and presented a barrier she could not force out of the way, but they stood not long to offer resistance to her entrance.

"If you are men," she said in a low, sad tone, "you will let me kiss his cheek once more while it is warm."

Their arms dropped instantly, and in another minute the head of the corpse was pressed to her heart. But no tear came, nor did she utter a word, for her sorrows were unutterable. With her head bent down until the living and the dead cheeks met together, she sat for at least five minutes, and, as if fascinated, there was not one who rose to leave the Court. Then, bounding up, she glared upon the Bench with all the fury of some wild animal, and cried

"You have murdered my good husband because he tried to bring home meat for his hungry children. May God's curse, and the curse of the fatherless and the widow, rest upon all your hares. He never poached, never touched anything that wasn't his own, but I'll teach his boys to have revenge, I'll teach 'em to kill every hare in the country, and while my curse is upon you all you cannot injure them and will not prosper."

"Order! order!" cried the constable-keeper of the Court, but in a subdued voice.

Order," cried the woman. "And now that you have killed him would you stop me from talking about it. Order! order! why didn't you cry out 'order' when they were telling my poor husband that he should go to prison? The murderers! But I have cursed them, and the God above will not let the widow's curse fail. They are full to-day, but maybe to-morrow they'll be as empty as he and the children have been for weeks together."

At this moment her wild eye lighted upon Captain Oscott, and she fancied-but wrongly so-that he was laughing at her. She flew at him with a savageness of demeanour never surpassed, and, had it not been for the assistance rendered by various persons in the Court, his fine person would have been seriously damaged.

"Come," said the trembling Chairman, "the woman is mad, heed her not, but send her away."

Better send her to prison for three months in place of her husband," whispered a voice, so loudly as to be heard all through the court.

The Chairman looked vainly round to discover the bold speaker, but, failing to identify him, the bench arose, and within ten minutes the court was cleared of all save the corpse and the widow.

On his way home, Lester was accosted by Sam Stokes, who, cap in hand, congratulated him upon his efforts.

"I told the poor soul to call and see you, Sir, because I thought, meetin' her in her misery, you would try to get justice done to her husband."

"I am obliged to you, Sam, for your good opinion, but, in presence of what has just occurred, I must express the wish that you would attend more to what you hear in church on Sundays."

"Well, Sir,” replied the sturdy shoemaker, "I think I do attend to it. I tries to do so. It was through attending to what I heard there that I thought of sending Mrs. Walters to you. It was only the other Sunday you were tellin' us to do by other people, as we wants 'em to do by us '-I liked that sermon very much. So, says I, when I heard of this poor labourin' fellow being in trouble, now's the time to give our Rector a chance; for, you sec, Sir, I know'd if you had been in his fix you'd ha' wanted somebody to do a good turn for you. But it ain't I as needs to be told to attend to what you

say in church--it's the big people as needs that.

They sits and looks as if the sermon warn't meant for them, but only for their servants and labourers; and, in the Court to-day, they didn't agree to make it light for Walters, nor you couldn't shame 'em into it."

"You were there, were you ?" asked Lester.

“Yes, Sir, I was, and I knows that you'll have plenty o' cause to remember your being there. They'll never forgive you for interfering in game cases. The Chairman said a good many fine things about respectin' you' for your being good, but I saw the devil in his eye all the while, and he ain't Ralph Poinder if he don't do you some injury.'

ઃઃ

"Was it you, Sam, that whispered about sending the widow to prison ?" "Yes, Sir, it was, and they had just as well done it as sent her husband. They know'd he wasn't a poacher, but then they wanted to get hold of somebody for a sort o' scarecrow, so they sentenced him. But I was glad to see their fright. They'd give anythin' to undo this day's work."

"But, Sam, they had no thought of killing the man."

"No, that they hadn't," replied Stokes, "for then they wouldn't have done it. But, if he had lived and gone to gaol, what he would have had to suffer! And what about his family he while was there? What do they care for the hunger and sufferin'? It's a good deal better for the poor fellow that he's gone out of all trouble, for if he had lived he would either have become a drunkard, or thro' shame he would not have held up his head agin."

"It is a sad day's work, Stokes, yet we must not judge them too severely; they were more mistaken than wicked."

Perhaps so, Sir, perhaps so; but its odd that all their mistakes should be so terribly one-sided. For my part I don't believe it. I say that they don't care a rush for the people, more than for what they gets out of 'em. And, all the while that they are talkin' about their respect for you, they don't mean a word of it. The fact is, they use you as a sort of policeman, to keep the people in order. Pardon me, Sir, for speakin' so very plain, but it's the truth, and nothin' else."

Lester felt that no argument was needed to prove this, for he had already arrived at the same conclusion. Desiring, however, to avoid making Stokes his confessor, he asked him when the next meeting of the Inquirers would be held.

The desired information was furnished, but Sam added, "If, Sir, you will allow an ignorant man, like me, to give advice, I should say, don't you come to that meetin"."

Why not? I promised to attend, and, moreover, I should like to answer several of the objections I heard raised when I was with you."

"Perhaps so, Sir. Not that I think you can make much of a hand at that. But now that this game case has happened, all the magistrates will want very badly to believe somethin' wrong to say agin you. And they'll tell people that you came to our meetin' to teach our doctrines. They darn't say much about the hare business, but of the other affair they can talk loudly enough. And the fact is, that all the big people will say you are not the right sort of a man to be in the Church. So, I think, Sir, it would be better for all parties if you don't come.

"I'm obliged to you for your advice, but it is my duty to attend, and if people are wicked enough to misrepresent my actions, the responsibility will rest upon their shoulders. Yet why should you care about what they say?

You are not a believer, and I am astonished that you do not advise me to do what will injure the cause to which you are opposed."

Why, you see, Sir, it's so very uncommon for us to find anybody who will try to understand workin' folks, that we don't like to lose 'em when they turn up. I know you can do a deal of good for poor people in Crosswood if you keeps clear of our society. I know you won't speak wrong about us; but if you take our part, then none of the people will listen to anythin' you say. They never inquired, and won't listen to 'em as does. And the best way for a man to lose his character is to join our society, for it doesn't matter what wicked things are said about him, if he is one of us everybody believes it. If somebody was to say that I get drunk and beat my wife, half the people in this place 'ud say it was just like me, and, o' course, it was all along o' what they call my infidelity. But if the same thing was said o' some o' the church or chapel people, it wouldn't be believed."

"That is easily accounted for by this, that we expect unbelievers to be bad men, believers to be good ones."

Yes, Sir, you expect it, I dare say, but it don't turn out that way. I don't find that it's mostly atheists that gets into debt and cheats their neighbours; the fact is, that all the bad fellows profess to be Christians, just so as the better to get on a-cheatin' their neighbours; so that our party keeps pretty clear o' the rogues. And most o' 'em as gets into prison calls 'emselves believers. But, depend upon it, Sir, now that you have gone about to do the workin' people good, and have flung some hard words at the heads of the rulers hereabouts, it would ruin all your plans if it was to be known that you attended our meetin', unless, perhaps, if it was thought that you came to put us down, which, o' course, can't be done.'

Why are you so positive about what cannot be done? How do you know that I am not prepared openly to refute every objection which was urged the other evening ? "

"No offence, Sir, but I am sure you can't do it. I have read enough to know that the objections ain't to be got rid of. If they were, why, then, Christian people wouldn't get so angry about it. The truth is, that they knows the thing isn't to be done; that's why they gets to be so peppery about it. But, Sir, I do hope as you'll take my advice, not to come to our meetin'. I know as it'll be the best in the end for all parties."

"Well, Sam, I shall consider the subject before deciding. Of course, for the sake of those who are there, I ought to attend; while, for the sake of others who never attend such meetings, I should remain away. And yet, perhaps, so far as the practical Christian virtues are concerned, they who attend are little, if any, inferior to those who remain away. I believe in many senses you are a better Christian than they are who denounce you."

By this time they had reached the rectory gate, and Sam went his way, leaving the Rector to tell the story of the day to Ella and Barrington, who was there to dinner.

That night he was closely occupied in endeavouring to solve the problem how it happened that the unbeliever, Sam Stokes, acted with far more Christian charity in judging of his doings and speeches than was exhibited by the chief members of his own church. It was not without help that he achieved his wish, but in what way that help came, must be left at present, so that more pressing matters may be attended to.

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE REFORMATION.-XLII.

SAVONAROLA AND THE FLORENTINE REVOLUTION.

It is significant of the state of public feeling in Italy in the latter part of the fifteenth century, and forms a key to many of the after-events, that such a man as Savonarola should receive, as he did, invitations from many of the towns to visit them and preach there. We have seen, in the course of these papers, how widespread the spirit of reform had become in various parts of Europe. In the success of Savonarola, and the readiness and desire to hear him evinced on the part of the Italian people, we have proof that the same spirit was abroad in Italy. If the Reformation of the sixteenth century extended not to that unhappy land, it was not the fault of the people, it was the fault of their rulers and the people's misfortune. Thus the strange anomaly stands recorded on the historic page, that the country which did more for the revival of learning and literature in Europe than any other, the land from whence came that spirit of intellectual freedom of which the Reformation was the expression, remained in priestly bondage, and subject to all the evils of priestly supremacy. And this was so, not because the people would have it so; but because the Church was there supported by the State, because a cruel tyranny composed of the alliance of statecraft and priestcraft bound the people in fetters which they could not burst. Let us not, therefore, wonder that Italian Reformers, and Savonarola in common with the rest, have been political as well as religious Reformers. We may reasonably hope, however, that now an era of welldeserved freedom and political and religious regeneration is dawning upon this land devoted so long to the powers of evil.

One, and one only, of the invitations to leave Florence for a time was accepted by Savonarola, and that was to Bologna, where he had passed his noviciate and the early years of his monk-life. It was this recollection, probably, which induced him on this occasion to break through his established rule of refusing these invitations. One incident in connection with his course of sermons there is worthy of mention, as showing that he carried the same bold free spirit with him wherever he went. Among those who came to hear him was the princess Bentivoglio, whose husband conducted the affairs of the city, holding there a somewhat similar position to that of Lorenzo in Florence. She, however, with all her attendants, made a practice of not arriving until the commencement of the sermon, to the great disturbance of the congregation and annoyance of the preacher. Savonarola finding this continue, made a public request that all persons would be present in due time. With that vulgar pride, found frequently among the so-called noble, the princess paid no heed whatever to the admonition, and after Savonarola had waited some time to give her an opportunity of altering her practice, he determined to administer a reproof, and,accordingly, when she next arrived, stopped his discourse and exclaimed, "Behold, here comes the Evil Spirit to disturb the Word of God!” She never came again. Such was the man; there was nothing of the sycophant in him: no truckling to money or rank on his part.

Back again at San Marco, and at his old work, it is not long before Savonarola hears that Lorenzo lies smitten with his death-sickness, at his princely villa at Careggi. Every appliance that the medical quackery (not worthy of the name of science) of that time knows has been tried in vain. In vain has Lazzaro da Ficino, the Abernethy of his age, come all the way from Pavia, and prescribed his "costly and marvellous medicament," composed of "dis

"tilled gems." Lorenzo, like meaner mortals, must die. Death came with all his terrors to the dying tyrant. Religion offered no consolation to him, a scoffer and sceptic; a thing hardly to be wondered at considering the character of its ministers. In his extremity, however, he remembered that there was at least one true man in Florence, one who had never yielded to his threats or his flatteries-him he would fain see, and confess his sins. Savonarola at least, he knows, will tell him the truth, he doubts all others. The especial sins he desired to confess were, the cruel proscription which followed the Pazzi conspiracy; the sacking of Polterra, and the forcible appropriation of the moneys belonging to the charitable fund for poor girls, by reason of which many of them had fallen into evil courses. A message was despatched to San Marco for Savonarola. I deem it useless to go," said he, "for I have no words to speak which can be pleasing to Lorenzo.' But on being informed that he wished to confess to him, he went. As the dying tyrant called up in confession all his evil past, his agitation was fearful, and, to quiet him, Savonarola went on repeating, "God is good, God is merciful!" "But," added he, as soon as Lorenzo had finished speaking, "there are three things needful "to that end." "Which be they, Father ?" asked Lorenzo. Savonarola's countenance, always stern, grew dark and awful, as he replied-"In the first "place you must have a strong and living faith in God's mercy.' I have the

99 66

strongest." "In the second place you must restore all your ill-gotten gains, or depute your sons to restore them in your stead." At these words Lorenzo started, but by a strong effort over himself he nodded his assent. Then Savonarola rose to his feet, and lifting up his hands, he sternly regarded the dying tyrant, and in a solemn voice said, "In the last place you must give "back freedom to the Florentines." For a moment Lorenzo cowered before that stern and piercing glance, and that terrible voice, then turning his back indignantly, he spake no word more. Tortured by remorse he breathed his last soon after, and Savonarola departed without granting him the absolution he sought. Hard and cruel-say some, but Savonarola believed not in the value of absolution where no repentance was. On the 8th of April, 1492,

occurred this terrible scene.*

With the death of Lorenzo the spell of the Medician rule in Florence was broken. Pazzi conspiracies and other signs of discontent had preceded the death of Lorenzo, but were held in check by him with the strong hand of a despot. His son Pietro, who succeeded to his place and power, was a weak but, perhaps, a well-meaning man, who found himself unable to cope with the contending factions, and Florence was thus for a time delivered up a prey to civil discord. It was to prevent this that Savonarola now put himself prominently forward on the political arena. Not alone in the churches did he preach in the spirit of the patriot, but in the public squares, day by day, and frequently several times a day, he harangued assembled thousands, calling them to a sense of their duty as men and citizens. Let them be united and they might be free, and re-establish their ancient liberties. Many, in their hatred for liberty, have taken occasion to libel the character of Savonarola in reference to this matter, and have represented him as stirring up the people to revolt against an established government with which they were satisfied, thus seeking to place this great and good man in the same category with the vulgar and ambitious demagogue who stirs up revolution to satisfy his own

*As so different an account of this matter is given by Roscoe in his life of Lorenzo, a book which is so generally read, it is necessary to remark that the truth of the account above given, for which Signor Villari, the latest biographer of Savonarola, is responsible, is fully attested by important existing documeuts quoted by him,