W.H.G. Kingston (continued 9)

The first person they encountered was old Gertrudes, who, the moment she observed them, gazed at them as if they were a couple of spirits from the dead, and then rushing towards them, seized Clara in her arms, with cries and tears of joy, almost smothering her with kisses; and then seizing on Luis, joined him in the embrace, bestowing alternate kisses on him; and if, in returning them, which he was bound to do, he did make some slight mistake in the person, we think he is justly to be excused, considering he had never before ventured on such a liberty. He then resigned Clara into her nurse’s care, and was about to withdraw, when, clasping his hand, she raised it to her lips.

“Oh! do not leave me,” she exclaimed. “I dread the thoughts of again parting from you: I know not what may occur: I fear some danger may happen to you, or I may again be committed to a convent. Come to my father, and he will thank you for having again saved his child!”

“You had better first go alone and see the senhor your father,” interrupted the nurse. “There is a vile story told of Don Luis, which I know is not true, but which makes your father dislike to see him.”

“Senhora Gertudes speaks rightly,” said Luis. “Go, beloved one, alone to meet your father, and I doubt not he will soon learn to think more justly of me. I will not quit the palace.”

Persuaded by this assurance, Clara accompanied the nurse to the shed in which the fidalgo was lying. Gertrudes first prudently entered, to advise the father of his daughter’s safety and return, but soon again came out and beckoned her to approach.

No sooner did he behold her, than raising himself from his couch as she stooped to meet him, he pressed her in his arms, sobbing like a child the while. “Thank Heaven that you are restored to me, my Clara!” he exclaimed; “for I could not bear the double loss I thought I was doomed to suffer,—two children within two days!—it was a heavy blow; but now you are recovered, I must, if so I can, be reconciled to your brother’s death.”

“My brother dead?” responded Clara, in a tone of sadness. “Alas! I heard, but did not believe, the tale.”

“It is but too true, I fear,” said the Fidalgo. “He was slain by one you must in future learn to hate,—Don Luis d’Almeida!”

“Oh, do not, do not believe that one so brave, so noble, could be guilty of such a deed! Twice, at the hazard of his life, since we first met, has he saved me from destruction. At that dreadful time, when all others were flying for their lives, forgetful of parents, children, and all the nearest ties of kindred, he rushed among the falling ruins, braving a horrid death to rescue me! In every way has he proved his love,—and he surely could not have slain my brother. Oh, do not, my father, believe that lying tale which says so; for I, whatever befalls, can never cease to love him.”

“At the moment you are restored to my heart, I cannot speak a harsh word, my child,” said the Fidalgo; “but remember that you are vowed to the service of Heaven; and were you not, you could not wed one whose hands are stained with a brother’s blood, although guiltless of the intention of shedding it. That Don Luis has risked his life to save one dear child from destruction, disarms me of my revenge; but from henceforth you must be as strangers to each other.”

Poor Clara scarce heard the concluding sentence; the bright hopes which were budding forth with the first gleam of sunshine were suddenly blighted by this confirmation of the masked stranger’s report of her brother’s death; and instead of feeling joy at her return home, naught but clouds and gloom threatened her future days. She had no arguments to advance against her father’s decree; for she felt that what he said was just. Placing her head on his pillow, she burst into an agony of tears.

The fidalgo in vain endeavoured to comfort her; for he had no consolation that could avail to offer her. He assured her that her return had restored him to health and strength, and that he would not willingly contradict her wishes in anything; but that his confessor, Father Alfonzo, had told him that he must determine, if he recovered her, to keep to his original intention of dedicating her to the Church, as the most acceptable way of proving his gratitude to Heaven for the favour vouchsafed to him,—the Father promising not to cease his prayers to the saints to intercede for him, but more especially to the Holy Virgin.

To this the unhappy girl had not a word to answer: it was but, alas! too much in accordance with the creed she had been taught, and she had never even heard that a doubt had been started against its infallibility. Yet her heart rebelled against the decree; but she shuddered at her own feelings, and endeavoured to stifle them; for the lessons inculcated on her mind told her they were sinful.

After some time, in a voice trembling with grief and agitation, she inquired the manner of her brother’s death. Her father then told her, that on the morning after the sad occurrence, the one preceding the earthquake, he had become alarmed at Gonçalo’s not returning; when the Conde San Vincente called to say, with much friendly concern, that he had been with him on the previous evening, when suddenly they were set upon by several persons, among the foremost of whom he recognised Don Luis d’Almeida, who seemed bent upon engaging with Gonçalo, and that, after exchanging several passes, he saw his friend fall severely wounded; but from having great difficulty in defending his own life, he could not go to his assistance. While thus engaged, several persons who had taken no part in the fray had rushed up, and lifting Gonçalo from the ground, had borne him off he could not tell where, and that, as soon as this was done, Don Luis and his party had drawn off. The Count then said, that he had made every exertion to discover whither Gonçalo had been conveyed; and that he had at length learned from a man who had been engaged in the affair, and whom he could produce, that he had been carried off by order of Don Luis, and that he hoped, in a few days, to discover where.

The fidalgo then said, that the Count had called that very morning on him, having only just learnt where he was to be found; and that his worst fears had been realised. He said that Gonçalo had been conveyed to a house near where the fray took place, and had died of his wound the very morning that the awful catastrophe had occurred; that the house falling, had involved all its inmates in destruction, so that it was utterly impossible to discover any further particulars of the case. The fidalgo finished by lamenting that his own prostration of strength had prevented him from making inquiries, and searching for his children as he earnestly had sought to do.

Clara listened to the account the Conde had given with incredulous ears, and then, in return, narrated the adventures which had befallen herself, and her suspicions that it was from his power Luis had rescued her; but to this her father would not for a moment listen, affirming that he was the soul of honour, and incapable of such an act; nor could anything advanced by Clara convince him to the contrary. We have before remarked, that when once an impression had been made on his mental faculties, it was difficult to remove it. No longer able to bear the conversation, even of his daughter, he sank back exhausted on his couch.

Luis had long been anxiously waiting at the entrance of the garden for the return of Clara, when he saw her approaching with slow and timid steps. He hastened to meet her.

“Oh, Luis, I am very wretched,” she said; and she detailed the history she had heard from her father, as the Count had given it, at which the indignation of Luis was excessive; though, as may be supposed, he had no great difficulty in persuading her of its falsehood. Yet her tears flowed fast; for he acknowledged what she hoped to hear him deny, that, though he had striven to avoid it, her brother had been wounded by his hand. “Yet far rather would I myself have been the victim, than have spilt a drop of the blood of one dear to you,” he continued. “And believe me, did I deem myself your brother’s murderer, I would not have dared to touch you with my polluted hands.”

“Oh no, no, I feel that you are not,” she answered. “But, Luis, there is a sad foreboding at my heart, which tells me that we must part, and for ever. My father did not forbid me to see you to-day; though, alas! I know full well he will do so to-morrow, and then I dare not disobey his commands. Yet think not, Luis, that I shall forget you; that no power can compel me to do; and the remembrance that I was loved by you, will be a soothing balm to my heart for the few remaining years I have to endure my cruel lot. But you must learn to forget me, or to think of me as one already in her grave. You will enter the world, where there is much to drown your thoughts of the past, and where you will meet with one in whose love you may be happy.” As she came to the last sentence her voice trembled, and her tears flowed fast.

Luis clasped her in his arms, and she did not attempt to resist. He swore that he could never forget her; and that he could never love or wed another. He entreated her not to despair, or consent to return to a convent, and he promised that he would compel the Count to contradict the vile accusation he had brought against him; and that perhaps then her father might relent. That he could at once prove part of the Count’s story false, through his friend, Captain Pinto, who was with him at the time, and engaged in the rencontre. He said, indeed, everything that could possibly be said on the occasion, though he failed of imparting any of his own sanguine hopes to Clara; yet at times she gazed up into his face and smiled, but it was a smile more of sadness than of joy, and her tears again flowed unrestrained. How long the interview would have lasted it is impossible to say, had not Senhora Gertrudes, who had been in attendance at a respectful distance, hastened up to warn her that they must part; and at length Luis, imprinting another kiss on her brow, yielded her half fainting to her nurse’s arms, and hurried from the palace.

At the gate he found Captain Pinto waiting for him, who insisted on his accompanying him to his lodgings, and on the following day returned with him to the palace, where he went with the hopes of seeing Clara, or, at all events, having an interview with her father. He had been again unsuccessful in his search for the packet he had received in the hermit’s cave, and now all hopes of ever discovering it had vanished with the destruction of his father’s house; so he tried to console himself with the hope that it was unimportant; though the contrary would again and again recur to him. As he appeared, a servant handed him a letter, requesting him to read it at once. It was from the fidalgo, expressing his deep obligation to him for rescuing his daughter from destruction, and for having afterwards recovered her from the ruffian who had carried her off; but that these acts could not cancel the feelings he entertained towards the destroyer of his son, even convinced, as he now was, from what his daughter had told him, that he was innocent of any intention to commit the deed. He finished by requesting Captain Pinto would do him the favour of calling, adding, in a postscript, that he had desired his daughter not to see him again, and begging him not to attempt to seek her.

The Captain having but little time to spare, immediately requested to be conducted to the fidalgo, while Luis waited outside. He soon returned, shaking his head.

“The fidalgo is inexorable,” he said. “I have convinced him that you neither intended to kill his son, nor had anything to do with concealing him; hinting, that it was our suspicion the Count had done so himself. He seemed struck by the observation; and will make all possible inquiries on the subject; but he insists on your not again seeing his daughter, and he says that when he is perfectly convinced of his son’s death he shall return to Oporto, where she is again to enter a convent. It is extraordinary how slow some men are in forming an opinion, and how difficult it is to knock it out of their heads, when once there: now he has taken it into his that the Count is an honourable man, and has much at heart the interests of his family; nor can all Donna Clara and I have said to him persuade him that it was probably he who caused Gonçalo to be concealed after he was wounded, for the sake of making her hate you; and that also it was on his account she was carried away after you had saved her from the ruins. I trust, however, that I have made some impression, though he does not acknowledge it. But come, it is useless remaining here, and I must attend to these disagreeable duties imposed on me.”

Luis accompanied his friend, in a state of sad despondency; his hopes again blasted, even on the very threshold, as he had fancied, of happiness.

“Come, rouse thee, my friend,” said the Captain. “This is but one of the many trials you must yet undergo in your course through life, to perfect your character as a man; and fortunate are those who are so tried, that when the still greater struggles of life approach, they may not be found wanting. See, it is now my turn to raise, rather than depress your hopes. Look on what has occurred, with the calm eye of philosophy, and you will see that you are not only not in a worse state than you were before the earthquake, but have the additional consolation of feeling that you have saved the life of a very charming lady, I allow. Her father may relent; her brother may not have died from his wound, as we have only the Count’s word for it, and he may be proved to be a villain. Here is food enough to supply a lover’s hopes for a year at least. However, I not being a lover, must hurry on to take my dinner, so come in, and share it with me.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Several days had passed by since the dreadful morning of terror and destruction; and, though slight shocks were occasionally still felt, people had become accustomed to them, and were beginning to arouse themselves from the state of apathy into which fear had thrown them. It was a sad spectacle, to see the forlorn citizens wandering over the yet smoking ruins of their former habitations, seeking, in vain, to find the spots where they had dwelt in peace and happiness; but wheresoever they turned, naught but scenes of destruction and confusion met their view. In vain they endeavoured to recover their property; what the earthquake had spared the devouring flames had consumed. Precious jewels, and rich stores of gold and silver, had been reclaimed by the earth, from whence they were dug; and immense quantities of valuable merchandise had been destroyed; so that the before flourishing merchant or tradesman found himself reduced to bankruptcy and starvation. The historian of the time winds up his description with these words:—“The whole of the centre of Lisbon was reduced to one horrid desert, in which naught was beheld but mountains of stone and ashes; some ruined walls, blackened by the fire, alone rising amid this sea of confusion, sad monuments of those fine streets and spacious squares which, but a few days before, were full of wealth, and crowded with people.”

Now was the time that the sagacity, energy, courage, and perseverance, of the Minister were most conspicuous in restoring order, and preventing the site of the city from being deserted altogether. No sooner had the ashes cooled, than, assembling workmen, he caused roads to be cut through the ruins, and immediately commenced rebuilding the city, he himself planning those streets which now form by far the handsomest part of Lisbon.

Since Luis had restored Clara to her father, he had devoted all his thoughts and energies to the task of endeavouring to discover some traces of her brother; but he had as yet been completely unsuccessful. He had applied to Antonio, but he could not, or would not, afford him any assistance; and of the companions of the youth, some had been killed, many had fled, and the rest would not trouble themselves about his fate. Captain Pinto had not even been acquainted with him by sight; and his unhappy father was still too weak to leave his couch, to go in search of him, so that Luis began to fear that he should be for ever unable to prove his own innocence. The Count San Vincente, in the mean time, paid daily visits to the fidalgo, professing to be using his utmost exertions to discover his son, though Clara perseveringly refused to see him nor did he, indeed, appear anxious for an interview.

Luis had one morning wandered, accompanied by Pedro, nearly into the centre of the ruins; for there was something consonant with his own feelings in their desolate aspect, and he loved to be among them; perhaps, that the contemplation of the misery he beheld afforded, in the comparison, some alleviation to his own. The immediate scene we have already described;—beyond, on the hills above, were scattered the tents and huts of the inhabitants; while on every side, in the distance, arose the lofty gibbets, loaded with ghastly corpses,—a warning to the daring banditti who even yet prowled about, thirsting for booty, though their numbers and depredations had greatly been diminished by the summary proceedings against them. As he was returning homeward, he overtook a party of the new guards, dragging a man on among them towards the nearest hall of justice. He was about to pass them, when his steps were arrested by a voice calling to him from the crowd, in accents of entreaty, “Oh, Senhor Don Luis! save me, save me!—You know that I am an honest man and a friar, which I cannot make these gentlemen believe, and I shall be hung, to a certainty, before I can prove my innocence.”

On hearing himself addressed, Luis turned round, and beheld his quondam acquaintance, Frè Diogo Lopez, in the hands of the officials of the law.

“Speak a word for me, senhor,” he continued. “You know that I saved your life the other day; so, if you have a spark of the noble sentiment of gratitude, you will return me the favour on this occasion, or you will never enjoy another.”

“He speaks true,” said Luis to the guards; “and if you have no specific charge against him, I will be answerable if you will release him.”

“That is utterly impossible, senhor,” said the chief of the party. “I have no doubt but that you are a gentleman; but I know that this is a vagabond and a rogue. He is a friar, he says; and see, he is dressed in the gay suit of a dandy; besides, he can give no account of himself.”

“Few innocent people can answer, when first accused of some dreadful crime at which their soul revolts,” interrupted the Friar; “and then, as in my case, their hesitation is taken as a sign of their guilt. I can clearly account for wearing these clothes; for I had arrived in Lisbon late on the night preceding the earthquake, to be present at the festival of All the Saints; when, weary from my long journey on foot, I overslept myself; so that, when the dreadful event took place, I was fast asleep; and, hastily rising, I rushed out into the street, in a state more easily imagined than described. Now, being a modest man, I was anxious to take the earliest opportunity of supplying myself with garments, and, finding an unfortunate youth, who had been killed by the falling of a beam, with a decent suit on, uninjured, and seeing it could be of no further use to him, I took the liberty of appropriating it.”

“That is very likely,” said the officer. “But how came you to wear a wig, being a friar, senhor?”

“You would not wish me to wear such clothes as these without a wig, surely?” exclaimed the Friar. “That would have made me look ridiculous, indeed. No, senhores, I knew what was due to my character, and acted accordingly. However, I will not keep you waiting here, away from your duty, and would make you a present for the trouble you have been at to drag me along so far, had you not already eased me of all my spare cash; but I feel confident my friend, Don Luis d’Almeida, who has a sincere regard for me, will be happy, on my account, to make you a present, when you release me; and I shall certainly express to the proper authorities my high opinion of the way you perform your duty, on the very first occasion; whereas, if you blindly persist in your mistake, the Church will pronounce her anathemas on your heads, for having sacrilegiously destroyed one of her servants.”

It is difficult to say whether these arguments, which he poured out with a voluble tongue, would have had any effect, had not Luis, anxious to save the man, who, though a most impudent rogue, had preserved his life, pulled out a purse, distributing its contents among the guards. At sight of the money, they immediately began to consider that the Friar had been ill-used and unjustly suspected, though the circumstances under which he was taken warranted what they had done, which, perhaps, accounted for his not threatening them with punishment; and no sooner did they feel the crowns in their hands, than they set him forthwith at liberty. When he found himself free, he rushed up to Don Luis, embracing him cordially, and then made his captors a profound bow, as they moved away.

“Pardon me, senhor, for the liberty I have taken,” he said, “in pretending to be your friend; but I had no other chance. You have saved my life, and I shall ever be grateful. Perhaps some day I may have the means of proving it.”

“You may, perhaps, at once,” said Luis, eagerly. “You aided Antonio, the other day, in discovering where Donna Clara was concealed, and now, perhaps, you may be able to trace where her brother is to be found.” And Luis gave him an account of the case.

“I will do my best, senhor,” answered the Friar; “but at present I know nothing about the circumstance, though I have no doubt that villain Rodrigo, who was hung the other day, had a hand in it. I wish that I had never known that man: ‘evil communication corrupts good manners;’ and I confess that I have done some things I had better have left undone; but I made a vow just now, when I was in the power of those myrmidons of the law, that, if I escaped hanging, I would reform; and I intend to keep to my resolution. I will first endeavour to perform the service you require; and, to my shame I confess it, I know most of the rogues and vagabonds yet unhung in and about Lisbon, who are likely to give me information on the subject; and I then purpose to quit this city of sin and temptation, and return to my convent, and lead a pious life.”

“I applaud your resolution, my friend,” answered Luis; “and I shall, indeed, be grateful if you can afford the assistance I ask; though beware that you are not again captured by the officers of justice: you may not escape so easily.”

“Trust to my caution,” said the Friar. “A rat once escaped from a trap does not put its head in a second time. Now, adeos, senhor!—By the way, if you could lend me a few crowns, I should find them useful, and shall then be able to purchase another friar’s gown, under which I shall be safer than in these gay habiliments. There is nothing like the outward garment of sanctity, when a man’s character has been slightly blown upon.”

Luis gave him a few crowns, which he could, however, but ill spare, for which the ci-devant Friar expressed himself very grateful, and then hurried away as fast as he could.

In the course of his walk, Luis reached a hill, on which had stood the church of Santa Catarina, now a heap of ruins. A crowd of persons, of all ranks and ages, and of each sex, were assembled there, collected round a tall figure, who had mounted to the summit of a heap of stones, and was haranguing them in a stentorian voice, throwing his arms aloft with the wildest gestures, and rolling his eyes around in a delirium of enthusiasm.

Luis inquired of one of the bystanders who the preacher was who was addressing them.

“Know you not,” exclaimed the man, with a look of disdain at his culpable ignorance, “that he is one of the greatest prophets that has ever lived,—one to whom the gift of tongues has been vouchsafed, as to the apostles of old,—one in whose presence the kingdom of Portugal has been peculiarly blessed, and who, in these times of horror, pours balm into our hearts from his copious fountain of eloquence?—he is the great and pious Father Malagrida.”

When Luis had asked the question, the preacher had just ceased speaking for a moment, coughing, and blowing his nose, in which the greater part of his congregation imitated him.

“Hark!” said the person to whom Luis had spoken; “he again commences.”

The congregation now fixed their eyes with an intent gaze on the preacher as he began; and we are fortunate in being able to give an exact translation of his discourse, it having been printed in January, 1756; and a copy having, by a fortunate chance, fallen into our possession; and it serves to prove that some congregations, a hundred years ago, were not much wiser than they are at the present day, and that some preachers were able to convert the Scriptures to their own purposes with equal facility and talent.

See Note.

“Few are there among those who hear me, who do not wish to know the origin of these terrific convulsions of the earth; but this is not the first time that God has confided to the ignorant, and hidden from the wise, a knowledge of his profound secrets. ‘Abscondisti haec à sapientibus et prudentibus, et revelati ea parvulis.’ (Matt. xi. 25).

“Now, perhaps, some who deem themselves very clever, will endeavour to explain that they arise from natural causes; but yet a man may be very ignorant, and yet be able to convince them that such is not the case. God says it, (and it is enough that He should say it, to be infallible,) that there shall be a great change in our generation. ‘Generatio praeterit, et generatio advenit.’ (Eccles. i. 4.)

“Moreover, that the machine of the earth will always preserve a perpetual firmness. ‘Terra autem in aeternum stat.’ (Ibid.)

“Hence, it is not necessary to be a sage; it is sufficient to be Catholic, and to believe what God says, to know that the earth is immovable. Thus a believer will declare, although he be an ignorant man, notwithstanding that the Copernicanians say the contrary, who confide more on mathematics than on Christianity: it matters little that they affirm, with sacrilegious zeal against the sacred writings, that the earth moves, and that the sun is fixed; and it is in this way that wise men are deceived, and that the ignorant discover the truth. The earth, then, being immovable, for thus He says, who formed the centre of the world: ‘Firmavit orbem terrae, qui non commovebitur,’ (Psalm xciii. 2;) and its immovability being sustained by that omnipotent Idea with which the immense spaces of all infinity were built, what madness it is for those who call themselves sages to consider that the convulsions of the earth arise from natural causes. He only knows who made it with a nod, and can move it with a word. To such a height had this delirium, this inflation of science, as the Apostle calls it, arrived, that there was a sophist in the days of antiquity, who declared that, had he whereon to place his feet beyond the circumference of the globe, he could lift it with his shoulders; but this science is that folly of which Solomon speaks: ‘Stultitia hominis supplantat gressus ejus; et contra Deum servet animo suo.’ (Prov. xix. 3.)

“I know not whether this pride, this scientific impertinence to which philosophy always has recourse to banish the fear of strange events, is more presumption than as a punishment for our sins; and it appears fated that this should happen more in earthquakes than in other impulses of the Omnipotent hand.”

The preacher then proceeded to show by what sort of fire Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed, comparing their inhabitants to those of Lisbon, in no flattering terms.

“If you would know the cause of these calamities, listen not to what the mathematicians and philosophers say, but to what God says through the mouth of his prophet Isaias: ‘Movebitur terra de loco suo propter indignationem Domini exercituum et propter diem irae furoris ejus.’ (Isaiah xiii. 13.)

“Cease to persuade yourselves, then, that the earth is moved, not because the world is living, as some atheists say;—not because it swims on the sea, as Thales says;—not because the subterranean fires and waters meet, as Democrates says;—not because some of its enormous portions are hurled to the centre, as Anaximenes says;—not because the wind confined in the internal caverns of the globe bursts forth, as Aristotle says;—but because thus God shakes it, and because God drives it with an invisible force, proceeding from His sovereign indignation.

“There is no doubt that the prophet foretold the fate of Lisbon under the name of Babylon, when he says: ‘Vidi Angelum descendentem de caelo, habentem potestatem magnam; et exclamavit in fortitudine, dicens: Cecidit, cecidit Babylon.’

“Yes, the crimes of the people will ascend to heaven, and remind God of their wickedness, and He will cause their city to become a heap of ruins and ashes, and there shall be death, and mourning, and hunger. Did not all this happen, and did not the King, when he beheld his palace and his city in flames, weep and mourn? ‘Et flebunt et plangent super illam Reges terrae cum viderint fumum incendii ejus.’”

He then mentioned the riches that were destroyed exactly as the prophet foretold.

“What further evidence to convince you of the truth would you have? Yet here are others. Did not the pilots and sailors remain at a distance, on the bosom of the Tagus, to behold the miserable destruction? ‘Et omnis gubernator, et omnis qui in lacum navigat et qui in mari operantur longe steterunt.’

“Did not also the singers and musicians, who had come from various countries to increase the amusements of the Court, fly away, so that the sounds of their instruments were no more heard? ‘Et vox citharaedorum et musicorum et tibia canentium et tuba, non audietur in te amplius.’

“Are not these great and striking evidences that the destruction of Lisbon was foretold? And also all the holy fathers of the Church agree, that when Babylon was spoken of, some other city was meant, supposing it to refer to the destruction and burning of Rome; but now it is confessed by all, that St. John spoke not of Rome, but of Lisbon. Does he not speak of a city built on seven hills, great, flourishing, and powerful, and does not Lisbon stand on seven hills? I ought rather to say, did stand; and was she not one of the first cities in the world? And can there yet be a soul so incredulous, that he should persevere in declaring that this horrible calamity was chance, and not design?—was an impulse of nature, and not a Divine sentence?

“Yes, alas! some are so hardened as still to doubt; for that was also foretold: ‘Ingravatum est cor Pharaonis: induratum est cor Pharaonis.’ (Exod. vii.)

“Many are the hearts like Pharaoh’s, and many are the warnings they have received like him. Say, when the earth shook some years ago, did you then repent?—No. When it shook a second time?—No. And a third time?—No. Will you repent this time?—No. ‘Induratum est cor Pharaonis;’ for ‘Dixit insipiens in corde suo: non est Deus.’”

He then clearly proved that “Mulierem sedentem super bestiam coccineam, habens poculum aureum in manu sua, plenum abominatione,” etc, was a description of Lisbon, filled with people of all nations, addicted to all manner of abominations, particularly with Jews and heretics of all sorts. (We have heard rather a different interpretation given elsewhere.)

“And yet some will not believe,” he continued. “Well may I say of you, with Jeremiah, ‘Ostulti et tarde corde ad credendum!’”

As he proceeded, a bright rainbow was seen hanging over the ruined city.

“See, see! a portend! a portend!” he cried. “If you will repent, if you will no longer live in sin, you will be forgiven. ‘Arcum meum ponam in nubibus, et erit signum faederis inter me, et inter terram.’

“The same sign that God gave to Noah has He now given to us, to assure us that the earthquake will cease. ‘Et Iris erat in circuitu sedis’ (Apocalypse, iv.) But Iris is, it can be clearly shown, as Saint Eupremio and Saint Antonio call her, the holy Mother of God, who has sent the glory which surrounds her head to show us that His anger has ceased; and, as Saint Bernardo says of her, ‘Sicut Iris, Virgo scilicet benedicta, in circuitu Ecclesiae constituitur.’

“Oh, pure Virgin! who standest ever before the throne of your Son, with hands uplifted, seeking mercy for our sins, hear our prayers, and speak these words in our favour which Moses spoke for the Israelites. ‘Quiescat ira tua, et esto placabilis super nequitia populi tui;’ for if the Lord listened to his words, how much more will he to those of the Mother of God! and then let us hear those joyful words; ‘Placatus est Dominus ne faceret malam quod locutus fuerat adversus populum suum.’”

As Luis was attentively listening to this discourse, so full of theological erudition and acute reasoning, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turning round, he beheld the holy father, Jacinto da Costa.

“I am glad to see you yet an inhabitant of this world, my good cousin,” said the latter, in a reproachful tone; “though, verily, you took but slight pains to discover whether I had escaped this dreadful visitation; however, I have plenty of excuses to offer for you, so do not attempt to make them yourself. Nay, do not answer. I have heard frequently of you. Retire a little from this crowd of fools; for I should be sorry to rank you among them. So, you have recovered from your fit of wretchedness at the loss of our fair cousin, Theresa, and have a second time entangled your feelings in a love affair, which promises to be equally unsuccessful.”

“Alas! I fear so,” answered Luis; “and that must excuse me for not having visited you.”

“I am glad of it. You will have far more opportunities of exerting your energies on the wide field the world offers, than if you wed some weak girl, who would bind you to her apron-strings. Remember what I said to you some months ago; and, instead of repining at your fate, rejoice that the road I then pointed out is still open before you.”

“I shall never forget your words, Father,” answered Luis; “but were I likely to follow your advice, it would have been then, when I was inclined to despair; now I am buoyed up with the proud consciousness of having my love returned, by a being as lovely, and as perfect in mind and person, as this world can produce.”

The Jesuit gazed at his young kinsman with a cold and scornful smile. “So you thought was Donna Theresa,” he returned; “so you will think every woman you love, till you awake from your opiate slumber, and find ’twas but a flitting dream. I once thought the same, till the magic key to the human heart was committed into my hands, and in the all-powerful confessional I learned to unlock its secrets. Then I discovered how false had been my early impressions, at the same time that I felt an absorbing interest in the inexhaustible field of study opened to my view. Years have I now spent in tracing the intricate workings of the human heart, and yet, each day am I making new discoveries; but it is with the sex of whom you are most ignorant that I have attained the greatest knowledge, for the reason, that to me they are more ready to communicate their thoughts and feelings, while to you their whole aim is to conceal them,—whereas men rarely allow more to be known than they can avoid. However, I will not now enter into the subject. Accompany me to my convent, which has escaped uninjured, Malagrida and others are convinced, and endeavour to persuade the people, as a peculiar mark of Heaven’s favour; and so I might suppose, but that other parts of the city, inhabited by a class to whom the world does not impute much righteousness, have been equally distinguished. We will stay here a little longer, for I wish to know what our celebrated prophet will say to the people. I fear he may commit himself with our arch-enemy Carvalho, who would be delighted to have an excuse to annoy us. Yet, mark how easily the crowd are led, by one little better than a madman, to believe the most absurd nonsense, and to commit follies which make one blush for one’s fellow-men.”

Luis promised to accompany his cousin, for he had no reason to assign for refusing; yet the sophisms of the latter made but little impression on his understanding, though not a word the Jesuit had uttered was without cause: notwithstanding his extensive knowledge of human nature, he was perhaps deceived in the character of his young relative.

While they were conversing apart from the crowd, Malagrida again mounted the heap of ruins, and commenced speaking, in a voice which was heard for a wide circuit round.

“You have been firmly convinced, O ye people! that the late awful visitation was by the direct command of Heaven; but why did the Lord thus suddenly think fit to manifest his anger? Was it on account of the increased wickedness of the people? No! they had not become worse than they always were since the city was built; but it was because he looked down on the city and beheld his true and faithful servants, whose whole lives have been spent in forwarding his works, thrust out from their offices, and treated by the rulers of the land with scorn and neglect. Could he longer endure such impiety? No! Now mark where the whole fury of his anger fell. See, the once proud palace of the King a heap of stones and ashes! Why was this? Who is the culprit? Who but the King? And why? because he retains in his councils that impious despiser of the commands of the Lord,—that hater of our holy religion,—that persecutor and vile calumniator of the ministers of the faith,—that man in whom none ought to place trust,—whom all must hate,—that man accursed by Heaven, Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho! Do any here think I fear him? No, I scorn his hatred—I laugh at his fury. Why should I fear him? I who have stood boldly before the kings of the earth, and have rebuked them for their transgressions; and again do I rebuke the King who now reigns over this unhappy country. Let him beware; for even as the kingdom departed from Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon, so will his kingdom pass away from his hands, and whoso slayeth him shall be accounted blessed in the sight of Heaven.”

Malagrida still continued speaking, when Father Jacinto, taking the arm of his young cousin, led him on one side. “I had heard that the horrors of the earthquake had somewhat injured my holy brother’s brain, and I came here to endeavour to stop his preaching, fearing that he might commit himself, which he had indeed done; for one might as well expect to stop a winter torrent in its impetuous course as that man, when he has persuaded himself that the Spirit prompts him to speak. My only hope is, that his mad words may not be reported to that enemy of our order, the Minister, or Malagrida will be made to suffer severely for what he has said, and, at all events, banished from hence. I have heard enough to convince me that he is no longer to be trusted, so I shall not remain here. Come with me to my convent; for I can there speak to you on a subject which I have to communicate, but little calculated to raise your spirits; here I will say nothing.”

Luis, wondering, yet dreading what the Jesuit had to relate, accepted his invitation; and, as they were passing the crowd, he observed Antonio among them. He longed to speak to him, to ask him if he had gained any information regarding the young Gonçalo; but the crowd was so dense that he could not approach him, nor could he catch his eye, for there was no one more intently listening to every word the preacher uttered than he, nor would any of the bystanders have been supposed more devoutly believing.

“By the God of my fathers, that man strives hard to gain the glorious crown of martyrdom; and, if I mistake not, he will deservedly win it before long,” thought Antonio to himself. “He must be got rid of, or, mad as he is, he will find fools enough to follow his counsels, and among them they will commit some mischief before many days are over.”

Note. The whole of this Sermon is a literal translation.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

“Farewell, my kind friend,” exclaimed Don Luis, pressing the hand of Captain Pinto, as they stood together in front of their humble lodgings on the outskirts of the ruined city, while Pedro held his master’s horse and his own, prepared for a journey.

“Farewell, Luis; we may meet again under happier auspices, when I return from the cruise on which I am now despatched, and you recover from the effects of your disappointment and reverse of fortune.”

“The mere loss of fortune I could, as far as I am individually concerned, have borne with fortitude, but that it casts a cloud over the last days of my father’s life, and that it deprives me of the last chance of gaining Donna Clara.”

“But is your father’s property so irretrievably involved, that you may not hope to recover it?” asked the Captain.

“So Father Jacinto, my cousin, informs me, the mercantile house in which the whole of my father’s monied property was placed having completely failed, and the estates being mortgaged to their full value.—No, alas! I see no chance of ever being able to recover what we have lost; and with me, I fear, our once high name must end.”

“Don’t think of such a thing. When you least expect it, Fortune’s wheel will turn up a prize, and you will find yourself prosperous and happy. You do not mean to become a friar, I hope? You were fitted for nobler aims than such a life can offer.”

“I must visit my father,—I fear it will be but to close his eyes,—before I fix on my future course in life, though surely anything is preferable to hanging about the Court, a poverty-stricken noble, in greedy expectation of some paltry office, cringing meanly to those one despises, to obtain it, as is the fate of many, and would be mine also if I could submit to it; but that I never can. No, I would far rather sink my rank and name, and be forgotten by the world, than lead such a life.”

“You are right, Luis, anything is better than that contemptible hunting after place, in which so many men waste their energies; but you need not be reduced to that necessity,—the Minister will gladly give you employment whenever you ask for it, as he has already promised you, and he is not a man to forget his word.”

“That was when fortune appeared to smile on me, and I was not a suppliant for charity. You yourself have often told me that people are far more ready to bestow gifts on those who do not ask for them, than on those who are petitioners.”

“With people in general, such is the case,” replied the Captain; “but the Minister is not to be judged by the same rules as other men: besides, you have other powerful friends, whom you are not aware of, but who would be the last people to wish you to enter the profession of the Church—with due reverence be it spoken. Should you be deprived of your natural counsellor,—your father, do not take any step without consulting one in whose judgment you may place the fullest confidence,—I mean, Senhor Mendez. You will always hear of him at the house where he is now residing, and he will ever be ready to advise you. Do not act like some foolish people, who fancy that it betrays a weakness of judgment to ask advice, whereas another person, of even inferior capacity, may often, from viewing a case calmly and dispassionately, be able to form a better opinion than he who, having to act, is naturally biassed according to his feelings at the time. You will think me an old proser if I continue talking much longer; and, at all events, your servant and horses are impatient to be off, so once again, Luis, farewell.”

The friends embracing affectionately, Luis mounted his horse with a sad heart, and turned his back once more on all the horrors and miseries with which for the last few weeks he had been surrounded. He had, in despair, been obliged to give up his search for the younger Gonçalo Christovaö, not being able to discover the slightest trace of him, so that at last he felt convinced that he must have been one of the sufferers in the earthquake.

The fidalgo had recovered his strength, and a few days before had set off on his return to Oporto, accompanied by his daughter, and his confessor, who did not cease to insist on his fulfilling his vow of placing the fair girl in a convent; and it was at last agreed that she should enter the principal one in that city. Clara, broken-hearted and despairing, offered no opposition to the proposed plan, so that it was arranged she should commence her noviciate soon after her return home,—her younger brother, who had been before destined for the Church, being taken from Coimbra, where he was pursuing his studies, little thought of or cared about, to be treated henceforth as the heir of the house.

Luis heard of these arrangements through a message sent him by Senhora Gertrudes, who promised him that, happen what might, her young mistress should never forget his love and devotion; and that to his courage she owed her life and honour. This was the only particle of consolation he received; and, as it was the only food offered to his hopes, it was not surprising that they were left to starve.

He had just passed the last point from which the ruined capital could be seen,—Pedro, observing his master’s mood, not attempting to interrupt his meditations,—when a horseman from a cross-road suddenly joined them, and riding up to the side of Luis, accosted him.

“Good morrow, Senhor Fidalgo, you are early on the road,” said the stranger, in a clear jovial voice. “By your leave, I will ride on some way with you.”

“Many thanks, senhor, for your polite offer,” returned Luis, scarcely noticing the speaker; “but I should prefer travelling alone.”

“What! Don Luis d’Almeida, the brave, the gallant, and the gay, turned misanthropical?” exclaimed the stranger, laughing. “However, great changes are taking place every day,—honest men turning rogues, and rogues turning honest; one can never tell what will happen next.”

As the stranger was speaking, Luis regarded him attentively, nor was he long in discovering, beneath the military curled wig and queue, the fierce moustaches, and heavy travelling dress, the features of the ci-devant Frè Lopez.

“I trust that you are one of those making a change for the better, Senhor Padre,” said Luis; “but I expected to have met you in a dress more appropriate to your character than the one you wear.”

“I am glad to find that you do not forget your old friends, as I was at first afraid you were going to do,” returned the Friar. “With regard to my costume, you belie it, to say that it is not suited to the character of an honest man; for let me assure you, that, doubt it as you may, I have turned honest; and where can you find a more honourable dress than that of a soldier?”

“Yet, such is surely not suited to your character as a friar,” said Luis.

“Why not? may I not belong to the church militant,” returned Frè Lopez. “However, to confess the truth, I have my friar’s robes carefully wrapped up in my valise behind me, and I intend before long to don them for ever; for I am growing weary of the fatigues and dangers of the wild life I have led, and pine for the quiet and security of the cloister. Yet, let me assure you that it was for your sake I assumed my present disguise. I heard that you were about to travel this way, and, knowing that the roads were very far from safe, on account of the number of thieves who have been frightened out of Lisbon, I thought it my duty to accompany you, to prevent your suffering from them.”

“Many thanks for your attention; but are you not afraid of being apprehended yourself as a suspicious character? You heard that the Minister has issued an order to the corregidors of all the towns in the south, to stop every one who has no pass from him, in case they should be carrying off any property stolen from the city.”

“Oh yes, senhor, I heard of the order, and am provided with a pass, if necessary; but I should think it would not be asked for in such worshipful company as yours.”

“Then you had some other motive in favouring me with your company?” said Luis, scarcely refraining from laughing at the man’s impudence.

“People generally have more than one motive for their good actions,” returned the Friar. “Now, if I, being a rogue, preserve you from the rogues, you, in return, being an honest man, are bound to preserve me from the fangs of the law; therefore, the obligation is mutual, and I have the satisfaction of performing a good action, and receiving a service from you besides. Don’t think I am the less honest on that account. I tell you my motives, whereas another man would keep them secret, or, at all events, give you only one of them; but I scorn such hypocrisy.”

“You are honest,” said Luis.

“You flatter me, senhor,” interrupted the Friar. “It is the first time, for many a long year past, that I have been told so; and I will endeavour to merit the good opinion you have formed of me.”

“I shall be indeed glad to hear that you have foresworn the very suspicious companions with whom I have so frequently met you,” said Luis.

“I have already bidden farewell to most of them. There they hang, like fruit on the trees, thanks to the mild clemency of the Minister!” As the Friar spoke, he pointed towards Lisbon. “I am glad enough to get beyond the sight of those ghastly corpses. Ah, senhor! it is a dreadful thing to hang people up in that way; and many an innocent man is among them. Thank Heaven, I have not such deeds on my conscience! That reminds me, senhor, that I have gained some information which may assist you in discovering what you spoke to me about. I was speaking to one of those poor fellows the night before he was caught and hung,—and, by-the-bye, he no more deserved hanging than I do!—he told me that he had been employed, some time ago, in carrying a young fidalgo, who had been wounded in a night-fray, to a house in the outskirts of Lisbon; but that he could not exactly tell where it was, and who was the person. He had been hired by Rodrigo, who did not mention the name of their employer. The poor fellow was to have accompanied me the next day to try and find out the house, but he was hung instead. Ah! I am a great enemy to the system of hanging.”

Luis listened with deep interest to this account. Then Gonçalo might have escaped destruction from the earthquake! He might be yet alive! He longed to turn back, and continue his search; but he had slight grounds to go upon; for the Friar could give him no further information, and his father was expecting him at home. With sanguine dispositions, the slightest thing is sufficient to raise hopes which, alas! may never be accomplished, but which it often takes years and years of disappointment to learn to distrust. Now old men, as we have informed our readers we are, even to this day, we find ourselves building castles in the air, of such bright and glowing colours, that our own sight is dazzled by the splendour of the fabric we have raised, when a single word has been sufficient to make it fade away like the morning mist, each brilliant hue growing less and less distinct, till we have wondered that it could ever have existed even in our imaginations; and at other times a rude blow has dashed the lovely edifice to the ground, and as we have flown to the spot, we have not found a fragment remaining.

The words the Friar had spoken had been sufficient to raise just such a fabric in Luis’s brain; and, thus occupied, in happier mood he rode on, while the former fell back to converse with Pedro, who was not averse to the company of so amusing a personage, although a rogue. Several very suspicious parties either overtook them, or passed them on the road; but a signal, or a few words, from the Friar, always sent them peaceably away; so that Luis, during the whole journey, met with no adventure worth relating.

“Farewell, Don Luis!” said the soi-disant Friar, as they came in sight of the gates of the Count’s estate. “I have borne you company thus far, and we must now part. We shall meet again some day, I hope; if not, think of me sometimes, as I would be, and not as I have been; but I fear I shall not be a more honest man as a real Friar than I have been as a pretended one. Adeos, senhor!”

And, without waiting for an answer, he rode back the way he had come; while Luis, followed by Pedro, hastened to embrace his father, although the tidings he had to communicate must, he knew, cause much sorrow to the old Count.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

More than a year had passed since the dreadful earthquake of Lisbon, as the violent convulsion of the globe in 1755 is commonly called, although it was felt over the greater part of Europe, to the north of England, and to the shores of Africa, where many towns were destroyed or severely damaged. Under the energetic superintendence of the Prime Minister, the city was rapidly rising from its ashes; and instead of the dark, narrow, and winding lanes of the old town, fine broad streets were planned by able architects invited by him from England and France.

The tents and wooden huts in which the inhabitants had so long dwelt, were ordered to be destroyed, to prevent the rogues and vagabonds, who it appears had again, notwithstanding the terrors of the hanging system, increased to an alarming degree, from harbouring in them.

The horrors of the previous year began gradually to fade from the recollection of men, and they forgot that beneath the ground on which they dwelt burnt those unquenchable fires which might, at any time, burst forth and again destroy their homes and property.

The King and the royal family had taken up their residence in the Palace of the Necessidades, having dwelt for nearly a year in one built of wood, of one story high, to run less risk of injury in case of a recurrence of the former disastrous visitation.

It was some hours past the time of sunset, when, in a cabinet of the palace, the Minister was seated at a table thickly strewed with papers, deeply immersed in the affairs of the state, it might be presumed, from the lines of thought and care which marked his brow. He wrote on for some time, without stopping or hesitating a moment for want of subject, and then, having concluded the work he was about, he threw himself back in the high leathern armchair in which he was sitting, and resting his brow upon his hand, continued for many minutes wrapped in meditation.

“Men would blame me, did they know the game I played,” he thought; “but ’tis the way by which alone I can manage my weak and indolent master:—master!” he muttered, in a scornful tone, “let me say, my slave, my tool! I can brook no master. While he is occupied by some mad folly, or new passion, he will gladly resign all but the empty shadow of power into my hands, and it must be my care to keep him thus employed, while I silence, and for ever, all opposition from without to my aims. His infatuated admiration of this young Marchioness of Tavora may lead to serious results: but no matter; I can easily turn them to my advantage; and, at all events, it keeps him occupied. The pursuit is likely to be a long one, for the lady seems colder and more inaccessible than I had deemed her. Ah! here he comes!”

As he spoke, a door on one side of the room opened, and the King entered. The Minister bowed profoundly as the sovereign threw himself listlessly into a chair, and commenced signing a variety of papers, which the former placed before him, without even glancing at their contents. At last, with an air of disgust, he threw down the pen and rose from his seat, exclaiming, “I can sign no more of your long edicts to-night, my Carvalho. Far more pleasing cares call me elsewhere; and I must snatch a few hours of liberty while my most jealous lady Queen is persuaded I am closeted with my faithful Minister.”

“Your Majesty’s wishes are ever my laws,” returned the Minister; “and I will occupy myself till your return with many important affairs which demand my attention.”

“Do so, my good friend,” said the King.

“I shall not detain you long. Has Teixeira yet come?”

“I will inquire,” answered the complaisant Minister; and quitted the room by an opposite door to that by which the King had entered.

The King walked impatiently about the room till Carvalho returned, accompanied by another person, who bore a large cloak, which he threw over the royal shoulders. The King then wrapping it around himself, so as to conceal his features, left the cabinet, followed by his attendant, while the Minister resumed his previous occupations.

More than two hours thus passed away; not a sound reaching Carvalho’s ears, and no one venturing to intrude where his Majesty was supposed to be occupied in framing laws for the welfare of the kingdom committed to his charge.

For the first hour he continued writing without rising from his seat; inditing letters which no eye but his own and the persons to whom they were addressed might see; making notes only of their contents as he folded and sealed them; for it was his principle never to trust any one where it could possibly be avoided: nor did he allow the secretaries and clerks, who were absolutely necessary to carry on the public business, to be acquainted with any affair beyond their immediate office, punishing those severely who betrayed what was committed to them. He then rose and strode up and down the room for some minutes, with knitted brow and compressed lips. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “thus shall all suffer who dare oppose my will. I have given the people of Oporto a lesson they will not easily forget. Their chief magistrate and eighteen of his seditious companions executed; three hundred of the principal people sent to the galleys, and their city given up to the licence of a brutal soldiery. This will, methinks, put a stop to further conspiracies against my authority; and, if not, in every town and village throughout the kingdom I will have gibbets erected, and hang every one who dares to utter a word of complaint. By terror alone can these people be ruled—all mild measures are worse than useless; for, instead of conciliating, they cause the nation to suppose that it is through fear, or want of power, that they are employed. By Heavens! they shall no longer have reason to suppose so. I have begun my reign of terror, and from henceforth I banish all pity or remorse from my bosom; and the abject wretches on whose necks I will trample, shall feel that, at length, they have a man, instead of the drivelling priests or ignorant debauchees who have hitherto attempted to govern them.”

Muttering, rather than speaking, his thoughts aloud, he returned to his desk. He was still writing when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and, rising from his seat, he bowed to his sovereign, who had entered, if not unperceived, at least unattended to.

“You work hard for our benefit, my faithful Minister,” said Joseph, seating himself; “but we wish you would rule a lady’s changeful mood as easily as you can govern our kingdom. The lovely Donna Theresa continues cruel as ever: she listens to all my passionate speeches with a smile of satisfaction, and entreats me to return again before long, for that she should die were she deprived of my society; and in the same breath talks of her husband and the honour of her family. Her coldness provokes me, while her fascinations increase my love.”

“Your Majesty need not despair,” said the sagacious Minister. “A woman who has once consented to admit a lover to an interview without her husband’s knowledge will never draw back if he proceeds with caution; and when that lover has the qualifications of your Majesty, her fate is certain. A few weeks’ more perseverance and she will yield, or I must renounce all knowledge of the female heart.”

“She must, Carvalho, she must!” exclaimed the King, impatiently. “This suspense is dreadful. What advantage is gained by being a King, unless our subjects will dutifully obey us?”

“Your Majesty is perfectly right; and few there are, I trust, of all your Majesty’s subjects who would prove thus disloyal, except some of the haughty nobles of the realm, who appear to suppose your kingdom their own; and of one of those families is the lovely Donna Theresa, which will account for her most undutiful hesitation. Yet your Majesty need have no fears of the result.”

“I know, I know,” said the King, hastily; “I am convinced she loves me; but some foolish prejudice appears to restrain her from her own wishes.”

“’Tis the work of those accursed Jesuits,” exclaimed Carvalho; “but your Majesty need not fear, and will be able to counteract their aims, if you will follow my advice.”

“Your counsel is always that of wisdom,” said the King. “Speak, my Carvalho.”

“I would, then, advise your Majesty to make a present to Donna Theresa of your favourite dwarf, Donna Florinda. She is acute and observing, and will very soon become mistress of all the young lady’s secrets, at the same time that she will counsel her no longer to treat your Majesty with her general cruelty.”

“Ah! the idea is indeed worthy of following!” exclaimed the King, enraptured at the bright thought. “Thanks, my Carvalho, thanks. You are truly the most sagacious and first of Ministers. I will persuade our Queen, who will willingly part with her, to send her to-morrow morning; and then, if she succeeds, I shall indeed be thankful to one who has so well aided my wishes.”

The King then, holding out his hand, which the zealous and unprejudiced Minister kissed, with every sign of respect, retired to his chamber, and the latter, securing his papers, some in an iron chest, the key of which he kept, and others of more importance about his person, sought his carriage, which was in attendance, and returned to his home.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

We have, for a considerable time, lost sight of Donna Theresa d’Alorna, now the young Marchioness of Tavora. She was seated in her private apartment, on the morning following the consultation of the King and his Minister, in the palace which had been allotted by his father to the young Marquis, when one of her female attendants entered to inform her that her confessor was in attendance below, and requested to know if she would wish to see him.

“Yes, yes, I will see the holy father; conduct him hither,” she exclaimed hastily, and the attendant retired.

“His requests are indeed commands,” she whispered to herself. “Alas! I feel a power I cannot see, and know not whence it comes, hurrying me to the edge of a precipice.”

Donna Theresa was but little altered since we introduced her to our readers. In beauty she had rather improved; her figure had become more rounded and voluptuous, and the sparkle of her eyes was brighter even than before, with greater expression in her countenance, her polished brow giving more signs of deep thought, and, alas! it might be, of care.

Though she had been expecting her visitor, she started as he entered, and rose to welcome him. Our readers will recognise, by his tall, yet graceful and dignified form, the lofty and marble brow, the piercing cold grey eye, and rich melodious voice, the holy Father Jacinto da Costa, the head of the Jesuits’ College.

He took the hand of the young lady, and, with respectful courtesy, led her to a seat, and took one by her side. “I have come, my fair penitent,” he said, in a gentle tone, “to hear the result of your conference with the King. He visited you, as you expected, yesterday?”

Donna Theresa cast her eyes to the ground, and then gazing up earnestly at the Jesuit, she exclaimed, with a voice trembling with agitation, “His Majesty did come last night, trusting in my love and faith; but I had not the heart—I wanted the courage—I could not be guilty of the treachery, to ask the questions you dictated. Oh! do not longer impose this odious task on me! If it be necessary for the safety of my family, if it be advantageous to the service of our holy religion, take some other means to attain the same ends, but I can no longer feign love to my confiding sovereign. Every time I meet him, I feel myself lowered and degraded far worse than the guilty thing the world will soon suppose me.”

The Jesuit smiled encouragement, as he gently shook his head. “The foolish girl loves this weak puppet already,” he thought; but she divined not what was passing in his mind. “No matter, my ends are answered; and if she must be sacrificed, I shall, perhaps, gain the more. Besides, in so holy a cause, I can afford her speedy absolution.”

“Theresa,” he said aloud, “it pains me to hear one of your soaring and acute mind utter expressions worthy only of a foolish girl. Think of the ends proposed. It is not the King I wish to injure; I alone seek to counteract the machinations of that arch-enemy of your family, and of my order, the Minister Carvalho. Could you once gain that complete ascendency over the King which is within your power, you might not only rule him, but the Minister himself would become powerless to injure any of those connected with you by kindred and by love. Believe me, if you hesitate, that treacherous man has sworn, and will not fail in his oath, to ruin all your race, for their haughty contempt of his plebeian extraction. Choose which course you will; allow your newly-raised scruples to conquer your former resolution, and see all those you love destroyed; or take the means of winning a power far greater than any other female in the land can hold.”

“But will the means you advise gain that power?” she asked, with a doubtful tone. “Already have I lost much of my former influence with the King. He begins to doubt the sincerity of my love, and accuses me of coldness and indifference, urging me with prayers and entreaties to give him stronger proofs of my affections, endeavouring to persuade me to sacrifice my honour to his passion.”

The priest of God looked steadily at the young girl. “Theresa,” he said, “I know that you are superior to the foolish superstitions of mankind; and, being convinced of the fallacy of what many call the moral rules of conduct, you will laugh at the prejudices which now cause you to hesitate in performing a necessary duty. With us, the only true priesthood, rests alone the knowledge of what ought or ought not to be performed under certain circumstances. There are rules necessarily promulgated to keep in check the mass of mankind; but they are not without exceptions. What is a crime when performed by one person, becomes a virtue in another. It is the cause and effect of the action which constitutes a crime. When a man in a fit of causeless anger, slays another, he is guilty of murder; or when, to conceal previous guilt, through revenge, or to wrench his gold, one kills another, he is a murderer; but, with the same knife, and in the same way, a man may kill another to attain some good end, or to punish guilt, and he has performed a righteous deed. In the same way, if a woman, through the frailty of her sex, yields to the temptation of passion, she commits what is looked upon as a crime, according to the code at present received as the rule of conduct; but should a woman employ those captivating qualities with which nature has endowed her to attain some desirable object, instead of committing a crime, she has performed a meritorious action; the more so, that she has exposed herself to censure from her fellow-creatures for the purpose.”

Theresa answered with energy, “Oh, Father! but it surely cannot be justifiable to deceive my husband, to barter his honour, and to betray the secrets drawn from my confiding sovereign in a moment of affection.”

“The honour of a husband you do not love, and whose affection for you you have found but of short endurance, is but of little worth,” answered the Father. “Besides, by acting as I would have you do, you perform a far greater service to him and his family than in preserving what he does not value. You treat him far better than he deserves. Let not that thought trouble you. With regard to winning the secrets of your sovereign, you injure him in no possible way; it is through him alone we may hope to arrive at many of the secrets of the Minister; for to no one else are they confided; and against our enemy alone is a blow meditated.”

Donna Theresa had no further excuse to make for her refusal; yet her heart (for that was not quite convinced by the cunning arguments of sophistry) told her that she would be acting a treacherous and sinful part in following her confessor’s counsels. But then again, her ambition urged her on,—and, more than all, she loved! A moth may not play round the flame without scorching its wings; and a woman can seldom tamper with the affections of another without injuring her own. From the moment that she felt she loved the weak monarch, she was no longer able to act the treacherous part she had before been taught to play. She grew cold and distant, for she could not trust herself; and, while her royal lover fancied himself further from his object, he was on the very verge of attaining it. Now, then, her scruples on one score were banished; for she had no further reason to hesitate, when her only counsellor assured her she was committing no crime; but it was not in her nature to be deceitful, and she began to doubt how far she was justified in gaining the confidence of the King in order to betray it. Before she loved, this thought had never occurred to her. Her aim, from the first, had been to gain power; and vanity had led her on from step to step.

It is extraordinary in what different lights we mortals view the same objects under various circumstances. What at one time appears the thing of all others the most desirable to be gained, and for which we would sacrifice our present happiness, and, perhaps, all those dear to us, we the next instant look upon as worthless. What we once thought a heinous crime, we too soon, alas! learn to consider as a slight failing, though far less often do we shudder at crimes which we before committed with untroubled consciences.

“I do not advise you to yield to the King’s passion,” continued the Priest; “but as you value all you have loved, at every expense, retain the power you have gained over him. Bind those captivating chains round him, which your charms are so well calculated to forge, and from henceforth it will not be he, but you, who rule these fair realms of Portugal. Promise me you will do this, Theresa, and I will afford such complete absolution for aught which may trouble your conscience, that it shall remain as bright and pure as at present.”

“Father, I do promise you,” returned Donna Theresa. “You have convinced me both of the necessity of the end, and of the innocence of the means. From henceforth no vain scruples shall deter me!”

There was the slightest possible tone of sarcasm in her voice, for she was not convinced, but she was unable to answer. Such is very frequently the case; and an acute reasoner, who has brought all the arguments of logic and sophistry into play, fancies he has won a victory, because he has silenced a battery, while in reality the fortress remains as impregnable as before. The Jesuit pretended not to notice the irony with which she spoke, as he answered,—“Spoken as I should ever wish my fair pupil to utter her thoughts. By acting as I would desire, you will deserve the warmest gratitude from all you benefit, and the King himself will in time learn to thank you for having rescued him from the thraldom of the tyrant who now holds him in such abject subjection. He is a man who must be governed by some one; and it is far better he should be under the mild sway of a lovely woman, than be the slave of a bloodthirsty monster.” He rose as he spoke. “Farewell, Donna Theresa;—a business of importance calls me away; and I trust, when I next call on you, I shall hear you have obtained the valuable information I so much require.”

He did not wait to receive an answer, for he felt confident that his object would be attained; and he left his last observations to take their full effect.

As Father Jacinto was leaving the palace, he encountered the little black dwarf, Donna Florinda, just getting out of her chair; but, pretending not to observe her, he passed on, muttering to himself, “Ah! is this the way the royal lover is about to work? Let him beware that the betrayer is not betrayed!”

Donna Florinda was far too much occupied in arranging her own dress, in her eagerness to bustle up stairs to exhibit her credentials to her new mistress, to observe the dark figure of the priest. She had received but one charge, being the very simple one of praising the King, and keeping all other lovers at a distance. The young Marchioness received her with great civility, for she had the capability of making herself very amusing, by detailing all the events and scandal of the Court, there being abundance of material for the latter; and she was, therefore, constantly welcome, wherever she went.

The little sable lady was in no way altered in appearance since the time we first introduced her to our readers, being dressed in the same extravagant and gaudy style of costume, and exhibiting a like perfect unconsciousness of the ridiculous figure she made. This was a failing not at all peculiar to herself in her day, nor do we think any very great change has since taken place in the world. She smirked and curtsied as she entered, and presented a letter to Donna Theresa, who, requesting her to be seated, broke the seal, and scanned it over with eagerness.

“Their Majesties are, indeed, very kind, to make me so valuable a present as yourself, Donna Florinda,” said the young Marchioness; “but I fear you will be very unwilling to exchange the splendour and gaiety of the Court for the private residence of one who lives so secluded a life as I do.”

“Far from it, my sweet mistress; I am too happy to come and reside with one so charming and gentle as you are, instead of the cross-grained Queen,” returned the Dwarf. “You well know how I have always loved you; so I was overjoyed when I heard the King propose sending me to you, and in a fright lest her Majesty should take it into her head to refuse to part with me. As soon, therefore, as the point was settled, I hurried away, after paying my most dutiful respects, lest they should again change their minds. To tell you the truth, the King had some difficulty about the matter, but he knew that it would please you, and that had made him determine to carry his point. Ah, he is, indeed, a King to win the hearts of every one,—so kind, so gentle, so loving! You do not appreciate all his surpassing qualities, Donna Theresa, or you would not be so cruel as I suspect you are to him. The other day, when speaking of the beautiful ladies of his Court, he said there were many bright moons which lighted up the night, but they all faded when the sun rose, by which he meant to hint, where you were present; but you may be assured he did not allow the Queen to hear him.”

“His Majesty is very complimentary to my poor qualities,” returned Donna Theresa, coldly.

“He does not compliment—he speaks the truth, my sweet lady,” said the Dwarf. “He loves you far more than you can tell: if you were aware how much, you would acknowledge his is a heart worth winning.”

Donna Theresa answered not, and endeavoured to conceal the pleasure which even this coarse style of flattery gave her. We need not describe it further. Such was the tenor of the words with which the well-trained negress constantly assailed her, and, like water dropping on a rock, they had their effect.

On quitting the young Marchioness, Father Jacinto took his way to Belem, where the old Marquis of Tavora had a Quinta. Here Donna Leonora, his wife, was now residing, since the destruction of their palace in the city; and here she held her coteries of all who were inimical to the King, and haters of his Prime Minister. Of these there were a very large class in the country, some angry at being deprived of the monopoly of legislating, which they had so long enjoyed, without one single qualification for the purpose, except a very common one, the love of place; and others, justly incensed at the cruelty and unwarrantable tyranny of the Minister.

At these meetings the Jesuits were ever the most active members; for to their care had the old Marchioness committed the entire spiritual guidance of her mind, when they, of course, took possession of the direction of every other action of her life.

When the Jesuit reached the gate of the Quinta, he was admitted with welcome, and conducted forthwith to the presence of the lady of the mansion.

His manner was no longer that of the intimate and advising friend, with a slight, though unalarming, tinge of a warmer feeling, doubtful whether that of a parent or a lover, it might have been interpreted either way, as it had been towards Donna Theresa. He had now all the humility and devotion of a subject towards the ex vice-regal lady; piety was his only ostensible motive for action, the thoughts of heaven and religion the only ones which filled his mind, except when occupied in following her wishes. Though humble, he was not cringing; to that his haughty spirit could not bow, even for the sake of deceiving; he behaved more as a minister to his sovereign, offering advice with firm respect, determined to gain his point, yet endeavouring to persuade, rather than to insist on his opinions being followed.

“Do you bring me any news, holy Father?” said the Marchioness, as the Jesuit was ushered into the apartment in which she was seated; and her attendants, at a sign from her, had withdrawn. “Will the King revoke the sentence of banishment pronounced against that pious saint and holy father, Malagrida; or must we still be deprived of his righteous counsels and exhortations?”

“Alas, lady! the heart of the King is still hardened, I fear through the evil advice of that incarnation of the prince of sin,” answered the Priest. “He has not only not revoked the sentence, but is planning fresh aggressions against our Church and holy religion. Before long, if such unheard-of wickedness is not put a stop to, we shall become a nation of atheists and heretics.”

“The words of the sainted Malagrida will come too true,” exclaimed the Marchioness: “our altars will be profaned, and our holy priests driven into exile. His advice must be followed. This wicked King must be removed.”

“Heaven forbid that I should say so,” said Father Jacinto. “He is the Lord’s anointed, and the heritage of this kingdom is his. My brother Malagrida cannot counsel aught that is wrong; but I would first use milder means. I would seek to turn his heart from wickedness, and lead him to the path of righteousness.”

“Has not that been tried, Father, and found to fail?” exclaimed the proud Marchioness, impatiently. “Has he not refused to listen to the words of our religion, and banished from his presence those who are alone able to teach them to him? By what other means, then, can you hope to work his conversion?”

“By the gentle influence of your sex, lady, may that happy end be accomplished. The King loves your daughter-in-law, Donna Theresa, with the most ardent passion; but she is cold and indifferent to him, and faithful to her husband. By her means might his heart be turned to religion, if she would exert her power over him. This she will not do while she fears the censure of the world, who, misinterpreting her conduct, will deem her guilty of infidelity to her husband, while she is innocent of any crime.”

“What, Father, you would not ask my daughter-in-law to dishonour the proud name she bears!” exclaimed the Marchioness.

“Heaven forbid,” interrupted the Jesuit. “I would ask her to do only that which is right. She possesses the means of gaining power to forward a holy cause, and I would counsel her to exert it. But, lady, of her own accord she will not do so; her youth and timidity, her fear of offending you and her husband, prevent her from encouraging the advances of the King. Were you, on the contrary, to sanction her holy efforts to enchain him completely, her scruples would cease; and the censorious world would then be convinced that she was guiltless of dishonouring her noble husband, your son, and that she received the visits of the King through that pure friendship which draws persons of similarity of tastes and disposition together.”

“I comprehend your reasons, Father, and pardon me that I should for a moment have misunderstood your expressions. I will see Theresa, and persuade her no longer to treat the King so coldly. I was aware that he had visited her; but my son is still ignorant of the fact, and it will be better not to inform him of it yet; he is young and passionate, and might not understand our motives.”

“Your caution is advisable, lady,” said the Jesuit. “It is a wise plan never to communicate our intentions to more persons than is necessary; and I would advise you to speak on this subject to no one else.”

“I will follow your counsel, Father,” answered the Marchioness. “But tell me, should Theresa not succeed in turning the King from his evil course, and, should he still persist in persecuting the servants of the Church, what means must we then pursue?”

“Any will be justifiable,” responded the Priest. “Events are in the womb of time, and, according as they appear, so must we guide their course.”

The conversation continued for a considerable time longer, chiefly on the same subject; the wily Priest, while pretending to combat, often encouraging the plans of the Marchioness, by advancing arguments against them which he allowed her easily to controvert. At length, having assured himself that his own arrangements were in the proper train, he, with profound respect, took his leave; and, rejoicing at his success, went about many of the minor plots and intrigues in which he was engaged, for the sole purpose of forwarding the great aim of his Order.

End of the Second Volume.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Being very anxious to proceed with our history, we would rather avoid any retrospection; but, that our readers may understand more clearly the occurrences of the times we are now describing, it will be necessary to give a slight sketch of a few events that had already passed. The most important was the revolt of the inhabitants of Oporto, and of the neighbouring provinces, against the authority of the Minister, in consequence of the establishment of a Company, with almost unbounded privileges, to superintend the sale of the wines produced on the banks of the river Douro. The proprietors of the vineyards, who had been accustomed to a free trade, by which they had grown wealthy, were highly exasperated at a monopoly which would so completely curtail their profits, and of course the people whom they employed espoused their cause. They in tumultuous bodies flocked to the city, compelling the chief magistrate, known by the name of the Judge of the People, to espouse their cause, and pillaging the houses of all those they suspected to be favourers of the measure.

No sooner did the Minister receive intelligence of these disturbances, than he despatched three regiments against the city. The inhabitants yielded without striking a blow; but their submission availed them not; their city was given up to the unbounded license of the savage soldiery; and had it been taken by storm, scarcely could more frightful excesses have been committed. The soldiers were then distributed at free quarters on the inhabitants; the unfortunate Judge of the People was dragged through the streets by the common hangman, with a halter round his neck, and then executed with every mark of ignominy. Eighteen of the principal citizens shared his fate, and three hundred persons, who were accused of being concerned in the sedition, were imprisoned, or condemned for life to the galleys.

The obnoxious and tyrannical Company, their charter sealed with blood, was established; for, after the dreadful examples of the Minister’s unswerving vengeance, fear prevented the people from making any further attempts to overthrow it. It has since been, if we may be allowed to judge, one of the greatest banes to the country.

Though one of the most determined opponents to Carvalho, our friend Gonçalo Christovaö had, on this occasion, taken no open part in the movement, so that he escaped the punishment which fell on so many others; but he was not the less indignant at the atrocities committed in his native city, and he was, at the time we speak of, on his way to Lisbon, to complain in person to his sovereign, hoping to gain some redress, or, at all events, a mitigation of the grievances under which the people suffered.

We scarcely dare mention the fate of the lovely Donna Clara. For a long period her father had resisted all the persuasions of his confessor to compel her to assume the veil, though she was now almost indifferent on the subject; but he had at length yielded, and she was now performing her year of noviciate at the convent of her patron saint at Oporto, which was considered nearly equal in point of the rank of its inmates to that of Santa Clara at Lisbon. Indeed, since the destruction of the latter, many of the nuns, who were all of noble family, had been conveyed thither. It was a sad cortège which had arrived from the ruined city, carefully concealed from the prying eye of curiosity, in closely covered litters, surrounded with a guard of soldiers, who were ordered strictly to keep their eyes turned away from the holy sisterhood. Whether they obeyed the order is a matter of doubt, and whether a delicate hand might not now and then have drawn aside the curtains to admit a breath of fresh air, we cannot aver. This only we know, that the Minister himself had issued an order for their safe conduct; and, as the religious houses on the road were not sufficiently near to admit of their reaching one each day, he commanded that the inns should be prepared for their reception, and that no other travellers should be admitted, which latter order, we suspect, was no slight disappointment to the younger ladies;—but we are growing profane.

To return to the revolt at Oporto. The Jesuits were accused of being the instigators even of this transaction; but we, although no friends of theirs, as may have been guessed, acquit them completely of having had any share in the affair. By an unsuccessful rebellion they could have gained nothing, and must have been aware that such would only strengthen the power of the Minister. We feel assured, therefore, that they were innocent of this charge; nor was it at all in accordance with their usual mode of proceeding: they would have acted far more cautiously and sensibly, so that nothing might be attempted without an almost certain confidence of success. However, the old proverb, “Give a dog a bad name,” was fully exemplified in their case, and every disturbance in the country was imputed to them. We think that, in many respects, they were very hardly used; and we might as well suppose that the followers of the new Bible (which a foreigner told us we English heretics had lately published, called the Oxford Tracts,) were guilty of the riots in Wales, as that they would have excited people to open rebellion. The past had, and the present have, a very different aim in view: they seek not to overthrow dynasties, but to establish their power on the weakness and folly of their fellow-men; they wish to hide the gold, that their own base alloy may be taken as genuine ore. While pretending to point out the narrow path to heaven, they, like the cunning fowler, lead their fascinated admirers into their own well-constructed decoys;—more narrow and narrow grows the way, with many a twist and turn, till at length they cast their nets, from whose meshes there is no escape.

Now, it is very far from our wish to speak disrespectfully of the Church of Rome, or in any way to decry it. On the contrary, we cannot conceive an establishment more admirably adapted for every purpose of untrammelled government. It at once puts a stop to all doubts or discussions, pointing out so exactly what people ought to believe, that they have no further trouble on the subject. As when men have learnt to submit in one way, they generally do so in another, were we a sovereign desirous of absolute power, we should prefer it as the religion of the state, and then, keeping its ministers our friends, we should, if we pleased, be able to govern with the most despotic rule.

We esteem many of the ministers of that Church, and if they attempt to convert us to their opinions, we feel that they are but performing their duty: we do not blame them, because they exercise the power which has been confided to them by their superiors; nor do we blame its followers that they practise what they have been taught; but we are called on to exhibit in their true colours those who, urged on by the lust of power, strive to revive a long-disused engine of authority; disused not through forgetfulness of its existence, but from a general conviction of its pernicious effects, from all men being persuaded that it defeated the purposes of true religion.