal of time; and yet these engaging pursuits were secondary in
real emotion to his frequent conversations with Miss Arundel in whose
society every day he took a strange and deeper interest.

She did not extend to him that ready sympathy which was supplied by the
two priests. On the contrary, when he was apt to indulge in those
speculations which they always encouraged, and rewarded by adroit
applause, she was often silent, throwing on him only the scrutiny of
those violet yes, whose glance was rather fascinating than apt to
captivate. And yet he was irresistibly drawn to her, and, once recalling
the portrait in the gallery, he ventured to murmur that they were
kinsfolk.

"Oh! I have no kin, no country," said Miss Arundel. "These are not
times for kin and country. I have given up all these things for my
Master!"

"But are our times so trying as that?" inquired Lothair.

"They are times for new crusades," said Miss Arundel, with energy,
"though it may be of a different character from the old. If I were a
man, I would draw my sword for Christ. There are as great deeds to be
done as the siege of Ascalon, or even as the freeing of the Holy
Sepulchre."

In the midst of a profound discussion with Father Coleman on Mariolatry,
Lothair, rapt in reverie, suddenly introduced the subject of Miss
Arundel. "I wonder what will be her lot?" he exclaimed.

"It seems to, me to be settled," said Father Coleman. "She will be the
bride of the Church."

"Indeed?" and he started, and even changed color.

"She deems it her vocation," said Father Coleman.

"And yet, with such gifts, to be immured in a convent," said Lothair.

"That would not necessarily follow," replied Father Coleman. "Miss
Arundel may occupy a position in which she may exercise much influence
for the great cause which absorbs her being."

"There is a divine energy about her," said Lothair, almost speaking to
himself. "It could not have been given for little ends."

"If Miss Arundel could meet with a spirit as and as energetic as her
own," said Father. Coleman, "Her fate might be different. She has no
thoughts which are not great, and no purposes which are not sublime.
But for the companion of her life she would require no less than a
Godfrey de Bouillon."

Lothair began to find the time pass very rapidly at Vauxe. Easter week
had nearly vanished; Vauxe had been gay during the last few days. Every
day some visitors came down from London; sometimes they returned in the
evening; sometimes they passed the night at Vauxe, and returned to town
in the morning with large bouquets. Lothair felt it was time for him to
interfere, and he broke his intention to Lady St. Jerome; but Lady St.
Jerome would not hear of it. So he muttered something about business.

"Exactly," she said; "everybody has business, and I dare say you have a
great deal. But Vauxe is exactly the place for persons who have
business. You go up to town by an early train, and then you return
exactly in time for dinner, and bring us all the news from the clubs."

Lothair was beginning to say something, but Lady St. Jerome, who, when
necessary, had the rare art of not listening without offending the
speaker, told him that they did not intend themselves to return to town
for a week or so, and that she knew Lord St. Jerome would be greatly
annoyed if Lothair did not remain.

Lothair remained; and he went up to town one or two mornings to transact
business; that is to say, to see a celebrated architect and to order
plans for a cathedral, in which all the purposes of those sublime and
exquisite structures were to be realized. The drawings would take a
considerable time to prepare, and these must be deeply considered. So
Lothair became quite domiciliated at Vauxe: he went up to town in the
morning, and returned, as it were, to his home; everybody delighted to
welcome him, and yet he seemed not expected. His rooms were called
after his name; and the household treated him as one of the family.



CHAPTER 17


A few days before Lothair's visit was to terminate, the cardinal and
Monsignore Berwick arrived at Vauxe. His eminence was received with
much ceremony; the marshalled household, ranged in lines, fell on their
knees at his approach, and Lady St. Jerome, Miss Arundel, and some other
ladies, scarcely less choice and fair, with the lowest obeisance,
touched, with their honored lips, his princely hand.

The monsignore had made another visit to Paris on his intended return to
Rome, but, in consequence of some secret intelligence which he had
acquired in the French capital, had thought fit to return to England to
consult with the cardinal. There seemed to be no doubt that the
revolutionary party in Italy, assured by the withdrawal of the French
troops from Rome, were again stirring. There seemed also little doubt
that London was the centre of preparation, though the project and the
projectors were involved in much, mystery. "They want money," said the
monsignore; "that we know, and that is now our best chance. The
Aspromonte expedition drained their private resources; and as for
further aid, that is out of the question; the galantuomo is bankrupt.
But the atheists are desperate, and we must prepare for events."

On the morning after their arrival, the cardinal invited Lothair to a
stroll in the park. "There is the feeling of spring this morning," said
his eminence, "though scarcely yet its vision." It was truly a day of
balm, and sweetness, and quickening life; a delicate mist hung about the
huge trees and the masses of more distant woods, and seemed to clothe
them with that fulness of foliage which was not yet theirs. The
cardinal discoursed much on forest-trees, and, happily. He recommended
Lothair to read Evelyn's "Sylva." Mr. Evelyn had a most accomplished
mind; indeed, a character in every respect that approached perfection.
He was also a most religious man.

"I wonder," said Lothair, "how any man who is religious can think of any
thing but religion."

"True," said the cardinal, and looking at him earnestly, "most true.
But all things that are good and beautiful make us more religious. They
tend to the development of the religious principle in us, which is our
divine nature. And, my dear young friend," and here his eminence put
his arm easily and affectionately into that of Lothair, "it is a most
happy thing for you, that you live so much with a really religious
family. It is a great boon for a young man, and a rare one."

"I feel it so," said Lothair, his face kindling.

"Ah!" said the cardinal, "when we remember that this country once
consisted only of such families!" And then, with a sigh, and as if
speaking to himself, "And they made it so great and so beautiful!"

"It is still great and beautiful," said Lothair, but rather in a tone of
inquiry than decision.

"But the cause of its greatness and its beauty no longer exists. It
became great and beautiful because it believed in God."

"But faith is not extinct?" said Lothair.

"It exists in the Church," replied the cardinal, with decision. "All
without that pale is practical atheism."

"It seems to me that a sense of duty is natural to man," said Lothair,
"and that there can be no satisfaction in life without attempting to
fulfil it."

"Noble words, my dear young friend; noble and true. And the highest
duty of man, especially in this age, is to vindicate the principles of
religion, without which the world must soon become a scene of universal
desolation."

"I wonder if England will ever again be a religious country?" said
Lothair, musingly.

"I pray for that daily," said the cardinal; and he invited his companion
to seat himself on the trunk of an oak that had been lying there since
the autumn fall. A slight hectic flame played over the pale and
attenuated countenance of the cardinal; he seemed for a moment in deep
thought; and then, in a voice distinct yet somewhat hushed, and at
first rather faltering, he said: "I know not a grander, or a nobler
career, for a young man of talents and position in this age, than to be
the champion and asserter of Divine truth. It is not probable that
there could be another conqueror in out time. The world is wearied of
statesmen; whom democracy has degraded into politicians, and of orators
who have become what they call debaters. I do not believe there could
be another Dante, even another Milton. The world is devoted to physical
science, because it believes these discoveries will increase its
capacity of luxury and self-indulgence. But the pursuit of science
leads only to the insoluble. When we arrive at that barren term, the
Divine voice summons man, as it summoned Samuel; all the poetry and
passion and sentiment of human nature are taking refuge in religion; and
he, whose deeds and words most nobly represent Divine thoughts, will be
the man of this century."

"But who could be equal to such a task?" murmured Lothair.

"Yourself," exclaimed the cardinal, and he threw his glittering eye upon
his companion. "Any one with the necessary gifts, who had implicit
faith in the Divine purpose."

"But the Church is perplexed; it is ambiguous, contradictory."

"No, no," said the cardinal; "not the Church of Christ; it is never
perplexed, never ambiguous, never contradictory. Why should it be? How
could it be? The Divine persons are ever with it, strengthening and
guiding it with perpetual miracles. Perplexed churches are churches
made by Act of Parliament, not by God."

Lothair seemed to start, and looked at his guardian with a scrutinizing
glance. And then he said, but not without hesitation, "I experience at
times great despondency."

"Naturally," replied the cardinal. "Every man must be despondent who is
not a Christian."

"But I am a Christian," said Lothair.

"A Christian estranged," said the cardinal; "a Christian without the
consolations of Christianity."

"There is something in that," said Lothair. "I require the consolations
of Christianity, and yet I feel I have them not. Why is this?"

"Because what you call your religion is a thing apart from your life,
and it ought to be your life. Religion should be the rule of life, not
a casual incident of it. There is not a duty of existence, not a joy or
sorrow which the services of the Church do not assert, or with which
they do not sympathize. Tell me, now; you have, I was glad to hear,
attended the services of the Church of late, since you have been under
this admirable roof. Have you not then found some consolation?"

"Yes; without doubt I have been often solaced." And Lothair sighed.

"What the soul is to man, the Church is to the world," said the
cardinal. "It is the link between us and the Divine nature. It came
from heaven complete; it has never changed, and it can never alter. Its
ceremonies are types of celestial truths; its services are suited to all
the moods of man; they strengthen him in his wisdom and his purity, and
control and save him in the hour of passion and temptation. Taken as a
whole, with all its ministrations, its orders, its offices, and the
divine splendor of its ritual, it secures us on earth some adumbration
of that ineffable glory which awaits the faithful in heaven, where the
blessed Mother of God and ten thousand saints perpetually guard over no
with Divine intercession."

"I was not taught these things in my boyhood," said Lothair.

"And you might reproach me, and reasonably, as your guardian, for my
neglect," said the cardinal. "But my power was very limited, and, when
my duties commenced, you must remember that I was myself estranged from
the Church, I was myself a Parliamentary Christian, till despondency and
study and ceaseless thought and prayer, and the Divine will, brought me
to light and rest. But I at least saved you from a Presbyterian
university; I at least secured Oxford for you; and I can assure you, of
my many struggles, that was not the least."