"My father," he said, "I am the Cavaliere di San Giorgio; and as I came across the mountains this morning on my way to Rome, I met my mortal foe, the murderer of my brother, -a wretch whose life is forfeit by every law either of earth or heaven, a guilty monster steeped in every crime. Him, as soon as I had met him, sent by this lonely and untrodden way as it seems to me by the Lord's hand, I thought to crush at once, as I would a venomous beast, though he is worse than any beast. But, my father, he has appealed from me to the adorable name of Jesus, and I cannot touch him. But he will not escape. I give him over to the Lord. I give up my sword into the Lord's hands, that He may work my vengeance upon him as it seems to Him good. Henceforth he is safe from earthly retribution, but the Divine Powers are just. Take this sword, reverend father, and let it lie upon the altar beneath the Christ himself; and I will make an offering for daily masses for my brother's soul." The priest took the sword; and kneeling before the altar, placed it thereon like a man acting in a dream. He was one of those childlike peasant-priests to whom the great world was unknown; and to whom his mountain solitudes were peopled as much by the saints and angels of his breviary, as by the peasants who shared with him the solitudes and the legends that gave to these mountain fastnesses a mysterious awe. To such a man as this it seemed nothing strange that the blessed St. George himself, in jewelled armor, should stand before the altar in the mystic morning light, his shining sword in his hand. He turned again to Inglesant, who had knelt down once more. "It is well done, monsignore," he said, "as all that thou doest doubtless is most well. The sword shall remain here as thou sayest, and the Lord doubtless will work his blessed will. But I entreat, monsignore, thy intercession for me, a poor sinful man; and when thou returnest to thy place, and seest again the Lord Jesus, that thou wilt remind him of his unworthy priest. Amen." Inglesant scarcely heard what he said, and certainly did not understand it. His sense was confused by what had happened, and by the sudden overmastering impulse upon which he had acted. He moved as in a dream; nothing seemed to come strange to him, nothing startled him, and he took slight heed of what passed. He placed his embroidered purse, heavy with gold, in the priest's hand, and in his excitement totally forgot to name his brother, for whose repose masses were to be said. He signed to his men to release the prisoner; and, his trumpets sounding to horse before the chapel gate, he mounted and rode on down the pass. But his visit was not forgotten: and long afterward-perhaps even to the present day - popular tradition took the story up, and related that once, when the priest of the mountain chapel was a very holy man, the blessed St. George himself, in shining armor, came across the mountains one morning very early, and himself partook of the sacrament, and all his train; and appealed triumphantly to the magic sword, set with gold and precious stones, that lay upon the altar from that morning, by virtue of which no harm can befall the village, no storm strike it, and above all, no pillage of armed men or any violence can occur. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP, an English poet; born at Penshurst, Kent, November 30, 1554; died at Arnheim, Holland, October 7, 1586. In 1568 he entered Christ Church, Oxford; from 1572 to 1575 he travelled on the Continent, being at Paris at the time of the St. Bartholomew massacre. In 1577 he was sent to Prague as ambassador. The next year he incurred the displeasure of the Queen, and retired for some years to his estate, where most of his works appear to have been written, although they were not printed until after his death. In 1584 he was appointed Governor of Flushing, in Holland: and was fatally wounded at the battle of Zutphen, September 22, 1586. He lingered in great agony for several weeks, solacing even his last hours with literary composition. His body was taken to London and interred in St. Paul's Cathedral. The principal works of Sir Philip Sidney are: "A Metrical Version of the Psalms," made in conjunction with his sister, the Countess of Pembroke; "Astrophel and Stella," a series of more than a hundred sonnets; "Arcadia," a prose romance, with poems interspersed through it; "The Apologie for Poesie." DESCRIPTION OF ARCADIA. (From "Arcadia.") THERE were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so, too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, breeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort. Here a shepherd's boy piping as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting and singing withal; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. AN ARCADIAN LOVE-LETTER. MOST blessed paper, which shall kiss that hand whereto all blessedness is in nature a servant, do not disdain to carry with thee the woful words of a miser [wretch] now despairing; neither be afraid to appear before her, bearing the base title of the sender; for no sooner shall that divine hand touch thee but that thy baseness shall be turned to most high preferment. Therefore, mourn boldly, my ink; for while she looks upon you your blackness will shine cry out boldly, my lamentation; for while she reads you your cries will be music. Say, then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that the too-soon born and too-late dying creature which dares not speak - no, not look no, not scarcely think, as from his miserable self, unto her heavenly highness, only presumes to desire thee, in the times that her eyes and voice do exalt thee, to say, and in this manner to say, not from him oh, no; that were not fit but of him, thus much unto her sacred judgment: - O you, the only honor to women, to men the only admiration; you that, being armed by love, defy him that armed you, in this high estate wherein you have placed me, yet let me remember him to whom I am bound for bringing me to your presence; and let me remember him who, since he is yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have an account of him. The wretch-yet your wretch-though with languishing steps, runs fast to his grave; and will you suffer a temple how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your diety — to be razed? But he dieth, it is most true, he dieth; and he in whom you live to obey you dieth. Whereof though he plain, he doth not complain; for it is a harm, but no wrong, which he hath received. He dies, because, in woful language, all his senses tell him that such is your pleasure; for, since you will not that he live, alas! alas! what followeth what followeth of the most ruined Dorus but his end? End, then, evil-destined Dorus, end; and end, thou woful letter, end; for it sufficeth her wisdom. to know that her heavenly will shall be accomplished. IN PRAISE OF POESIE. (From "Defence of Poesie.") LEARNED men have learnedly thought that where reason hath so much over-mastered passion, that the mind hath a free desire to do well, the inward light each man hath in himself is as good as a philosopher's book; since in Nature we know it is well to do well, and what is well and what is evil, although not in the words of art which philosophers bestow upon us; for out of natural conceit the philosophers drew it. But to be moved to do that which we know, or to be moved with desire to know, hoc opus hic labor est. Now, therein, of all sciences - I speak of human, and according to human conceit is our poet the monarch. For he doth not only show the way but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way as will entice any man to enter into it. Nay, he doth — as if your journey should lie through a fair vineyard at the very first give you a cluster of grapes, that, full of that taste, you may long to pass further. He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margin with interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness; but he cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with or prepared for the well-enchanting skill of music. And with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner; and, pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue; even as the child is often brought to take most wholesome things by hiding them in such other as have a pleasant taste; which, if any one should begin to tell them of the nature of the aloes or rhubarbum they should receive, would sooner take their physic at their ears than at their mouth. So is it in men most of whom are childish in their best things till they be cradled in their graves. TRUE BEAUTY VIRTUE IS. It is most true that eyes are formed to serve It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart And, fools, adore in temple of our heart, Till that good god makes Church and Churchman starve. Which elements with mortal mixtures breed. |