บทที่ บทที่ 22 · Chapter XXII

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The bravo hastened back with the intelligence, that the Cardinal

Frederick Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, had arrived the evening before

at ***, and was expected to pass the day there. The report of his

arrival being spread abroad, the people had been seized with a desire to

see him; and the bells were rung in testimony of the happiness his

presence conferred, and also to give wider notice of his arrival. The

Unknown, left alone, continued to look down into the valley—“For a man!

all crowding, all eager to see a man! And, nevertheless, each one of

them has some demon that torments him; but none, none, a demon like

mine; not one has passed such a night as I have. What is there in this

man to excite such joy? Some silver which he will scatter among

them.—But _all_ are not actuated by such a motive. Well, a few

words—Oh! if he had a few words of consolation for me! Yes—why should

I not go to him? Why not? I _will_ go. What better can I do? I will go

and speak to him; speak to him alone. What shall I say to him? Why, why,

that which——I will hear what he will say to me.”

Having come to this vague determination, he threw over his shoulders a

military cloak, put his pistol and dagger in his girdle, and took from

the wall, where it hung, a carabine almost as famous as himself; thus

accoutred, he proceeded to Lucy’s chamber, and leaving his carabine at

the door, he knocked and demanded admittance. The old woman hastened to

open the door; he entered, and looking around the room saw Lucy tranquil

and silent in the corner of it.

“Does she sleep?” asked he in a low voice. “Why did you suffer her to

sleep there? Were these my orders?”

“I did all I could; but she would neither eat nor come——”

“Let her sleep then in peace; be careful not to trouble her, and when

she wakes—Martha will be in the next chamber, and you must send her for

whatever she may want—when she wakes—tell her I——that the signor has

gone out for a little while, that he will return, and that—he will do

all that she wishes.”

The old woman was astonished; “She must be some princess,” thought she.

The Unknown departed, took his carabine, gave orders to Martha to be in

waiting, and to a bravo to guard the chamber, and not suffer any one to

approach; then leaving the castle, with rapid steps he descended into

the valley. The bravoes whom he met ascending the hill, stopped

respectfully at his approach, expecting and awaiting orders for some

expedition, and were astonished at his whole appearance, and the looks

with which he returned their salute.

When he reached the public road, his presence made a very different

impression; at his approach every one gave way, regarding him with looks

of suspicion and wonder; each individual whom he met, cast at him a

troubled look, bowed, and slackened his pace, in order to remain behind.

He arrived at the village in the midst of the throng; his name quickly

spread from mouth to mouth, and a passage was instantly made for him to

pass. He enquired of one near him where the cardinal was. “In the house

of the curate,” replied the person, respectfully pointing to it. He went

to it, entered a small court where there were several priests, who

looked at him with astonishment and suspicion. He saw, opposite to him,

a door open, which led to a small hall, in which were also a great

collection of priests. He left his carabine in a corner of the court,

and entered the hall. He was received here, likewise, with doubting

looks, and whispers; and his name was repeated with infinite awe. He

accosted one of them, asking to be directed to the cardinal, as he

wished to speak with him.

“I am a stranger,” replied the priest; and looking around upon the

assembly, he called the cross-bearer, who at the time was saying to one

near him, “He here!—the famous——What can have brought him here? Make

room!” At this call, which resounded in the general silence, he felt

himself compelled to advance. He bowed before the Unknown, raised his

eyes in uneasy curiosity to his face, and understanding his request, he

stammered out, “I do not know if his illustrious lordship—at this

time—is—can—however, I will go and see.” And he went, against his

will, to carry the message to the cardinal.

At this period of our history we cannot do otherwise than rest a while,

as the traveller worn out and weary with a long journey through a

sterile and savage land, refreshes himself for a season under the shade

of a tree, near a fountain of living water. We are about to introduce a

person whose name and memory cause an emotion of respect and sympathy;

and this emotion is the more grateful from our previous contemplation of

wickedness and crime. We trust our readers will excuse our devoting a

few moments to this great and good man.

Frederick Borromeo, born in the year 1564, was one of those rare

characters who have employed a fine genius, the resources of great

wealth, the advantages of privileged rank, and unceasing industry, for

the discovery and practice of that which was for the good of mankind.

His life was like a stream, which, issuing limpid from its native rock,

moves on undefiled over various lands; and, clear and limpid still,

unites itself with the ocean. In the midst of the pomps and pleasures of

the world, he applied himself from his earliest youth to study and obey

the precepts of religion; and this application produced in his heart its

legitimate fruits. He took truth for the rule of his thoughts and

actions. He was taught by it not to look upon this life as a burthen to

the many, and a pleasure to the few; but as a scene of activity for all,

and of which all must render their account; and the chief aim of his

thoughts had ever been to render his life useful and holy.

In 1580, he declared his resolution to devote himself to the ministry of

the church, and he took the habit from the hands of his cousin Carlos,

whom the public voice, even to the present day, has uniformly

acknowledged as a saint.[31] He entered a short time after into the

college at Pavia, founded by that holy man, and which still bears the

name of the family. There, whilst applying himself with assiduity to the

occupations prescribed by its rules, he voluntarily imposed on himself,

in addition, the task of instructing the poor and ignorant in the

principles of the Christian religion, and of visiting, consoling, and

aiding the sick. He made use of the authority which was conceded to him

by all, to induce his companions to second him in these deeds of

benevolence; he steadily refused all worldly advantages, and led a life

of self-denial and devotion to the cause of religion and virtue. The

complaints of his kindred, who thought the dignity of the house degraded

by his plain and simple habits of life, were unavailing. He had another

conflict to sustain with the ecclesiastical authorities, who wished to

impel him forward to distinction, and make him appear as the prince of

the place. From all this, however, he carefully withdrew himself,

although at the time but a youth.

[31] Saint Charles Borromeo.

It would not have been astonishing that, during the life of his cousin

Carlos, Frederick should have imitated the example and followed the

counsel of so good a man; but it was surprising, that after his death no

one could perceive that Frederick, although only twenty years of age,

had lost his guardian and guide. The increasing splendour of his

talents, his piety, the support of many powerful cardinals, the

authority of his family, the name itself, to which Carlos had caused to

be associated an idea of sanctity and sacerdotal superiority, all

concurred to point him out as a proper subject for ecclesiastical

dignity. But he, persuaded in the depth of his soul of that which no

true Christian can deny, that a man has no real superiority over

others, but in devotion to their good, dreaded distinction, and sought

to avoid it. He did not wish to escape from the obligation to serve his

neighbour; his life was but one scene of such services; but he did not

esteem himself worthy of so high and responsible an office. Governed by

such feelings, in 1595, when Clement VIII. offered him the archbishopric

of Milan, he refused it without hesitation, but was finally obliged to

yield to the express command of the pope.

Such demonstrations are neither difficult nor rare; it is no greater

effort for hypocrisy to assume them, than for raillery to deride them.

But are they not also the natural expression of wise and virtuous

feeling? The life is the test of sincerity; and though all the

hypocrites in the world had assumed the expression of virtuous

sentiments, yet the sentiments themselves will always command our

respect and veneration, when their genuineness is evinced by a life of

disinterestedness and self-sacrifice.

Frederick, as archbishop, was careful to reserve for himself only that

which was barely necessary, of his time and his wealth: he said, as all

the world says, that the ecclesiastical revenues are the patrimony of

the poor; and we shall see how he put this maxim in practice. He caused

an estimate to be made of the sum necessary for his expenses, and for

those employed in his service: finding it to be 600 sequins, he ordered

that amount to be taken from his patrimonial revenues for the supply of

his table. He exercised such minute economy with regard to himself, that

he did not relinquish any article of dress until it was entirely worn

out; but he joined to these habits of extreme simplicity, an exquisite

neatness, which was remarkable in this age of luxury and uncleanliness.

He did more: in order that nothing should be lost from the fragments of

his frugal table, he assigned them to a hospital for the poor, and a

servant came every day to gather the remnants for that purpose. From the

attention which he paid to such minutiæ, we might form a contracted idea

of his mind, as being incapable of elevating itself to more extensive

designs, were it not for the Ambrosian library, which remains a monument

of his liberality and magnificence. To furnish it with books and

manuscripts, besides those which he had already collected, he sent eight

of the most skilful and learned men to make purchases of them in France,

Spain, Germany, Italy, Flanders, Greece, Lebanon, and Jerusalem. He

succeeded in collecting 30,000 printed volumes, and 14,000 manuscripts.

He joined to the library a college of doctors: these doctors were nine

in number, and supported by him as long as he lived; after his death,

the ordinary revenues not being sufficient for the expense, they were

reduced to two. Their duty consisted in the cultivation of the various

branches of human knowledge, theology, history, belles lettres,

ecclesiastical antiquities, and Oriental languages. Each one was obliged

to publish some work on the subject to which he had particularly applied

himself. He added to this a college, which he called _Trilingue_[32],

for the study of the Greek, Latin, and Italian languages; and a college

of pupils, who were instructed in these languages to become professors

in their turn. He united to these also a printing establishment for the

Oriental languages, for Hebrew, Chaldee, Arabic, Persian, and Armenian;

a gallery of pictures, and another of statues; and a school for the

three principal arts of design. For the latter, he was at no loss to

find professors; but this was not the case with regard to the Eastern

languages, which were at this time but little cultivated in Europe. In

the orders which he left for the government and regulations of the

library, we perceive a perpetual attention to utility, admirable in

itself, and much in advance of the ordinary ideas of his time. He

prescribed to the librarian the cultivation of a regular correspondence

with the learned men of Europe, to keep himself acquainted with the

state of science, and to procure every new and important work; he also

charged him to point out to young students the books necessary for them,

and, whether natives or foreigners, to afford them every possible

facility in making use of those of the library. There is a history of

the Ambrosian library by one Pierpaolo Bosca, who was librarian after

the death of Frederick, in which all the excellent regulations are

minutely detailed. Other libraries existed in Italy, but with little

benefit to the studious: the books were carefully concealed from view in

their cases, and inaccessible to all, except on rare occasions, and with

the utmost difficulty. A book might then be seen, but not studied. It is

useless to enquire what were the fruits of these establishments of

Borromeo, but we must admire the generosity, judgment, and benevolence

of the man who could undertake and execute such things, in the midst of

the ignorance, inertness, and general indifference which surrounded him.

And in attention to public, he was not unmindful of private benevolence;

indeed, his whole life was a perpetual almsgiving; on the occasion of

the famine of which our history has spoken, we may have to relate more

than one instance of his wisdom and generosity.

[32] Three languages.

The inexhaustible charity of the man shone as much in his private

charities, as in his splendid and magnificent public establishments

already recorded. On one occasion he saved a young lady from being

immured in a convent against her wish. Her selfish father pretended he

could not marry her suitably without a portion of 4000 crowns. The

bishop advanced the money.

Easy of access, he made it a principle to receive the poor who applied

to him, with kindness and affection. And on this point he was obliged to

dispute with the nobility, who wished to keep him to their standard of

action. One day, whilst visiting among the mountaineers, and instructing

some poor children, Frederick bestowed caresses on them. A nobleman who

was present, warned him to be careful, as the children were dirty and

disgusting. The good bishop, not without indignation, replied, “These

souls are committed to my care; these children may never see me again;

and are you not willing that I should embrace them?”

He, however, seldom felt indignation or anger: he was admired for a

placability, a sweetness of manner nearly imperturbable; which, however,

was not natural to him, but the effect of continual combat against a

quick and hasty disposition. If ever he appeared harsh, it was to those

subordinate pastors, whom he found guilty of avarice, or negligence, or

any other vice opposed to the spirit of their high calling. With regard

to his own interests or temporal glory, he exhibited no emotion, either

of joy or regret; admirable indeed, if his spirit was in reality not

affected by these emotions; but more admirable still, if viewed as the

result of continued and unremitted effort to subdue them. And amidst all

the important cares with which he was occupied, he did not neglect the

cultivation of his mind; he devoted himself to literature with so much

ardour, that he became one of the most learned men of his time.

We must not, however, conceal that he adopted with firm persuasion, and

maintained with constancy, certain opinions, which at this day would

appear singular and ill-founded; these, however, were the errors of his

time, and not his own.

Our readers may perhaps enquire, if so learned and studious a man has

left no monument of his labours and studies? His works, great and small,

Latin and Italian, printed as well as manuscript, amount to more than a

hundred; they are preserved with care in the library which he founded.

They are composed of moral treatises, sermons, historical dissertations,

sacred and profane antiquities, literature, the fine arts, &c.

And what is the reason that they are so little known, so little sought

for? We cannot enter into the causes of this phenomenon, as our

explanation might not be satisfactory to our readers. So that we had

better resume the course of our history, in relating facts concerning

this extraordinary man.