CHAPTER II.

THE MONK'S LETTER.

"Quoth the good fat friar,

Wiping his own mouth-'twas refection time."

R. BROWNING.

"FRAY SEBASTIAN GOMEZ, to the Honourable Señor Felipe de Santa Maria, Licentiate of Theology, residing at Alcala de Henarez, commonly called Complutum.

"Most Illustrious and Reverend Señor,

"In my place of banishment, amidst these gloomy and inhospitable mountains, I frequently solace my mind by reflections upon the friends of my youth, and the happy period spent in those ancient halls of learning, where in the morning of our days you and I together attended the erudite prelections of those noble and most orthodox Grecians, Demetrius Ducas and Nicetus Phaustus, or sat at the feet of that venerable patriarch of science, Don Fernando Nuñez. Fortunate are you, O friend, in being able to pass your days amidst scenes so pleasant and occupations so congenial; while I, unhappy, am compelled by fate, and by the neglect of friends and patrons, to take what I can have, in place of having what I could wish. I am, alas! under the necessity of wearing out my days in the ungrateful occupation of instilling the rudiments of humane learning into the dull and careless minds of children, whom to instruct is truly to write upon sand or water. But not to weary your excellent and illustrious friendship with undue prolixity, I shall briefly relate the circumstances which led to my sojourn here."

(The good friar proceeds with his personal narrative, but by no means briefly; and as it has moreover little or nothing to do with our story, it may be omitted with advantage.)

"In this desert, as I may truly style it" (he continues), "nutriment for the corporeal frame is as poor and bare as nutriment for the intellectual part is altogether lacking. Alas! for the golden wine of Xerez, that ambery nectar wherewith we were wont to refresh our jaded spirits! I may not mention now our temperate banquets: the crisp red mullet, the succulent pasties, the delicious ham of Estremadura, the savoury olla podrida. Here beef is rarely seen, veal never. Our olla is of lean mutton (if it be not rather of the flesh of

goats), washed down with bad vinegar, called wine by courtesy, and supplemented by a few naughty figs or roasted chestnuts, with cheese of goat's milk, hard as the heads of the rustics who make it. Certainly I am experiencing the truth of the proverb, 'A bad cook is an inconvenient relation.' And marvellously would a cask of Xerez wine, if, through the kindness of my generous friends, it could find its way to these remote mountains, mend my fare, and in all probability prolong my days. The provider here is an antiquated, sour-faced duenna, who rules everything in this old ruin of a castle, where poverty and pride are the only things to be found in plenty. She is an Asturian, and came hither in the train of the late unfortunate countess. Like all of that race, where the very shepherds style themselves nobles, she is proud; but it is just to add that she is also active, industrious, and thrifty to a miracle. "But to pass on to affairs of greater importance. I have presumed, on the part of my illustrious friend, some acquaintance with the sorrowful history of my young pupils' family. You will remember the sudden shadow that fell, like the eclipse of one of the bright orbs of heaven, upon the fame and fortunes of the young Conde de Nuera, known, some fifteen years ago or more, as a brilliant soldier and courtier, and personal favourite of his Imperial majesty. There was a rumour of some black treason, I know not what, but men said it even struck at the life of the great emperor, his friend and patron. It is supposed that the emperor (whom God preserve!), in his just wrath still remembered mercy, and generously saved the honour while he punished the crime of his ungrateful servant. At all events, the world was told that the count had accepted a command in the Indies, and that he sailed thither from some port in the Low Countries to which the emperor had summoned him, without returning to Spain. It is believed that, to save his neck from the axe and his name from dire disgrace, he signed away, by his own act, his large property to the emperor and to Holy Church, reserving only a pittance for his children. One year afterwards, his death, in battle with the Araucanian savages, was announced, and, if I am not mistaken, his majesty was gracious enough to have masses said for his soul. But, at the

time, the tongue of rumour whispered a far more dreadful ending to the tale. Men hinted that, upon the discovery of his treason, he despaired alike of human and divine compassion, and perished miserably by his own hand. But all possible pains were taken, for the sake of the family, to hush up the affair; and nothing certain has ever, or probably will ever, transpire. I am doubtful whether I am not a transgressor in having committed to paper what is written above. Still, as it is written, it shall stand. With you, With you, most illustrious and honourable friend, all things are safe.

"The youths whom it is my task to instruct are not deficient in parts. But the elder, Don Juan, is idle and insolent; and withal, of so fiery a temper, that he will brook no manner of correction. The younger, Don Carlos, is more toward in disposition, and really apt at his humanities, were it not that his good-for-nothing brother leads him into mischief. Don Manuel Alvarez, their uncle and guardian, who is a shrewd man of the world, will certainly cause him to enter the Church. But I pray, as I am bound in Christian charity, that it may not occur to him to make the lad a Minorite friar, since, as I can testify from sorrowful experience, such go barely enough through this wicked and miserable world.

"In conclusion, I entreat of you, most illustrious friend, with the utmost despatch and carefulness, to commit this writing to the flames; and so I pray our Lady and the blessed St. Luke, upon whose vigil I write, to have you in their good keeping. Your unworthy brother,

"SEBASTIAN."

Thus, with averted face, or head shaken doubtfully, or murmured "Ay de mi," the world spoke of him, of whom his own children, happy at least in this, knew scarce anything, save words that seemed like a cry of joy.

CHAPTER III.

SWORD AND CASSOCK.

'Then we spring on the earth in the armour of youth,
And the earth rings again."-E. B. BROWNING.

DON MANUEL ALVAREZ stayed for several days at Nuera, as the half-ruined castle in the Sierra Morena was styled. Grievous, during this period,

were the sufferings of Dolores, and unceasing her efforts to provide suitable accommodation, not merely for the stately and fastidious guest himself, but also for the troop of retainers he saw fit to bring with him, comprising three or four personal attendants, and half a score of men-at-arms

the last perhaps really necessary for a journey through that wild district. Don Manuel scarcely enjoyed the situation more than did his entertainers, but he esteemed it his duty to pay an occasional visit to the estate of his orphan nephews, to see that it was properly taken care of. Perhaps the only member of the party quite at his ease was the worthy Fray Sebastian, a good-natured, self-indulgent friar, with a better education and more refined tastes than the average of his order; fond of eating and drinking, fond of gossip, fond of a little superficial literature, and not fond of troubling himself about anything. He was comforted by the improved fare Don Manuel's visit introduced; and was, moreover, soon relieved from his very natural apprehensions that the guardian of his pupils might express discontent at the slowness of their progress. He speedily discovered that Don Manuel did not care to have his nephews made good scholars he only cared to have them ready, in two or three years, to go to the university of Complutum, or to that of Salamanca, where they might remain until they were satisfactorily provided for-one in the army, the other in the Church.

As for Juan and Carlos, they felt, with the sure instinct of children, in this respect something like that of animals, that their uncle had little love for them. Juan dreaded, more than under the circumstances he need have done, too careful inquiries into his progress; and Carlos, while he stood in great outward awe of his uncle, all the time contrived to despise him in his heart, because he neither knew Latin, nor could repeat any of the ballads of the Cid.

On the third day of his visit, after dinner, which was at noon, Don Manuel solemnly seated himself in the great carved arm-chair that stood on the estrada at one end of the hall, and summoned his nephews to his side. He was a tall, wiry-looking man, with a narrow forehead, thin lips, and a pointed beard. His dress was of the finest mulberry-coloured cloth, turned back with

He first addressed Juan, whom he gravely reminded that his father's imprudence had left him nothing save that poor ruin of a castle, and a few barren acres of rocky ground, at which the boy's eyes flashed, and he shrugged his shoulders and bit his lip. Don Manuel then proceeded to extol at some length the noble profession of arms as the road to fame and fortune. This kind of language proved much more acceptable to his nephew, and looking up, he said promptly, "Yes, señor my uncle, I will gladly be a soldier, as all my fathers were."

"Well spoken. And when thou art old enough, I promise to use my influence to obtain for thee a good appointment in his Imperial Majesty's army. I trust thou wilt honour thine ancient name."

"You may trust me," said Juan, in slow, earnest tones. Then raising his head, he went on more rapidly : "Beside his own name, Juan, my father gave me that of Rodrigo, borne by the Cid Ruy Diaz, the Campeador, meaning no doubt to show-"

"Peace, boy!" Don Manuel interrupted, cutting short the only words really from his heart that his nephew had ever spoken in his presence, with as much unconsciousness as a countryman might set his foot on a glow-worm. "Thou wert never named Rodrigo after thy Cid and his idle romances. Thy father called thee so after some madcap friend of his own, of whom the less spoken the better."

"My father's friend must have been good and noble, like himself," said Juan proudly, almost defiantly.

"Young man," returned Don Manuel severely, and lifting his eyebrows as if in surprise at his audacity, "learn that a humbler tone and more courteous manners would become thee in the presence of thy superiors." Then turning haughtily away from him, he addressed himself to Carlos: "As for thee, nephew Carlos, I hear with pleasure of thy progress in learning. Fray Sebastian

and a retentive memory. Moreover, if I mistake not, sword cuts are less in thy way than in thy brother's. The service of Holy Mother Church will fit thee like a glove; and let me tell thee, boy, for thou art old enough to understand me, 'tis a right good service. Churchmen eat well and drink well-churchmen sleep soft-churchmen spend their days fingering the gold other folk toil and bleed for. For those who have fair interest in high places, and shuffle their own cards deftly, there be good fat bonefices, comfortable canonries, and, perhaps-who knows?— a rich bishopric at the end of all; with a matter of ten thousand hard ducats, at the least, coming in every year to save or spend, or lend, if you like it better."

"Ten thousand ducats!" said Carlos, who had been gazing in his uncle's face, his large dark eyes full of half-incredulous, half-uncomprehending wonder.

"Ay, my son, that is about the least. The Archbishop of Seville has sixty thousand every year, and more."

"Ten thousand ducats!" Carlos repeated again in a kind of awe-struck whisper. "That would buy a ship."

"Yes," said Don Manuel, highly pleased with what he considered an indication of precocious intelligence in money matters. "And an excellent thought that is of thine, my son. A good ship chartered for the Indies, and properly freighted, would bring thee back thy ducats well perfumed. For a ship is sailing while you are sleeping. As the saying is, Let the idle man buy a ship or marry a wife. I perceive thou art a youth of much ingenuity. What thinkest thou, then, of the Church?"

Carlos was still too complete a child to say anything in answer except, "If it please you, señor my uncle, I should like it well."

And thus, with rather more than less consideration of their tastes and capacities than was usual at the time, the future of Juan and Carlos Alvarez was decided.

When the brothers were alone together, Juan said, "Dolores must have been praying Our Lady for us, Carlos. An appointment in the army is the very thing for me. I shall perform some

great feat of arms, like Alphonso Vives, for instance, who took the Duke of Saxony prisoner; I shall win fame and promotion, and then come back and ask my uncle for the hand of his ward, Donna Beatriz."

"Ah, and I—if I enter the Church, I can never marry," said Carlos rather ruefully, and with a vague perception that his brother was to have some good thing from which he was to be shut out for ever.

"Of course not; but you will not care?"

"Never a whit," said the boy of twelve, very confidently. "I shall ever have thee, Juan. And all the gold my uncle says churchmen win so easily, I will save to buy our ship."

"I will also save, so that one day we may sail together. I will be the captain, and thou shalt be the mass-priest, Carlos."

"But I marvel if it be true that churchmen grow rich so fast. The cura in the village must be very poor, for Diego told me he took old Pedro's cloak because he could not pay the dues for his wife's burial."

"More shame for him, the black vulture. Carlos, you and I have cach half a ducat; let us buy it back."

"With all my heart. It will be worth something to see the old man's face."

"The cura is covetous more than poor," said Juan. "But poor or no, no one dreams of your being a beggarly cura like that. It is only vulgar fellows of whom they make parish priests in the country. You will get some fine preferment, my uncle says. And he ought to know, for he has feathered his own nest well."

Why is he rich when we are poor, Juan? Where does he get all his money?"

"The saints know best. He has places under Government. Something about the taxes, I think, that he buys and sells again."

"In truth, he's not one to measure oil without getting some on his fingers. How different from him our father must have been."

"Yes," said Juan. "His riches, won by his own sword and battle-axe, and his good right hand, will be worth having. Ay, and even worth seeing, will they not?"

So these children dreamed of the future-that future of which nothing was certain, except its unlikeness to their dreams. Nothing was certain; but what was only too probable? That the brave, free-hearted boy, who had never willingly injured any one, and who was ready to share his last coin with the poor man, would be hardened and brutalized into a soldier of fortune, like those who massacred tribes of trusting, unoffending Indians, or burned Flemish cities to the ground, amidst atrocities that even now make our hearts quail and our cars tingle. And yet worse, that the fair child beside him, whose life still shone with that child-like innocence which is truly the dew of youth, as bright and as fleeting, would be turned over, soul and spirit, to a system of training too surely calculated to obliterate the sense of truth; to deprave the moral taste; to make natural and healthful joys impossible, and unlawful and degrading ones fearfully easy and attainable; to teach to the strong nature the love of power, to the mean the love of money, and to all alike falsehood, cowardice, and cruelty. D. A.

To the Old Testament we must go to find anything that even seems to describe the personal appearance of our Lord. The prophet Isaiah (lii. 10, and liii. 2) speaks of Him as in visage more marred than any man," and in form "more than the sons of men;" as "having no form nor comeliness, and no beauty that we should desire him." These, it is certain, are not encouraging words to those that seek after His bodily presence, and desire what they term a "likeness." Some will not have us to understand literally the words of the prophet, but only as prophesying the disappointed expectations of the Jews. But in whatever way we understand them, it is certain there is nothing in them to satisfy the desire of the ancient world to represent the godlike under the perfection of physical beauty and majesty, or to encourage the Christian to picture his Saviour as the mould of human form, to be worshipped "after the flesh." | Take up the Greek memoirs of Socrates. Two have come down to us: those of Xenophon and Plato-both disciples, and both gifted men ; Plato the most refined and spiritual of Greek intellects. Yet, along with illustrations of the teaching and conversation of Socrates, we have from these two disciples all manner of particulars as to his personal appearance: his bald head, his flat nose, his thick lips and prominent eyes, his round and robust figure, his homely dress and bare feet-just such peculiarities of the outward man as set him before us as he paced the streets of Athens twenty-four centuries ago, conversed in its market-place with all comers, or discoursed under its porticoes to his youthful disciples.

Take up next a modern biography—such a one as "Boswell's Life of Johnson." What is it we most prize in that biography? and why do we style Boswell "the Prince of Biographers" but because he gives us the whole man, as Johnson

But on all such matters the four evangelists are silent. They give us four independent narratives, unsurpassed in interest, yet deriving none of their interest from such details; they give us parables, discourses, sayings of far-reaching thought and of unearthly purity and elevation; they show us Christ as He acted and suffered, with a forbearance, love, and endurance above that of the children of men; yet not a word of the outward man of Him that spoke, acted, and suffered as never man did. They loved and reverenced His memory as never men did before: why do they not give expression to their love. and reverence after the manner of all other disciples? The object of their after-life was to make Him known and loved: why did they not take the way of all other writers? They could have told us everything, yet they tell us nothing. They could have given us a narrative as personal as that of a Boswell- as minute as the descriptions of Solomon's Temple-to form a groundwork for all imaginations to work on, and all poets, painters, and sculptors to work out. So far as we can recall, there is but one allusion to our Lord's manner in the four Gospels, and that is in John xvii. 1: "These words spake Jesus, and lifted up His eyes to heaven."

Is it possible that the evangelists did not indulge- especially a John-in the retirement of their own thoughts, in such recollections of their Master? Can it be that the Crucified did not often rise before their mind's eye as they had seen Him sitting at meat, or delivering His parables, hanging on the cross, or as they saw Him ascend to heaven? To suppose they did not, were to divest them of their humanity. Often in imagination they must have lived over each scene of that wonderful past, taxing memory to the utmost until the absent seemed their present Lord and Saviour.

If we regard the four Gospels as purely human narratives, after the manner of men, these omissions are wholly unaccountable. They wrote in Greek-all excepting, perhaps, Matthew; but