Fidelity of Subjects to God Renders Them Faithful to the Prince, Their Ruler by Alphonsus Maria de' Liguori

[Alfonso Maria de' Liguori, “La fedeltà de' vassalli verso Dio”, 1777.]


CHAPTER I. – IF KINGS WISH THEIR SUBJECTS TO BE OBEDIENT TO THEM, THEY MUST ENDEAVOR TO MAKE THEM OBEDIENT TO GOD. PROOF OF THIS ASSERTION.

By promoting good morals we promote also peace among citizens, and consequently the good of the whole state. This is an evident truth, which is everywhere proved by experience: subjects that obey the com mandments of God are necessarily obedient to the laws of princes. The fidelity that the subjects practise towards God renders them faithful to their sovereigns. The reason of this is clear: when subjects obey the divine precepts, we see a cessation of licentiousness, of thefts, of frauds, of adulteries, of homicides; then the state flourishes, order is maintained by submission to the sovereign, and peace is preserved in families. In a word, those that resolve to lead an orderly life resolve at the same time to fulfil their duties: they will take care to suppress their passions, and so live in peace with themselves and with others.

But, one will say, for this purpose the laws of princes and the punishments inflicted upon delinquents are suf ficient. No, these things are not sufficient; human laws with their penalties cannot suffice to check the boldness and inordinate passions of bad subjects who seek only to serve their own interests and to gratify their wicked desires. If, when an occasion presents itself, they despise the laws and chastisements of God, they also will easily despise the laws of their sovereign and the punishments with which he threatens them.

Human laws can aid in preserving good morals in those subjects that are well disposed, but they cannot infuse them into those that are depraved; religion alone introduces into souls and forms in them holy morals, and thus causes the laws to be observed. If religion were not there, teaching that there is a God who sees everything and knows how to punish the wickedness of the impious, rarely would they make an effort to fulfil their duties; and without this fear of divine justice which restrains men, the number of the wicked would everywhere multiply enormously.

It is religion alone that renders subjects truly obedient to their princes, by teaching them that they are obliged to obey their sovereigns, not only to avoid the punishments inflicted upon transgressors, but also to obey God and to preserve peace of conscience, according to the teaching of St. Paul, who declares that the sovereigns are the ministers of God: For they are the ministers of God, serving unto this purpose. He moreover adds, that the laws of princes even bind the consciences of subjects: Wherefore be subject of necessity, not only for wrath, but also for conscience sake?

Neither the laws nor the punishments that they menace suffice, therefore, to repress the boldness of malefactors who trouble the public peace; for often misdeeds remain unpunished, either because the delinquents remain hidden, or because sufficient proofs are wanting to condemn them; and it is not rare that the guilty, although their misdeeds are well proved, escape punishment by flight. Le Clerc, although a heretic, said: "Most men are incapable of doing what is right solely in view of the public good; private interest is nearly always opposed to the common good; only the fear of divine chastisements keeps in check all dis orders."

On the other hand, as it is true that the princes are the ministers of God and his representatives, since the subjects are obliged even in conscience to obey their princes, so the princes are obliged to watch over their subjects that they may obey God. For a private individual it is sufficient to observe the law of God in order to save his soul; but for a king that is not sufficient. He must do all that he can, that his subjects may observe the law of God by endeavoring to reform bad morals and extirpating scandals.

And when the honor of God is at stake, the princes should arm themselves with courage, and not fail in their duty through fear of any adversity or contradiction that may arise; for every king that fulfils his duty has God to assist him, as the Lord himself has declared to Josue when he intrusted to him the government of his people: Take courage, and be strong. Fear not, and be not dismayed; because the Lord thy God is with thee.

Consequently the principal end that princes should propose to themselves in the government is not their own glory, but the glory of God. Those that forget the glory of God to occupy themselves only with their own glory, shall lose both. Whoever governs should be persuaded that it is not possible for him in this world, filled with wicked and ignorant people, to acquire by his acts, however just and holy they may be, the praises and the applause of all his subjects. If he exercises liberality towards the good and the poor, they will call him a spendthrift; if he executes justice in regard to the wicked, he will be called a tyrant:. Kings should, therefore, seek to please God rather than men; for then, if they are not praised by the wicked, they will be praised by the good, and above all by God who will know how to reward them in this life and in the next.

Princes should in a special manner be watchful that their states be purged of people that profess false doctrine; hence many Catholic sovereigns admit to their service neither heretics nor schismatics. They should also strictly prohibit the introduction of books infected with pernicious doctrines; the want of precaution of certain princes against this sort of books has caused the ruin of several kingdoms.

One should also consider how many virtuous princesses have increased the glory of God and piety among the subjects by their devotion and the good example which they have given. This one may see in the Lives of St. Elizabeth, Queen of Portugal; St. Hedwig, Duchess of Poland; St. Bridget, Princess of Sweden; and St. Catharine, her daughter.


CHAPTER II. – MEANS TO INDUCE SUBJECTS TO BE OBEDIENT TO GOD.

Let us now see which are the means used by good princes to induce their subjects to live like Christians.

1. In the distribution of offices and of honors, they give the preference to those that distinguish themselves by a more irreproachable life, excepting the case in which, in an affair of great importance to the State, another would be much more capable. Princes, how ever, should always consider that those persons who are more pleasing to God, receive from the Lord greater lights and much more strength to secure the execution of the orders that regard the public good.

2. They bestow with liberality graces and favors upon the good, and they are on the other hand reserved and strict in regard to those that lead wicked lives.

3. They take care to have always near them at court persons that are edifying in their conduct; for princes can always trust such persons, but not those that are free in their manners.

4. They profit by every occasion to praise the virtuous, and they show that they esteem but little those that care not for piety. .If it is understood that the prince looks upon good people with an eye different from that with which he looks upon libertines, this would be sufficient to reform the greater part of the subjects of his kingdom. Hence it is advisable for princes to invite to their courts zealous preachers who can persuade each one of his duty to serve God.

5. They should choose functionaries who are not only exact in rendering justice, but who are also filled with the fear of God; for those that are not filled with the fear of God will hardly be exact in the administration of justice as they should be. Moreover, they should also take care that the functionaries are zealous for the laws, not only by observing them themselves, but by having them observed by others, in order that the laws may be maintained in all their rigor.

6. As for the choice of functionaries, many Catholic princes are accustomed to employ for this purpose their counsel or the highest tribunal, to whom they pro pose three subjects among whom they choose him who seems to them the most worthy, so that in this way they may assure themselves of having the best.

7. Then, in order that the functionaries chosen may suitably acquit themselves of their charge, the prince should, as well as he can, reward those that behave themselves, and punish those that neglect their duty.

8. The ecclesiastical offices to which the prince has the right to make appointments should be conferred upon the most worthy subjects. It is also expedient that ecclesiastical pensions be granted to those that have labored most for the Church.

9. The prince should also see to it that the Superiors of religious Orders have the rules of their Institute observed; for when the religious fail in their duty and those in charge neglect to correct them, great injury to seculars and to the State itself will be the result.


A Few Maxims concerning the Good Government of the Kingdom in order that all may conduce to the Glory of God, of the King, and to the Welfare of the Subjects.

1. The good prince, in order to govern well, always has God before his eyes, and he prefers the interests of God s glory to every reason of State.

2. He shows himself an enemy to every kind of flattery; he loves the one that tells him the truth, and he wishes every one to know this. When Henry IV., King of France, was asked why he loved so much the Bishop of Geneva, who was St. Francis de Sales, he answered: "I love him because he does not flatter me."

3. He exercises justice towards every one, without passion and without partiality.

4. Before resolving important affairs, he examines everything himself.

5. In all doubtful things, or where a doubt is possible, he must consult prudent men.

6. This is the reason why he does his best to choose counsellors who are wise and of an upright conscience.

7. After having taken counsel and the counsel has been judged good, he should carry it out with firmness, unless he meets with another good reason that is the very opposite. To change ones opinion for a good reason is not weakness; it is praiseworthy prudence.

8. When he hears any one praised or blamed, let him be slow to believe what is said, and let him examine whether he that speaks does not speak with a view to personal interest.

9. Finally, the good prince, in order to urge his subjects to live well, relies more on good example than on force. The good example of the prince effects more in this respect than a thousand private individuals.

10. It is the duty not only of the bishops but also of the sovereign to induce the subjects to practise exercises of devotion, and to render to God the honor that is due to him. It is said that in the world one must have fortune; well, it is piety which is the foundation of the true fortune of all men, and especially of princes. It is certain that all prosperity or adversity depends on God, who disposes all things; no one, therefore, can hope for more happiness in the present life than he that renders himself most pleasing to God by his piety. The Lord takes to heart the prosperity of those princes that take especially to heart the glory of God. In a word, a sovereign who desires to govern well his temporal kingdom should live in such a manner as to make himself worthy of the eternal kingdom.


CHAPTER III. – EXAMPLES OF PRINCES WHO BY THEIR ZEAL CONTRIBUTED. MUCH TOWARDS THE SPIRITUAL WELFARE OF THE PEOPLE.

1. Emperor Constantine.

Among these princes, he who deserves to be mentioned in the first place is the great Emperor Constantine. Etisebius relates that this prince judged that only God whom his father had adored should be acknowledged and venerated, when he considered that the other em perors, who had put alt confidence in a multitude of gods, after having immolated to them so many victims and offered so many gifts, found themselves disappointed in the hopes which the oracles had made them enter tain, and that they all ended their lives by an unfor tunate death, while his father Constantius alone, after having condemned the errors of his colleagues and rec ognized one only God as his Lord, died a happy death.

At this epoch, being at war with the tyrant Maxentius who reigned at Rome, Constantine began to supplicate the omnipotent God to enlighten and to help him in the state in which he was. God, who is full of mercy, did not fail to take the young emperor under his protection. Towards the end of the same day a luminous cross appeared to Constantine and to his whole army; it shone in the heavens above the sun, and bore this inscription: In hoc vince.

Then the emperor sent for some Christian priests to explain to him the meaning of this sign and of this inscription. Having received the desired explanation, (so Cardinal Orsi writes), and having been thoroughly instructed by the priests, he resolutely embraced the faith of Jesus Christ. At the same time he had a model of the Labarum made, representing the sign of the cross that had appeared to him. Afterwards, in the wars that he had to wage, the Labarum was carried before him in every battle, and he always gained the victory.

In regard to the war against Maxentius, after the apparition of the cross, Constantine was animated with great courage; he engaged in a battle under the walls of Rome, October 28, 312, and gained a brilliant victory which filled the whole empire with joy on account of the death of the tyrant, who was drowned in the Tiber. The victorious emperor, full of gratitude to God, would even have desired to abolish idolatry; but in the beginning he had to tolerate many things, because the Romans were too much attached to their gods. For the rest, he at once began to favor the Christian faith as much as he could, and he publicly made known even in Rome itself what was due to the Pope, who was at that time St. Melchiades, and to the priests by admit ting them to his table.

Then he undertook to establish the worship of the true God in various parts of the empire, by the building of many magnificent churches, which he enriched with precious vessels and ornaments and endowed them with abundant revenues. He also published several edicts in favor of the Church and of the faithful, and for this he even obtained the sanction of the Senate.

The Lord also augmented the prosperity of Constantine by the death of his enemies Maximian and of Licinius, who did not cease to persecute the Church. In regard to the Church he continued, as he had proposed to himself, to labor so as to unite the empire in the belief in Jesus Christ, and he persecuted not only the idolaters but also the heretics, and especially the Arians. Hence in 325, in order to put an end to this heresy, he promoted the assembling of the Council of Nice at which he wished to be present himself. At the sight of this august assembly of bishops, of whom several bore the scars of the wounds suffered during the preceding persecutions, he was transported with joy, rendered thanks to God, and encouraged these holy prelates to defend with firmness the cause of God. The Council having finished by condemning Arius, before the bishops separated the emperor wished to receive all of them at table, and he made each one of them a noble present. But he was more particularly generous towards those bishops who still bore the marks of the persecution they had endured.

He afterwards began to found at Rome several churches, such as that of the Saviour in the Lateran, that of St. Peter in the Vatican, that of St. Paul in the Ostian Way. He also built many others at Rome and in many distant provinces, in Greece, in Africa, in Egypt, and in Syria.

Seeing afterwards that the Roman people persisted in defending idolatry to the injury of so many souls, he resolved to found in the city of Byzantium in the East a new Rome, which was to be peopled only by the disciples of Jesus Christ, and which he called after his own name Constantinople. Permitting only Catholics to live there, he excluded therefrom all infidels and heretics. From this place he also issued several edicts against the Novatians, the Marcionites, and other heretics, by forbidding their sects all private or public exercise of worship. Moreover, he ordained that all oratories where the heretics held their meetings should be handed over to the Catholics.

In a word, since Constantine, enlightened from on high, resolved to embrace the faith, he always lived as, a true Catholic. A certain author taxed him with a leaning towards the doctrine of Arius; but in ecclesiastical history it is too plainly seen that he always venerated and defended the Council of Nice in which Arius was condemned. But why did Constantine receive baptism at the hands of Eusebius of Nicomedia, who was an Arian? The reason is because Eusebius and Arius deceived him by making him believe that their doctrine was the same as that of the Council. Men, even the wisest and the holiest, are liable to be deceived without any fault of theirs, as was the case with Constantine. For the rest, Natalis Alexander in a learned dissertation affirms and proves that all the ancient writers, such as St. Athanasius, St. Epiphanius, and St. Hilary, agree in saying that Constantine always remained firmly attached to the Catholic faith; for this the Lord rewarded him with a happy death.

There is a discussion among authors about his bap tism and death. Cardinal Baronius, with several others, says that Constantine was baptized at Rome in 324 by Pope St. Sylvester; however, the learned of the present day more commonly believe, and with more probability, that he received baptism at the end of his life at Nico media, as we are informed by Fleury, Cardinal Orsi, and Natalis Alexander, with St. Ambrose, St. Isidore, and others. They say that Constantine, having fallen ill at Nicomedia, and growing worse, he called several bishops and begged them to confer baptism upon him. After he had received it he felt such consolation that he cried out: "Now I find myself truly happy!" Then as his officers were expressing the pain that they felt in seeing him in this state and the desire that they had for the preservation of his life, he answered them: "I have just received true life; I desire nothing more than to go to enjoy my God." It was in these pious sentiments that he died, May 22 of the year 337. In the Greek Martyrology, according to what Natalis Alexander says, he is venerated as Blessed on May 21.

2. St. Louis, King of France.

In reference to the subject that occupies us, the honor of God and the salvation of souls, he who merits to be mentioned for the second place is a great king and a great saint; it is the King of France, St. Louis. I omit to praise here all the virtues of this illustrious prince; books containing the history of his glorious life are everywhere found. To give an idea of his great zeal for the glory of God and for the salvation of souls, it suffices to recall to mind the magnanimous courage with which he undertook the conquest of the Holy Land in order to deliver it from the hands of the Saracens.

History informs us that the first time that he set out for Egypt with his army in 1249, having arrived with his naval forces before the city of Damietta and seeing himself surrounded by the principal lords of his kingdom, he thus spoke to them: "Friends, if we are united in charity, victory is ours. Let us then attack the enemy with courage. Do not regard my person; lam like any one among you whose life the Lord may take if he pleases. Whatever will happen will always be advantageous to us: if we are conquered, we shall be martyrs; if we are victorious, this will be for the glory of God. It is for God that we are fighting; we desire only his glory and not ours." Then, having ordered all to dis embark, the king was the first to go ashore to engage in a hand-to-hand conflict with the hostile forces who were waiting for him; but, seized with astonishment at such courage, they took to flight, so that Damietta was captured on the sixth day.

It is true, it did not please the Lord to allow the enterprise to succeed; for a pestilence having broken out among the troops, St. Louis was obliged to return to France. Later, however, in 1270, he resumed the enter prise; but disease again attacked his soldiers, and, being himself seized with the malady, he laid down his life amidst the barbarians. Such a death, however, pro cured for him the greatest merit in heaven.

Let us now consider the zeal with which he was animated for the spiritual good of his subjects. He under took for this purpose to visit his States, and in this visit lie left everywhere marks of his great piety and of his justice. He specially published most severe edicts against blasphemers and perjurers, and ordered that their tongues should be pierced with a red-hot iron. He said: "I would consent to suffer myself this torture if I could by this means banish from my kingdom blasphemy and perjury."

He never omitted to devote himself every day to the good government of his subjects, so that everything might be in order and all scandals might be avoided. At the same time he never failed to make every day his meditation and spiritual reading, and prayed for him self and for the people intrusted to his care. One of his intimate friends, seeing that he employed much time in the exercise of piety, said to him one day that this was too much; but the saint replied: "If I spent much more time in amusements, as is usual with those in my state, no one would say anything about the matter." It is thus that he merited to die a happy death.

3. St. Stephen, King of Hungary.

The third place is occupied by St. Stephen, the first king of Hungary. He was born in 977, when the greater part of Hungary was yet pagan. Having succeeded his father in 997, and wishing to attract his idolatrous subjects to the worship of the true God, he began by often assembling a large number of them in his palace, where, having received them with kindness and affability, he himself instructed them in the divine law. But the obstinate pagans suspecting that the king wished to force them to change their religion, a great multitude of them revolted, so that the saint was obliged to oppose them by an army of Christians. It would have been easy for him to reign peaceably, had he wished to permit the unbelievers to live according to their false law; but the good prince preferred the advantages of religion to those of the State. Hence, full of confidence in God and in his dearly beloved Sovereign the Blessed Virgin, under whose protection he had placed his kingdom, he did not refuse to give battle, although the number of unbelievers was much superior to his own soldiers. The pagans were totally defeated.

When he saw these obstacles removed, he labored to rid his kingdom of all that remained of idolatry. For this purpose he invited from various parts religious priests to come to preach the Gospel to his people; and as he himself was always found at the head of the missionaries, the conversion of the country was general. He then divided the kingdom into eleven dioceses, and chose the city of Strigonia as the Metropolitan See. For this he obtained the approbation of Pope Sylvester II., who conferred upon him the title of king, and con firmed all the bishoprics that he had established and all the bishops that he had appointed.

Later on, when Emperor Conrad II. had sent a formidable army to take possession of Hungary, he re signed himself entirely to the hands of God, and the Lord, who loved this faithful servant, did not fail to protect him. At the moment when the attack was feared, the troops of Conrad withdrew, and no one ever heard why the Emperor ordered the retreat of his powerful army.

When the saint had restored peace to his kingdom, he devoted himself entirely to the work of making the religion of Jesus Christ prosper, and of removing abuses. To this end he published several very salutary laws in order to abolish the barbarous customs of his subjects. At the same time he charged himself with the care of the poor and of the administration of justice for all kinds of persons. He thus employed the greatest part of the day in the government of his subjects; as for the night, he devoted it to meditating on the eternal truths and to recommending himself and his subjects to God.

Entirely resigned to the divine will, he suffered in peace the death of all his children, and especially that of Emeric, his eldest son, who was endowed with the greatest virtue, and whom he loved fondly. He also suffered with exemplary patience his numerous infirmities until God, in 1038, called him to heaven at the age of sixty-one. He died in profound peace on the day of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, whom he had honored with singular devotion during his whole life, and to whom he had raised a magnificent church in which he wished to be buried.

4. St. Ethelbert, King of England.

When St. Gregory the Great, in 596, had sent the monk St. Augustine, accompanied by other religious, to preach the faith in England, King Ethelbert, en lightened and converted, gained by the aid which he gave to these good missionaries several provinces to the religion of Jesus Christ. His successors, continuing to favor the mission, had the consolation of seeing this kingdom remain faithful till the time of the unfortunate King Henry VIII., who in 1533 separated from the Church. During this interval one may say that England was a seminary of saints, so that there was found no country that had not as its special protector one of its own canonized countrymen. But then came Henry VIII., who, forming a new heresy, declared himself the head of the Church; and from that time till the present the kingdom has become a sink of heresies in which all Protestant sects find room, while the Catholic religion is banished from the whole country. O England! who should not weep with compassion when considering what thou wert formerly, the Land of Angels, as thou wast called, and what thou art at the present day!

5. Louis XIV., King of France.

It would take too long were I to relate here what has been done by many other monarchs who by their zeal have purged their kingdoms of infidels or heretics. But I cannot omit to mention with special praise what was accomplished by the great Louis XIV., a truly Christian king. In 1685 he revoked the Edict of Nantes of the year 1598, by which his predecessor, Henry IV., had permitted the Huguenots the free exercise of the impious sect of Calvin. Louis XIV., not withstanding the clamors of the Calvinists, courageously prohibited all their religious exercises and all their assemblies, public and private, under the penalty of imprisonment and confiscation of property. He T moreover, ordained that all those subjects that wished to profess their pretended reformed religion to depart from all the lands subject to his authority, together with their wives and children; he allowed them only to take with them their personal property.

There were at that time politicians who taxed with imprudence this measure by which the king banished from his kingdom so many thousand families, so many millions of gold, so many renowned artisans, who were obliged to go to live in a strange country on account of religion. But Louis Muratori says: "The king wished to prefer the welfare of the Catholic religion and the peace of his kingdom to his own interest; for the State, on account of preceding events^never felt itself secure while harboring in its bosom people of a different religion, who never ceased to injure it and to hamper the exercise of its power. In a word," concludes Muratori, "so pious and generous an action on the part of Louis XIV. will always suffice to render his name glorious and immortal."

5. Charles Emmanuel I., Duke of Savoy.

There are not wanting other similar examples that we may relate; but those given seem to suffice because I do not wish to weary the reader. I cannot, however, omit to relate here the manner in which Charles Emmanuel, Duke of Savoy, brought about with the divine help the conversion of Chablais, which was quite infected with Calvinism The inhabitants of this whole country had entirely abandoned the Catholic religion, and lived without sacraments, without churches, and without priests, having only preachers who continued to pervert them. It was then that the Duke wrote to the Bishop of Geneva to persuade him to make choice of several fervent missionaries, and to send them to preach to his erring people in order to bring them back to their old religion. He promised to aid them with his protection. The bishop chose as the head of the mission St. Francis de Sales, who with his companions converted a large number of heretics, but many others remained obstinate.

The Duke had then recourse to several other means to secure the entire conversion of Chablais; especially did he wish to go there himself so as to give the mission the aid of his presence and of his authority. But seeing that the obstinate did not wish to yield, he one day ordered all the heretics to assemble the following day at his palace. He then went there himself, accompanied by his soldiers, who might prevent all disorder.

When he saw them all gathered before him, he bade all to be silent and said that, although in the beginning he could have used authority and force to make them re-enter the Catholic Church which they had abandoned, yet he-wished to employ only peaceable and gentle means by which the most of the erring ones had already been brought back to the bosom of the Church. Seeing the others blinded to such an extent as to wish to rum themselves in this world and the next, he declared that he had decided not to suffer in his States those who by their obstinacy would show themselves enemies of God and of their prince. Consequently, he ordered the good to separate themselves from the obstinate, and those that wished to follow his religion should place themselves on his right, and the others should stand on his left.

When he had ceased speaking and had wait, some time, a small number remained on the left, and the greater part went over to his right. Then the Duke, turning to the latter, said that he would always consider them his faithful subjects who could rely on his favor; then turning towards those on his left, he spoke thus to them: "As to you who in my presence dare to declare yourselves the enemies of God and my enemies, you must leave my States without any hope of ever being able to come back. I deprive you of your offices and your dignities; for I prefer to have no subjects than to have such as you are, whom I should always have to mistrust." Having said this, he turned his back upon them. But afterwards the Lord consoled this good prince; for St. Francis de Sales, after this event, had the happiness of inducing them all repent and to be converted; whereupon he was able to obtain for the prince the favor of their return, so that they all lived in peace in their country.


Conclusion.

These last two examples make us see especially how ill-founded is the opinion of some cavillers who say that even in Catholic kingdoms unbelievers should be tolerated in order that the peace of the State may be preserved. Peace is a gift of God; how can those that are the enemies of God preserve the peace? A heretic named John Leonard Froœreisen in a discourse which he published at Strasbourg, speaking of the churches of the communion of Augsburg, although a Lutheran, wrote this memorable sentence against himself: "Our communion is an army in which every one wishes to be the chief. It is a serpent, cut up into several parts, which lives but will soon die." This means that among unbelievers every one wishes to act as he pleases, because, as has been said at the beginning, those that do not obey God will nu longer obey their sovereign.

We know that sovereigns cannot always do what they wish for the good of religion. They must some times use prudence in order not to lose everything. I also know that it is not expedient to employ force to induce subjects to embrace the true faith. Force was formerly a means used by tyrants who wished to compel men to believe what they should not believe, such as God forces no one to come to him: Nullum adse trahit inritum. He wishes us to adore him with a free heart, without constraint. Moreover, zealous princes did not fail to use means more appropriate and more efficacious than force, in order to prevail upon their subjects to follow sound doctrine; and when every other means fails them, they call into their States good missionaries who by holy instruction dissipate error and make known true faith and the true way of salvation, as have done the before-mentioned princes and many others.

It is true, it is the duty of the bishops to found missions; but experience has proved that the zeal of a virtuous and prudent prince is worth more than a thousand bishops, a thousand missions, and a thousand missionaries. Hence when a Catholic prince has heretics in his States, he should try his best to have with him good priests to labor for the conversion of these unbelievers. In many non-Catholic countries it is forbidden to zealous preachers to enter; but a prince who loves the glory of God may remedy this evil by his power and his prudence.

I conclude, so as not to weary the reader; since it was for this reason that I have made this little work as brief as possible. I finish it while praying to God to give by his grace to all sovereigns, especially to those into whose hands this writing will fall, the courage to co-operate in the increase of his glory. I implore at the same time our Lord to grant them a happy reign in this life and perfect happiness in life eternal.

Conformity to the Will of God by Alphonsus Maria de' Liguori

[Alfonso Maria de' Liguori, “Uniformità alla volontà di Dio”, 1755.]


1. Excellence of this Virtue.

Perfection is founded entirely on the love of God: “Charity is the bond of perfection;” and perfect love of God means the complete union of our will with God’s: “The principal effect of love is so to unite the wills of those who love each other as to make them will the same things.” It follows then, that the more one unites his will with the divine will, the greater will be his love of God. Mortification, meditation, receiving Holy Communion, acts of fraternal charity are all certainly pleasing to God — but only when they are in accordance with his will. When they do not accord with God’s will, he not only finds no pleasure in them, but he even rejects them utterly and punishes them.

To illustrate: A man has two servants. One works unremittingly all day long — but according to his own devices; the other, conceivably, works less, but he does do what he is told. This latter of course is going to find favor in the eyes of his master; the other will not. Now, in applying this example, we may ask: Why should we perform actions for God’s glory if they are not going to be acceptable to him? God does not want sacrifices, the prophet Samuel told King Saul, but he does want obedience to his will: “Doth the Lord desire holocausts and victims, and not rather that the voice of the Lord should be obeyed? For obedience is better than sacrifices; and to hearken, rather than to offer the fat of rams. Because it is like the sin of witchcraft to rebel; and like the crime of idolatry to refuse to obey.” The man who follows his own will independently of God’s, is guilty of a kind of idolatry. Instead of adoring God’s will, he, in a certain sense, adores his own.

The greatest glory we can give to God is to do his will in everything. Our Redeemer came on earth to glorify his heavenly Father and to teach us by his example how to do the same. St. Paul represents him saying to his eternal Father: “Sacrifice and oblation thou wouldst not: But a body thou hast fitted to me . . . Then said I: Behold I come to do thy will, O God.” Thou hast refused the victims offered thee by man; thou dost will that I sacrifice my body to thee. Behold me ready to do thy will.

Our Lord frequently declared that he had come on earth not to do his own will, but solely that of his Father: “I came down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him that sent me.” He spoke in the same strain in the garden when he went forth to meet his enemies who had come to seize him and to lead him to death: “But that the world may know that I love the Father: and as the Father hath given me commandment, so do I; arise and let us go hence.” Furthermore, he said he would recognize as his brother, him who would do his will: “Whosoever shall do the will of my Father who is in heaven, he is my brother.”

To do God’s will — this was the goal upon which the saints constantly fixed their gaze. They were fully persuaded that in this consists the entire perfection of the soul. Blessed Henry Suso used to say: “It is not God’s will that we should abound in spiritual delights, but that in all things we should submit to his holy will.’’ “Those who give themselves to prayer,” says St. Teresa, “should concentrate solely on this: the conformity of their wills with the divine will. They should be convinced that this constitutes their highest perfection. The more fully they practice this, the greater the gifts they will receive from God, and the greater the progress they will make in the interior life.” A certain Dominican nun was vouchsafed a vision of heaven one day. She recognized there some persons she had known during their mortal life on earth. It was told her these souls were raised to the sublime heights of the seraphs on account of the conformity of their wills with that of God’s during their lifetime here on earth. Blessed Henry Suso, mentioned above, said of himself: “I would rather be the vilest worm on earth by God’s will, than be a seraph by my own.’’

During our sojourn in this world, we should learn from the saints now in heaven, how to love God. The pure and perfect love of God they enjoy there, consists in uniting themselves perfectly to his will. It would be the greatest delight of the seraphs to pile up sand on the seashore or to pull weeds in a garden for all eternity, if they found out such was God’s will. Our Lord himself teaches us to ask to do the will of God on earth as the saints do it in heaven: “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

Because David fulfilled all his wishes, God called him a man after his own heart: “I have found David . . . a man according to my own heart, who shall do all my wills.” David was always ready to embrace the divine will, as he frequently protested: “My heart is ready, O God, my heart is ready.” He asked God for one thing alone — to teach him to do his will: “Teach me to do thy will.”

A single act of conformity with the divine will suffices to make a saint. Behold while Saul was persecuting the Church, God enlightened him and converted him. What does Saul do? What does he say? Nothing else but to offer himself to do God’s will: “Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?” In return the Lord calls him a vessel of election and an apostle of the gentiles: “This man is to me a vessel of election, to carry my name before the gentiles.” Absolutely true — because he who gives his will to God, gives him everything. He who gives his goods in alms, his blood in scourgings, his food in fasting, gives God what he has. But he who gives God his will, gives himself, gives everything he is. Such a one can say: “Though I am poor, Lord, I give thee all I possess; but when I say I give thee my will, I have nothing left to give thee.” This is just what God does require of us: “My son, give me thy heart.” St. Augustine’s comment is: “There is nothing more pleasing we can offer God than to say to him: ‘Possess thyself of us’.’’ We cannot offer God anything more pleasing than to say: Take us, Lord, we give thee our entire will. Only let us know thy will and we will carry it out.

If we would completely rejoice the heart of God, let us strive in all things to conform ourselves to his divine will. Let us not only strive to conform ourselves, but also to unite ourselves to whatever dispositions God makes of us. Conformity signifies that we join our wills to the will of God. Conformity means more — it means that we make one will of God’s will and ours, so that we will only what God wills; that God’s will alone, is our will. This is the summit of perfection and to it we should always aspire; this should be the goal of all our works, desires, meditations and prayers. To this end we should always invoke the aid of our holy patrons, our guardian angels, and above all, of our mother Mary, the most perfect of all the saints because she most perfectly embraced the divine will.


2. Conformity in all Things.

The essence of perfection is to embrace the will of God in all things, prosperous or adverse. In prosperity, even sinners find it easy to unite themselves to the divine will; but it takes saints to unite themselves to God’s will when things go wrong and are painful to self-love. Our conduct in such instances is the measure of our love of God. St. John of Avila used to say: “One ‘Blessed be God’ in times of adversity, is worth more than a thousand acts of gratitude in times of prosperity.”

Furthermore, we must unite ourselves to God’s will not only in things that come to us directly from his hands, such as sickness, desolation, poverty, death of relatives, but likewise in those we suffer from man — for example, contempt, injustice, loss of reputation, loss of temporal goods and all kinds of persecution. On these occasions we must remember that whilst God does not will the sin, he does will our humiliation, our poverty, or our mortification, as the case may be. It is certain and of faith, that whatever happens, happens by the will of God: “I am the Lord forming the light and creating the darkness, making peace and creating evil.” From God come all things, good as well as evil. We call adversities evil; actually they are good and meritorious, when we receive them as coming from God’s hands: “Shall there be evil in a city which the Lord hath not done?” “Good things and evil, life and death, poverty and riches are from God.”

It is true, when one offends us unjustly, God does not will his sin, nor does he concur in the sinner’s bad will; but God does, in a general way, concur in the material action by which such a one strikes us, robs us or does us an injury, so that God certainly wills the offense we suffer and it comes to us from his hands. Thus the Lord told David he would be the author of those things he would suffer at the hands of Absalom: “I will raise up evils against thee out of thy own house, and I will take thy wives before thy face and give them to thy neighbor.” Hence too God told the Jews that in punishment for their sins, he would send the Assyrians to plunder them and spread destruction among them: “The Assyrian is the rod and staff of my anger . . . I will send him to take away the spoils.” “Assyrian wickedness served as God’s scourge for the Hebrews‘‘ is St. Augustine’s comment on this text. And our Lord himself told St. Peter that his sacred passion came not so much from man as from his Father: “The chalice which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?”

When the messenger came to announce to Job that the Sabeans had plundered his goods and slain his children, he said: “The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away.” He did not say: “The Lord hath given me my children and my possessions, and the Sabeans have taken them away.” He realized that adversity had come upon him by the will of God. Therefore he added: “As it hath pleased the Lord, so is it done. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” We must not therefore consider the afflictions that come upon us as happening by chance or solely from the malice of men; we should be convinced that what happens, happens by the will of God. Apropos of this it is related that two martyrs, Epictetus and Atho, being put to the torture by having their bodies raked with iron hooks and burnt with flaming torches, kept repeating: “Work thy will upon us, O Lord.” Arrived at the place of execution, they exclaimed: “Eternal God, be thou blessed in that thy will has been entirely accomplished in us.’’

Cesarius points up what we have been saying by offering this incident in the life of a certain monk: Externally his religious observance was the same as that of the other monks, but he had attained such sanctity that the mere touch of his garments healed the sick. Marveling at these deeds, since his life was no more exemplary than the lives of the other monks, the superior asked him one day what was the cause of these miracles.

He replied that he too was mystified and was at a loss how to account for such happenings. “What devotions do you practice?” asked the abbot. He answered that there was little or nothing special that he did beyond making a great deal of willing only what God willed, and that God had given him the grace of abandoning his will totally to the will of God.

“Prosperity does not lift me up, nor adversity cast me down,” added the monk. “I direct all my prayers to the end that God’s will may be done fully in me and by me.” “That raid that our enemies made against the monastery the other day, in which our stores were plundered, our granaries put to the torch and our cattle driven off — did not this misfortune cause you any resentment?” queried the abbot.

“No, Father,” came the reply. “On the contrary, I returned thanks to God — as is my custom in such circumstances — fully persuaded that God does all things, or permits all that happens, for his glory and for our greater good; thus I am always at peace, no matter what happens.” Seeing such conformity with the will of God, the abbot no longer wondered why the monk worked so many miracles.


3. Happiness deriving from perfect Conformity.

Acting according to this pattern, one not only becomes holy but also enjoys perpetual serenity in this life. Alphonsus the Great, King of Aragon, being asked one day whom he considered the happiest person in the world, answered: “He who abandons himself to the will of God and accepts all things, prosperous and adverse, as coming from his hands.’’ “To those that love God, all things work together unto good.” Those who love God are always happy, because their whole happiness is to fulfill, even in adversity, the will of God. Afflictions do not mar their serenity, because by accepting misfortune, they know they give pleasure to their beloved Lord: “Whatever shall befall the just man, it shall not make him sad.” Indeed, what can be more satisfactory to a person than to experience the fulfillment of all his desires? This is the happy lot of the man who wills only what God wills, because everything that happens, save sin, happens through the will of God.

There is a story to this effect in the “Lives of the Fathers” about a farmer whose crops were more plentiful than those of his neighbors. On being asked how this happened with such unvarying regularity, he said he was not surprised because he always had the kind of weather he wanted. He was asked to explain. He said: “It is so because I want whatever kind of weather God wants, and because I do, he gives me the harvests I want.’’ If souls resigned to God’s will are humiliated, says Salvian, they want to be humiliated; if they are poor, they want to be poor; in short, whatever happens is acceptable to them, hence they are truly at peace in this life. In cold and heat, in rain and wind, the soul united to God says: “I want it to be warm, to be cold, windy, to rain, because God wills it.”

This is the beautiful freedom of the sons of God, and it is worth vastly more than all the rank and distinction of blood and birth, more than all the kingdoms in the world. This is the abiding peace which, in the experience of the saints, “surpasseth all understanding.’’ It surpasses all pleasures rising from gratification of the senses, from social gatherings, banquets and other worldly amusements; vain and deceiving as they are, they captivate the senses for the time being, but bring no lasting contentment; rather they afflict man in the depth of his soul where alone true peace can reside.

Solomon, who tasted to satiety all the pleasures of the world and found them bitter, voiced his disillusionment thus: “But this also is vanity and vexation of spirit.” “A fool,” says the Holy Spirit, “is changed as the moon; but a holy man continueth in wisdom as the sun.” The fool, that is, the sinner, is as changeable as the moon, which today waxes and tomorrow wanes; today he laughs, tomorrow he cries; today he is meek as a lamb, tomorrow cross as a bear. Why? Because his peace of mind depends on the prosperity or the adversity he meets; he changes with the changes in the things that happen to him. The just man is like the sun, constant in his serenity, no matter what betides him. His calmness of soul is founded on his union with the will of God; hence he enjoys unruffled peace. This is the peace promised by the angel of the Nativity: “And on earth, peace to men of good will.” Who are these “men of good will” if not those whose wills are united to the infinitely good and perfect will of God? “The good, and the acceptable, and the perfect will of God.”

By uniting themselves to the divine will, the saints have enjoyed paradise by anticipation in this life. Accustoming themselves to receive all things from the hands of God, says St. Dorotheus, the men of old maintained continual serenity of soul. St. Mary Magdalene of Pazzi derived such consolation at hearing the words “will of God,” that she usually fell into an ecstasy of love. The instances of jangling irritation that are bound to arise will not fail to make surface impact on the senses. This however will be experienced only in the inferior part of the soul; in the superior part will reign peace and tranquillity as long as our will remains united with God’s. Our Lord assured his apostles: “Your joy no man shall take from you . . . Your joy shall be full.” He who unites his will to God’s experiences a full and lasting joy: full, because he has what he wants, as was explained above; lasting, because no one can take his joy from him, since no one can prevent what God wills from happening.

The devout Father John Tauler relates this personal experience: For years he had prayed God to send him someone who would teach him the real spiritual life. One day, at prayer, he heard a voice saying: “Go to such and such a church and you will have the answer to your prayers.” He went and at the door of the church he found a beggar, barefooted and in rags. He greeted the mendicant saying: “Good day, my friend.”

“Thank you, sir, for your kind wishes, but I do not recall ever having had a ‘bad’ day.”

“Then God has certainly given you a very happy life.”

“That is very true, sir. I have never been unhappy. In saying this I am not making any rash statement either. This is the reason: When I have nothing to eat, I give thanks to God; when it rains or snows, I bless God’s providence; when someone insults me, drives me away, or otherwise mistreats me, I give glory to God. I said I’ve never had an unhappy day, and it’s the truth, because I am accustomed to will unreservedly what God wills. Whatever happens to me, sweet or bitter, I gladly receive from his hands as what is best for me. Hence my unvarying happiness.”

“Where did you find God?”

“I found him where I left creatures.”

“Who are you anyway?”

“I am a king.”

“And where is your kingdom?”

“In my soul, where everything is in good order; where the passions obey reason, and reason obeys God.”

“How have you come to such a state of perfection?”

“By silence. I practice silence towards men, while I cultivate the habit of speaking with God. Conversing with God is the way I found and maintain my peace of soul.”

Union with God brought this poor beggar to the very heights of perfection. In his poverty he was richer than the mightiest monarch; in his sufferings, he was vastly happier than worldlings amid their worldly delights.


4. God wills our Good.

O the supreme folly of those who resist the divine will! In God’s providence, no one can escape hardship: “Who resisteth his will?” A person who rails at God in adversity, suffers without merit; moreover by his lack of resignation he adds to his punishment in the next life and experiences greater disquietude of mind in this life: “Who resisteth him and hath had peace?” The screaming rage of the sick man in his pain, the whining complaints of the poor man in his destitution — what will they avail these people, except increase their unhappiness and bring them no relief? “Little man,” says St. Augustine, “grow up. What are you seeking in your search for happiness? Seek the one good that embraces all others.’’ Whom do you seek, friend, if you seek not God? Seek him, find him, cleave to him; bind your will to his with bands of steel and you will live always at peace in this life and in the next.

God wills only our good; God loves us more than anybody else can or does love us. His will is that no one should lose his soul, that everyone should save and sanctify his soul: “Not willing that any should perish, but that all should return to penance.” “This is the will of God, your sanctification.” God has made the attainment of our happiness, his glory. Since he is by his nature infinite goodness, and since as St. Leo says goodness is diffusive of itself, God has a supreme desire to make us sharers of his goods and of his happiness. If then he sends us suffering in this life, it is for our own good: “All things work together unto good.” Even chastisements come to us, not to crush us, but to make us mend our ways and save our souls: “Let us believe that these scourges of the Lord have happened for our amendment and not for our destruction.”

God surrounds us with his loving care lest we suffer eternal damnation: “O Lord, thou hast crowned us as with a shield of thy good will.” He is most solicitous for our welfare: “The Lord is solicitous for me.” What can God deny us when he has given us his own son? “He that spared not even his own son, but delivered him up for us all, how hath he not also, with him, given us all things?” Therefore we should most confidently abandon ourselves to all the dispositions of divine providence, since they are for our own good. In all that happens to us, let us say: “In peace, in the self same I will sleep, and I will rest: Because thou, O Lord, hast singularly settled me in hope.”

Let us place ourselves unreservedly in his hands because he will not fail to have care of us: “Casting all your care upon him, for he hath care of you.” Let us keep God in our thoughts and carry out his will, and he will think of us and of our welfare. Our Lord said to St. Catherine of Siena, “Daughter, think of me, and I will always think of you.” Let us often repeat with the Spouse in the Canticle: “My beloved to me, and I to him.”

St. Niles, abbot, used to say that our petitions should be, not that our wishes be done, but that God’s holy will should be fulfilled in us and by us. When, therefore, something adverse happens to us, let us accept it from his hands, not only patiently, but even with gladness, as did the apostles “who went from the presence of the council rejoicing, that they were accounted worthy to suffer for the name of Jesus.” What greater consolation can come to a soul than to know that by patiently bearing some tribulation, it gives God the greatest pleasure in its power? Spiritual writers tell us that though the desire of certain souls to please God by their sufferings is acceptable to him, still more pleasing to him is the union of certain others with his will, so that their will is neither to rejoice nor to suffer, but to hold themselves completely amenable to his will, and they desire only that his holy will be fulfilled.

If, devout soul, it is your will to please God and live a life of serenity in this world, unite yourself always and in all things to the divine will. Reflect that all the sins of your past wicked life happened because you wandered from the path of God’s will. For the future, embrace God’s good pleasure and say to him in every happening: “Yea, Father, for so it hath seemed good in thy sight.” When anything disagreeable happens, remember it comes from God and say at once, “This comes from God” and be at peace: “I was dumb and opened not my mouth, because thou hast done it.” Lord, since thou hast done this, I will be silent and accept it. Direct all your thoughts and prayers to this end, to beg God constantly in meditation, Communion, and visits to the Blessed Sacrament that he help you accomplish his holy will. Form the habit of offering yourself frequently to God by saying, “My God, behold me in thy presence; do with me and all that I have as thou pleasest.” This was the constant practice of St. Teresa. At least fifty times a day she offered herself to God, placing herself at his entire disposition and good pleasure.

How fortunate you, kind reader, if you too act thus! You will surely become a saint. Your life will be calm and peaceful; your death will be happy. At death all our hope of salvation will come from the testimony of our conscience as to whether or not we are dying resigned to God’s will. If during life we have embraced everything as coming from God’s hands, and if at death we embrace death in fulfillment of God’s holy will, we shall certainly save our souls and die the death of saints. Let us then abandon everything to God’s good pleasure, because being infinitely wise, he knows what is best for us; and being all-good and all-loving — having given his life for us — he wills what is best for us. Let us, as St. Basil counsels us, rest secure in the conviction that beyond the possibility of a doubt, God works to effect our welfare, infinitely better than we could ever hope to accomplish or desire it ourselves.


5. Special Practices of Conformity.

Let us now take up in a practical way the consideration of those matters in which we should unite ourselves to God’s will.

1. In external matters. In times of great heat, cold or rain; in times of famine, epidemics and similar occasions we should refrain from expressions like these: “What unbearable heat!” “What piercing cold!” “What a tragedy!” In these instances we should avoid expressions indicating opposition to God’s will. We should want things to be just as they are, because it is God who thus disposes them. An incident in point would be this one: Late one night St. Francis Borgia arrived unexpectedly at a Jesuit house, in a snowstorm. He knocked and knocked on the door, but all to no purpose because the community being asleep, no one heard him. When morning came all were embarrassed for the discomfort he had experienced by having had to spend the night in the open. The saint, however, said he had enjoyed the greatest consolation during those long hours of the night by imagining that he saw our Lord up in the sky dropping the snowflakes down upon him.

2. In personal matters. In matters that affect us personally, let us acquiesce in God’s will. For example, in hunger, thirst, poverty, desolation, loss of reputation, let us always say: “Do thou build up or tear down, O Lord, as seems good in thy sight. I am content. I wish only what thou dost wish.” Thus too, says Rodriguez, should we act when the devil proposes certain hypothetical cases to us in order to wrest a sinful consent from us, or at least to cause us to be interiorly disturbed. For example: “What would you say or what would you do if some one were to say or do such and such a thing to you?” Let us dismiss the temptation by saying: “By God’s grace, I would say or do what God would want me to say or do.” Thus we shall free ourselves from imperfection and harassment.

3. Let us not lament if we suffer from some natural defect of body or mind; from poor memory, slowness of understanding, little ability, lameness or general bad health. What claim have we, or what obligation is God under, to give us a more brilliant mind or a more robust body? Who is ever offered a gift and then lays down the conditions upon which he will accept it? Let us thank God for what, in his pure goodness, he has given us and let us be content too with the manner in which he has given it to us.

Who knows? Perhaps if God had given us greater talent, better health, a more personable appearance, we might have lost our souls! Great talent and knowledge have caused many to be puffed up with the idea of their own importance and, in their pride, they have despised others. How easily those who have these gifts fall into grave danger to their salvation! How many on account of physical beauty or robust health have plunged headlong into a life of debauchery! How many, on the contrary, who, by reason of poverty, infirmity or physical deformity, have become saints and have saved their souls, who, given health, wealth or physical attractiveness had else lost their souls! Let us then be content with what God has given us. “But one thing is necessary,” and it is not beauty, not health, not talent. It is the salvation of our immortal souls.

4. It is especially necessary that we be resigned in corporal infirmities. We should willingly embrace them in the manner and for the length of time that God wills. We ought to make use of the ordinary remedies in time of sickness — such is God’s will; but if they are not effective, let us unite ourselves to God’s will and this will be better for us than would be our restoration to health. Let us say: “Lord, I wish neither to be well nor to remain sick; I want only what thou wilt.” Certainly, it is more virtuous not to repine in times of painful illness; still and all, when our sufferings are excessive, it is not wrong to let our friends know what we are enduring, and also to ask God to free us from our sufferings. Let it be understood, however, that the sufferings here referred to are actually excessive. It often happens that some, on the occasion of a slight illness, or even a slight indisposition, want the whole world to stand still and sympathize with them in their illnesses.

But where it is a case of real suffering, we have the example of our Lord, who, at the approach of his bitter passion, made known his state of soul to his disciples, saying: “My soul is sorrowful even unto death” and besought his eternal Father to deliver him from it: “Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from me.” But our Lord likewise taught us what we should do when we have made such a petition, when he added: “Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.”

How childish the pretense of those who protest they wish for health not to escape suffering, but to serve our Lord better by being able to observe their Rule, to serve the community, go to church, receive Communion, do penance, study, work for souls in the confessional and pulpit! Devout soul, tell me, why do you desire to do these things? To please God? Why then search any further to please God when you are sure God does not wish these prayers, Communions, penances or studies, but he does wish that you suffer patiently this sickness he sends you? Unite then your sufferings to those of our Lord.

“But,” you say, “I do not want to be sick for then I am useless, a burden to my Order, to my monastery.” But if you are united to and resigned to God’s will, you will realize that your superiors are likewise resigned to the dispositions of divine providence, and that they recognize the fact that you are a burden, not through indolence, but by the will of God. Ah, how often these desires and these laments are born, not of the love of God, but of the love of self! How many of them are so many pretexts for fleeing the will of God! Do we want to please God? When we find ourselves confined to our sickbed, let us utter this one prayer: “Thy will be done.” Let us repeat it time and time again and it will please God more than all our mortifications and devotions. There is no better way to serve God than cheerfully to embrace his holy will.

St. John of Avila once wrote to a sick priest: “My dear friend, — Do not weary yourself planning what you would do if you were well, but be content to be sick for as long as God wishes. If you are seeking to carry out God’s will, what difference should it make to you whether you are sick or well?’’ The saint was perfectly right, for God is glorified not by our works, but by our resignation to, and by our union with, his holy will. In this respect St. Francis de Sales used to say we serve God better by our sufferings than by our actions.

Many times it will happen that proper medical attention or effective remedies will be lacking, or even that the doctor will not rightly diagnose our case. In such instances we must unite ourselves to the divine will which thus disposes of our physical health. The story is told of a client of St. Thomas of Canterbury, who being sick, went to the saint’s tomb to obtain a cure. He returned home cured. But then he thought to himself: “Suppose it would be better for my soul’s salvation if I remained sick, what point then is there in being well?” In this frame of mind he went back and asked the saint to intercede with God that he grant what would be best for his eternal salvation. His illness returned and he was perfectly content with the turn things had taken, being fully persuaded that God had thus disposed of him for his own good.

There is a similar account by Surio to the effect that a certain blind man obtained the restoration of his sight by praying to St. Bedasto, bishop. Thinking the matter over, he prayed again to his heavenly patron, but this time with the purpose that if the possession of his sight were not expedient for his soul, that his blindness should return. And that is exactly what happened — he was blind again. Therefore, in sickness it is better that we seek neither sickness nor health, but that we abandon ourselves to the will of God so that he may dispose of us as he wishes. However, if we decide to ask for health, let us do so at least always resigned and with the proviso that our bodily health may be conducive to the health of our soul. Otherwise our prayer will be defective and will remain unheard because our Lord does not answer prayers made without resignation to his holy will.

Sickness is the acid test of spirituality, because it discloses whether our virtue is real or sham. If the soul is not agitated, does not break out in lamentations, is not feverishly restless in seeking a cure, but instead is submissive to the doctors and to superiors, is serene and tranquil, completely resigned to God’s will, it is a sign that that soul is well-grounded in virtue.

What of the whiner who complains of lack of attention? That his sufferings are beyond endurance? That the doctor does not know his business? What of the faint-hearted soul who laments that the hand of God is too heavy upon him?

This story by St. Bonaventure in his “Life of St. Francis” is in point: On a certain occasion when the saint was suffering extraordinary physical pain, one of his religious meaning to sympathize with him, said in his simplicity: “My Father, pray God that he treat you a little more gently, for his hand seems heavy upon you just now.” Hearing this, St. Francis strongly resented the unhappy remark of his well-meaning brother, saying: “My good brother, did I not know that what you have just said was spoken in all simplicity, without realizing the implication of your words, I should never see you again because of your rashness in passing judgment on the dispositions of divine providence.” Whereupon, weak and wasted as he was by his illness, he got out of bed, knelt down, kissed the floor and prayed thus: “Lord, I thank thee for the sufferings thou art sending me. Send me more, if it be thy good pleasure. My pleasure is that you afflict me and spare me not, for the fulfillment of thy holy will is the greatest consolation of my life.”


6. Spiritual Desolation.

We ought to view in the light of God’s holy will, the loss of persons who are helpful to us in a spiritual or material way. Pious souls often fail in this respect by not being resigned to the dispositions of God’s holy will. Our sanctification comes fundamentally and essentially from God, not from spiritual directors. When God sends us a spiritual director, he wishes us to use him for our spiritual profit; but if he takes him away, he wants us to remain calm and unperturbed and to increase our confidence in his goodness by saying to him: “Lord, thou hast given me this help and now thou dost take it away. Blessed be thy holy will! I beg thee, teach me what I must do to serve thee.”

In this manner too, we should receive whatever other crosses God sends us. “But,” you reply, “these sufferings are really punishments.” The answer to that remark is: Are not the punishments God sends us in this life also graces and benefits? Our offenses against God must be atoned for somehow, either in this life or in the next. Hence we should all make St. Augustine’s prayer our own: “Lord, here cut, here burn and spare me not, but spare me in eternity!” Let us say with Job: “Let this be my comfort, that afflicting me with sorrow, he spare not.” Having merited hell for our sins, we should be consoled that God chastises us in this life, and animate ourselves to look upon such treatment as a pledge that God wishes to spare us in the next. When God sends us punishments let us say with the high-priest Heli: “It is the Lord, let him do what is good in his sight.”

The time of spiritual desolation is also a time for being resigned. When a soul begins to cultivate the spiritual life, God usually showers his consolations upon her to wean her away from the world; but when he sees her making solid progress, he withdraws his hand to test her and to see if she will love and serve him without the reward of sensible consolations. “In this life,” as St. Teresa used to say, “our lot is not to enjoy God, but to do his holy will.” And again, “Love of God does not consist in experiencing his tendernesses, but in serving him with resolution and humility.” And in yet another place, “God’s true lovers are discovered in times of aridity and temptation.”

Let the soul thank God when she experiences his loving endearments, but let her not repine when she finds herself left in desolation. It is important to lay great stress on this point, because some souls, beginners in the spiritual life, finding themselves in spiritual aridity, think God has abandoned them, or that the spiritual life is not for them; thus they give up the practice of prayer and lose what they have previously gained. The time of aridity is the best time to practice resignation to God’s holy will. I do not say you will feel no pain in seeing yourself deprived of the sensible presence of God; it is impossible for the soul not to feel it and lament over it, when even our Lord cried out on the cross: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” In her sufferings, however, the soul should always be resigned to God’s will.

The saints have all experienced desolations and abandonment of soul. “How impervious to things spiritual, my heart!” cries a St. Bernard. “No savor in pious reading, no pleasure in meditation nor in prayer!” For the most part it has been the common lot of the saints to encounter aridities; sensible consolations were the exceptions. Such things are rare occurrences granted to untried souls so that they may not halt on the road to sanctity; the real delights and happiness that will constitute their reward are reserved for heaven. This earth is a place of merit which is acquired by suffering; heaven is a place of reward and happiness. Hence, in this life the saints neither desired nor sought the joys of sensible fervor, but rather the fervor of the spirit toughened in the crucible of suffering. “O how much better it is,” says St. John of Avila, “to endure aridity and temptation by God’s will than to be raised to the heights of contemplation without God’s will!”

But you say you would gladly endure desolation if you were certain that it comes from God, but you are tortured by the anxiety that your desolation comes by your own fault and is a punishment for your tepidity. Very well, let us suppose you are right; then get rid of your tepidity and exercise more diligence in the affairs of your soul. But because you are possibly experiencing spiritual darkness, are you going to get all wrought up, give up prayer, and thus make things twice as bad as they are?

Let us assume that this aridity is a punishment for your tepidity. Was it not God who sent it? Accept your desolation, as your just desserts and unite yourself to God’s holy will. Did you not say that you merited hell? And now you are complaining? Perhaps you think God should send you consolations! Away with such ideas and be patient under God’s hand. Take up your prayers again and continue to walk in the way you have entered upon; for the future, fear lest such laments come from too little humility and too little resignation to the will of God. Therefore be resigned and say: “Lord, I accept this punishment from thy hands, and I accept it for as long as it pleases thee; if it be thy will that I should be thus afflicted for all eternity, I am satisfied.” Such a prayer, though hard to make, will be far more advantageous to you than the sweetest sensible consolations.

It is well to remember, however, that aridity is not always a chastisement; at times it is a disposition of divine providence for our greater spiritual profit and to keep us humble. Lest St. Paul become vain on account of the spiritual gifts he had received, the Lord permitted him to be tempted to impurity: “And lest the greatness of the revelations should exalt me, there was given me a sting of my flesh, an angel of Satan to buffet me.”

Prayer made amid sensible devotion is not much of an achievement: “There is a friend, a companion at the table, and he will not abide in the day of distress.” You would not consider the casual guest at your table a friend, but only him who assists you in your need without thought of benefit to himself. When God sends spiritual darkness and desolation, his true friends are known.

Palladius, the author of the “Lives of the Fathers of the Desert,” experiencing great disgust in prayer, went seeking advice from the abbot Macarius. The saintly abbot gave him this counsel: “When you are tempted in times of dryness to give up praying because you seem to be wasting your time, say: ‘Since I cannot pray, I will be satisfied just to remain on watch here in my cell for the love of Jesus Christ!’ “Devout soul, you do the same when you are tempted to give up prayer just because you seem to be getting nowhere. Say: “I am going to stay here just to please God.” St. Francis de Sales used to say that if we do nothing else but banish distractions and temptations in our prayers, the prayer is well made. Tauler states that persevering prayer in time of dryness will receive greater grace than prayer made amid great sensible devotion.

Rodriguez cites the case of a person who persevered forty years in prayer despite aridity, and experienced great spiritual strength as a result of it; on occasion, when through aridity he would omit meditation he felt spiritually weak and incapable of good deeds. St. Bonaventure and Gerson both say that persons who do not experience the recollection they would like to have in their meditations, often serve God better than they would do if they did have it; the reason is that lack of recollection keeps them more diligent and humble; otherwise they would become puffed up with spiritual pride and grow tepid, vainly believing they had reached the summit of sanctity.

What has been said of dryness holds true of temptations also. Certainly we should strive to avoid temptations; but if God wishes that we be tempted against faith, purity, or any other virtue, we should not give in to discouraging lamentations, but submit ourselves with resignation to God’s holy will. St. Paul asked to be freed from temptations to impurity and our Lord answered him, saying: “My grace is sufficient for thee.”

So should we act when we find ourselves victims of unrelenting temptations and God seemingly deaf to our prayers. Let us then say: “Lord, do with me, let happen to me what thou wilt; thy grace is sufficient for me. Only never let me lose this grace.” Consent to temptation, not temptation of itself, can make us lose the grace of God. Temptation resisted keeps us humble, brings us greater merit, makes us have frequent recourse to God, thus preserving us from offending him and unites us more closely to him in the bonds of his holy love.

Finally, we should be united to God’s will in regard to the time and manner of our death. One day St. Gertrude, while climbing up a small hill, lost her footing and fell into a ravine below. After her companions had come to her assistance, they asked her if while falling she had any fear of dying without the sacraments. “I earnestly hope and desire to have the benefit of the sacraments when death is at hand; still, to my way of thinking, the will of God is more important. I believe that the best disposition I could have to die a happy death would be to submit myself to whatever God would wish in my regard. For this reason I desire whatever kind of death God will be pleased to send me.”

In his “Dialogues”, St. Gregory tells of a certain priest, Santolo by name, who was captured by the Vandals and condemned to death. The barbarians told him to choose the manner of his death. He refused, saying: “I am in God’s hands and I gladly accept whatever kind of death he wishes me to suffer at your hands; I wish no other.” This reply was so pleasing to God that he miraculously stayed the hand of the executioner ready to behead him. The barbarians were so impressed by the miracle that they freed their prisoner. As regards the manner of our death, therefore, we should esteem that the best kind of death for us which God has designed for us. When therefore we think of our death, let our prayer be: “O Lord, only let me save my soul and I leave the manner of my death to thee!”

We should likewise unite ourselves to God’s will when the moment of death is near. What else is this earth but a prison where we suffer and where we are in constant danger of losing God? Hence David prayed: “Bring my soul out of prison.” St. Teresa too feared to lose God and when she would hear the striking of the clock, she would find consolation in the thought that the passing of the hour was an hour less of the danger of losing God.

St. John of Avila was convinced that every right-minded person should desire death on account of living in peril of losing divine grace. What can be more pleasant or desirable than by dying a good death, to have the assurance of no longer being able to lose the grace of God? Perhaps you will answer that you have as yet done nothing to deserve this reward. If it were God’s will that your life should end now, what would you be doing, living on here against his will? Who knows, you might fall into sin and be lost! Even if you escaped mortal sin, you could not live free from all sin. “Why are we so tenacious of life,” exclaims St. Bernard, “when the longer we live, the more we sin?’’ A single venial sin is more displeasing to God than all the good works we can perform.

Moreover, the person who has little desire for heaven shows he has little love for God. The true lover desires to be with his beloved. We cannot see God while we remain here on earth; hence the saints have yearned for death so that they might go and behold their beloved Lord, face to face. “Oh, that I might die and behold thy beautiful face!” sighed St. Augustine. And St. Paul: “Having a desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ.” “When shall I come and appear before the face of God?” exclaimed the psalmist.

A hunter one day heard the voice of a man singing most sweetly in the forest. Following the sound, he came upon a leper horribly disfigured by the ravages of his disease. Addressing him he said: “How can you sing when you are so terribly afflicted and your death is so near at hand?” And the leper: “Friend, my poor body is a crumbling wall and it is the only thing that separates me from my God. When it falls I shall go forth to God. Time for me is indeed fast running out, so every day I show my happiness by lifting my voice in song.”

Lastly, we should unite ourselves to the will of God as regards our degree of grace and glory. True, we should esteem the things that make for the glory of God, but we should show the greatest esteem for those that concern the will of God. We should desire to love God more than the seraphs, but not to a degree higher than God has destined for us. St. John of Avila says: “I believe every saint has had the desire to be higher in grace than he actually was. However, despite this, their serenity of soul always remained unruffled. Their desire for a greater degree of grace sprang not from a consideration of their own good, but of God’s. They were content with the degree of grace God had meted out for them, though actually God had given them less. They considered it a greater sign of true love of God to be content with what God had given them, than to desire to have received more.”

This means, as Rodriguez explains it, we should be diligent in striving to become perfect, so that tepidity and laziness may not serve as excuses for some to say: “God must help me; I can do only so much for myself.” Nevertheless, when we do fall into some fault, we should not lose our peace of soul and union with the will of God, which permits our fall; nor should we lose our courage. Let us rise at once from this fall, penitently humbling ourselves and by seeking greater help from God, let us continue to march resolutely on the highway of the spiritual life. Likewise, we may well desire to be among the seraphs in heaven, not for our own glory, but for God’s, and to love him more; still we should be resigned to his will and be content with that degree of glory which in his mercy he has set for us.

It would be a serious defect to desire the gifts of supernatural prayer — specifically, ecstasies, visions and revelations. The masters of the spiritual life say that souls thus favored by God, should ask him to take them away so that they may love him out of pure faith — a way of greater security. Many have come to perfection without these supernatural gifts; the only virtues worth-while are those that draw the soul to holiness of life, namely, the virtue of conformity with God’s holy will. If God does not wish to raise us to the heights of perfection and glory, let us unite ourselves in all things to his holy will, asking him in his mercy, to grant us our soul’s salvation. If we act in this manner, the reward will not be slight which we shall receive from the hands of God who loves above all others, souls resigned to his holy will.


7. Conclusion.

Finally we should consider the events which are happening to us now and which will happen to us in the future, as coming from the hands of God. Everything we do should be directed to this one end: to do the will of God and to do it solely for the reason that God wills it. To walk more securely on this road we must depend on the guidance of our superiors in external matters, and on our directors in internal matters, to learn from them God’s will in our regard, having great faith in the words of our Lord: “He that heareth you, heareth me.”

Above all, let us bend all our energies to serve God in the way he wishes. This remark is made so that we may avoid the mistake of him who wastes his time in idle day-dreaming. Such a one says, “If I were to become a hermit, I would become a saint” or “If I were to enter a monastery, I would practice penance” or “If I were to go away from here, leaving friends and companions, I would devote long hours to prayer.” If, If, If — all these if’s! In the meantime such a person goes from bad to worse. These idle fancies are often temptations of the devil, because they are not in accord with God’s will. Hence we should dismiss them summarily and rouse ourselves to serve God only in that way which he has marked out for us. Doing his holy will, we shall certainly become holy in those surroundings in which he has placed us.

Let us will always and ever only what God wills; for so doing, he will press us to his heart. To this end let us familiarize ourselves with certain texts of sacred scripture that invite us to unite ourselves constantly with the divine will: “Lord, what wilt thou have me do?” Tell me, my God, what thou wilt have me do, that I may will it also, with all my heart. “I am thine, save thou me.” I am no longer my own, I am thine, O Lord, do with me as thou wilt.

If some particularly crashing misfortune comes upon us, for example, the death of a relative, loss of goods, let us say: “Yea, Father, for so it hath seemed good in thy sight.” Yes, my God and my Father, so be it, for such is thy good pleasure. Above all, let us cherish that prayer of our Lord, which he himself taught us: “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Our Lord bade St. Catherine of Genoa to make a notable pause at these words whenever she said the Our Father, praying that God’s holy will be fulfilled on earth with the same perfection with which the saints do it in heaven. Let this be our practice also, and we shall certainly become saints.

May the divine will be loved and praised! May the Immaculate Virgin be also praised!

Romeo and Giulietta by Matteo Bandello

[Matteo Bandello, La sfortunata morte di dui infelicissimi amanti, 1554.]

If the affection which deservedly I cherish for my own native country do not deceive me, few cities, I take it, in this fair Italy of ours can excel Verona in beauty of position, placed as it is on so noble a river as the Adige, whose limpid waters divide the city, and cause it to abound in such merchandise as Germany sends thither. Fair fruitful hills and pleasant valleys environ it, while its beauty is enhanced by many fountains of pure sparkling water, as also by four stately bridges across the river, and by a thousand other notable objects of antiquity which may there be seen. But if I speak now, it is not because I am moved to praise my native nest, which of itself proclaims its own merit and distinction, for I would tell you of the lamentable misfortunes that befell two noble lovers in this city.

At the time of the Signori della Scala there were two families in Verona renowned for their high birth and great wealth. These were the Montecchi and the Capelletti, between whom, for some reason or other, there existed a fierce and bloody feud, and, there being strength on either side, in various frays many were killed, not only of the Montecchi and the Capelletti, but also of their followers and partisans. This served ever to augment their mutual hate.

Bartolomeo Scala, being at that time lord of Verona, was at great pains to pacify both parties; but so deeply rooted was their hatred, that he could never bring them to order. Nevertheless, if he might not establish peace, he at any rate put a stop to the perpetual frays which too often resulted in loss of life; and if they chanced to meet, the younger men always gave way to the elder of their adversaries.

It happened that one winter, soon after Christmas, festivals were held, which maskers attended in large numbers. Antonio Capelletto, the head of his house, gave a very splendid entertainment, to which he invited many noblemen and gentlefolk. Most of the young bloods of the city were there, among them being Romeo Montecchio, a youth of twenty or thereabouts, and the handsomest and most courteous in all Verona. Wearing a mask, he went with several of his companions to Capelletto's house at nightfall. just then Romeo was deeply enamoured of a gentlewoman, whose slave he had been for nearly two years, and, though he constantly followed her to churches and other places, she had never yet vouchsafed him so much as a single glance. Often had he written letters to her and sent messages; but so hard of heart was she that she would not smile graciously upon the love-sick youth, and this grieved him so much that he resolved to leave Verona, and stay away for one or two years, so that by travelling here and there in Italy he might abate the vehemence of his passion. Then again, overcome by his fervent love, he blamed himself for harbouring so foolish a thought, and it appeared utterly impossible to quit Verona. At times he would say to himself: “It can no longer be true that I love her, for in a thousand ways I have had clear proofs that she does not value my devotion. Why should I persist in following her everywhere, since courting her is useless? It behoves me never to go to a church nor any other place that she frequents, so that, not seeing her, this fire within me that is fomented by her beautiful eyes may gradually die out.”

Alas! all such thoughts proved vain, for it seemed that the more coy she showed herself, giving him less reason to hope, the more his love for her increased, and on no day that- he did not see her could he be happy or at ease. As his devotion became ever deeper and more constant, some of his friends feared that he would waste away, and they often admonished him and besought him to relinquish such an enterprise. But for their warnings and healthful counsel he cared as little as did the lady for his love.

Romeo had a comrade who was deeply concerned about his hopeless love, and greatly regretted that in pursuit of a woman he should lose golden youth and the very flower of his years. He would often expostulate with Romeo upon the subject; and one day he said: “Loving you, Romeo, as I do like a brother, it sorely vexes me to see you wasting thus like snow before the sun. As all that you do and all that you spend brings you neither honour nor profit, for you cannot induce her to love you, and all your efforts only make her more froward, why should you longer strive in vain? It is -quite clear to you that for you and for your service she cares not a jot. It may be that she has some lover who is so dear and pleasant to her that she would not leave him for an emperor. You are young—perhaps the comeliest youth in all Verona; moreover, you are courteous, amiable, brave, and well versed in letters—to youth, a rare adornment. You are your father's only son, whose great riches are well known to all. Has he ever shown himself close-fisted towards you, or scolded you for spending and giving just as you liked? He is your man of business, toiling to amass wealth for you, and letting you do just what pleases you. Rouse yourself, then, and see the error of your ways. Strip off the veil that blinds your eyes and will not let you see the road in which you should walk. Resolve to turn your thoughts elsewhere, and to make some woman your mistress who shall be worthy of you. Entertainments and masked balls are about to be given in the city; to all of these you must go. If by chance you should meet her whom you have so long courted in vain, give her not a glance, but look in the mirror of that love which you bore for her, and doubtless you will find recompense for all the ills that you have suffered. Disdain most just and reasonable will then be aroused within you, which shall presently daunt your ill-regulated passion, and shall set you free."

With many similar arguments Romeo's trusty comrade sought to turn him from so hapless an enterprise. Romeo listened patiently, and determined to profit by such wise counsel. He went to all the festivals, and whenever he met the froward damsel he never gave her a look, but turned all his attention to others, examining them critically with a view to choosing the one he liked best, just as if he had come to market to buy a doublet or a horse.

Thus, as we have said, Romeo went to the festival given by the Capelletti, and after wearing his mask for a while he took it off, and sat down in a corner whence he could leisurely survey all who were in the hall, where numerous torches made the light as bright as that of day. Every one looked at Romeo, especially the ladies, and all wondered that he should show himself thus freely in the house. But, as in addition to great good looks he had most charming manners, everybody took a liking to him, and his enemies gave no heed to him, as they might have done had he been older. Thus Romeo figured there as a judge of the beauty of all those ladies who came to the ball, praising this or that one as the fancy took him, preferring to criticise rather than to dance.

Suddenly he noticed a maiden of extraordinary beauty, whom he did not know. She pleased him infinitely, and he deemed her the loveliest and most graceful damsel that he had ever seen. The more he gazed at her, the more beautiful and charming did she seem to become, so he began to throw her amorous glances; in fact, he could not take his eyes off her. A strange joy filled him as he looked, and he inwardly resolved to use every endeavour to win her favour and her love. Thus supplanted by this new affection, his love for the other lady waned, and its fires were extinguished. Having set foot in love's delicious maze, Romeo, while not daring to inquire who the damsel might be, was content to feast his eyes upon her beauty, and as thus captivated by her charm he waxed eloquent in praise of her every gesture, insensibly he drank in draughts of the luscious poison of love. As I have said, he sat in a corner of the ball-room, and watched all the dancers as they passed. The name of the maiden whose beauty thus charmed him was Giulietta, and she was the daughter of the host. To her Romeo was unknown, but he seemed to her the handsomest youth she had ever met, and she took a strange pleasure in looking at him, though she did this in shy, furtive fashion, while in her heart she felt a rapture indefinably delicious and immeasurably sweet. She was most anxious that Romeo should dance with her, so that she might the better see him and hear him speak, believing that in his voice there would be as great a charm as in his eyes. But Romeo showed no desire to dance, and sat there in his corner alone, intently gazing at the lovely damsel, while looking at no one else, and by this interchange of glances and gentle sighs they sought to acquaint each other with their mutual love.

The ball was now about to end with a torch-dance, or, as some style it, a cap-dance. Romeo was invited to join in this by a lady, and after dancing with her he bowed, and, giving the torch to another lady, went close to Giulietta and took her by the hand, an act that gave to each inestimable pleasure. Giulietta thus stood between Romeo and another gentleman named Marcuccio, a man of the court, and most agreeable, whose witty, pleasant ways made him a general favourite. He had always got some good story to set the company laughing, while his merriment brought with it harm to none. At all times, in winter or in summer, he had hands as cold and icy as an Alpine glacier, and, though he might warm these for a good while at the fire, they always remained stone cold. With Romeo on her left, Giulietta had Marcuccio on her right, and when she felt the lover take her hand, being possibly desirous to hear him speak, she turned gaily to him and said with trembling voice, “Blessings attend your coming to my side!” So saying, she pressed his hand lovingly. Romeo, being quick of wit, gently returned the pressure, as he answered, “Lady mine, what blessing is this that you bestow upon me?” Then, with a sweet smile, she said, “Do not marvel, Oh, gentle youth, that I bless your coming here, as Messer Marcuccio has been freezing me for a good while past with his ice-cold hand; but now, all thanks to you, your delicate hand has warmed me.” To this Romeo instantly answered, “Lady, whatever service I can do for you will be to me supremely dear, as to serve you is all that I desire in this world; and I shall count myself happy if you will but deign to command me as you would command the least of your servants. Let me tell you, moreover, that if my hand warms you, the fire of your fair eyes burns all my being, and if you give me no help to endure such heat, it will not be long before you see me entirely consumed and changed to ashes.” He had hardly said these words when the torch-dance came to an end, and Giulietta, full of passion, pressed his hand, as with a sigh she said falteringly, “Alas! what can I say but that I am much more yours than mine!”

As all the guests were now departing, Romeo waited to see which way the damsel went; but he soon discovered that she was a daughter of the house, and of this one of his friends assured him who had made inquiry of many of the ladies. The news disconcerted him not a little, as he held it to be a most perilous and difficult matter to attain the end of his amorous desire. But the wound was already open, and had become deeply impregnated with love's subtle poison.

Giulietta, on the other hand, desired to know who the youth was to whose comeliness she had fallen a victim; so she called her nurse aside into a chamber, and stood at a window overlooking the street, which was clearly lighted up by all the torches. Then she began to ask the nurse who this one was, wearing such and such a doublet, or that one with a sword, or the other; and she also asked who the handsome youth might be who carried a mask in his hand. The good old woman, who recognised nearly all of them, told Giulietta the names of each; and she also pointed out Romeo, for him she knew well. At the name Montecchio the damsel was as one stunned, and she despaired of ever getting Romeo for her husband, because of the deadly feud between the two families; nevertheless, outwardly she showed nothing of her discontent. That night she slept little, being full of many thoughts; yet refrain from loving Romeo she could not and would not, so passionately was she enamoured. His exceeding beauty encouraged her; and then again the difficulty and peril of the thing caused her to despair, so that she became a prey to conflicting thoughts, as she said to herself: “Whither shall I let these ungovernable desires of mine transport me? How can I tell, fool that I am, if Romeo loves me? Perhaps the roguish lad only said such words to deceive me, and, having obtained a shameful advantage, would laugh to see me turned into his trull, taking thus his revenge for the feud that grows ever fiercer between his kinsfolk and my own! Yet he is more generous of soul than to betray her who loves, ay, who adores him! If the countenance be the manifest index of the mind, in a form so fair no ruthless heart of iron could dwell; nay, I am prone to think that from a youth so handsome and gentle one could only expect love, courtesy, and kindness. Let us then suppose that, as I would fain believe, he loves me, and would have me for his lawful wife; may I not reasonably think that to this my father will never consent? Yet who knows that such a match might not engender between the two families perpetual concord and a lasting peace? I have often heard that marriages have made peace not only between private citizens and gentlemen, but frequently between the greatest of princes and kings, cruel wars being followed by true peace and friendship, to the great contentment of all. Perhaps in this way I may bring about a tranquil peace between the two houses.”

Being therefore possessed of this thought, whenever she saw Romeo pass along the street she always smiled gaily at him, and this greatly rejoiced his heart. No less than hers, his thoughts were at continual strife, now hopeful of mood, and anon despairing. Nevertheless he continued to pass in front of the maiden's house, by day as by night, though it was at his great peril, and Giulietta's kind glances only increased his ardour, and drew him to that particular part of the city. The windows of Giulietta's chamber overlooked a narrow passage, a farm-shed being opposite; and when Romeo passed along the main road, on reaching the top of the passage he often saw the girl at her window, who always smiled and seemed delighted to see him. He often went there at night and stopped in this passage, as it was unfrequented, and also because, if he stood opposite Giulietta’s window, he could sometimes hear her speak. He being there one night, Giulietta, either because she heard him or for some other reason, opened her casement, when he withdrew to the shed, but not before she recognised him, for with her splendour the moon had made all the roadway bright. Being alone in her chamber, she softly called to him and said: “What are you doing here at this hour alone? If they should catch you here, alas, what would become of you! Do you not know how cruel is the enmity that exists between your house and ours, and how many thereby have met their death? Of a truth you will be ruthlessly slain, and thus to you mortal hurt, and to me dishonour, will ensue.”

“Lady mine,” replied Romeo, “it is the love that I cherish for you which brings me here at this hour, nor do I doubt that if your folk found me they would try to kill me, albeit, so far as my feeble powers would let me, I should endeavour to do my duty; and though overwhelmed by numbers, I would make every effort not to die alone. Indeed, if in this amorous enterprise I needs must perish, what death more fortunate could befall me than to die near you? Never, methinks, may it happen that I shall be the cause of putting the least stain upon your honour, for with my own blood I shall ever strive to keep it, as now it is, bright and fair. But if you held my life as dear as I hold yours, you would remove all these barriers and make me the happiest man alive.” “Then what would you have me do?” said Giulietta. And Romeo answered, “I would have you love me as I love you, and let me come into your chamber, so that with greater ease and less danger I may show you the magnitude of my love, and all the bitter pain that perpetually I suffer for your sake.”

Vexed somewhat at hearing this, Giulietta in confusion answered: “Romeo, you know your love, and I know mine, and I know moreover that I love you as deeply as any one may love another—perhaps more than befits my honour. But let me say that if you are minded to enjoy me without the holy bond of matrimony you are very greatly mistaken, and we may nowise agree. Knowing, as I do, that if you visit this neighbourhood too often you may easily meet with certain evil folk, when I should never be happy again, I conclude that, if you would be mine, as I would be yours for ever, you must make me your lawful wife. If you wed me I shall always be ready to come to whatever place you please. But if some other fancy fills your head, begone about your business and leave me in peace.”

At these words, Romeo, who wished for nothing better, gaily replied that this was his one and only desire, and that whenever it pleased her he would espouse her in whatever way she should appoint. “This is well,” added Giulietta, “but, that our marriage be celebrated in orderly fashion, I would have it solemnised in the presence of the reverend Friar Lorenzo da Reggio, my spiritual father.” To this they agreed, and it was decided that on the following day Romeo should speak to the friar about the matter, as he was on intimate terms with him.

Friar Lorenzo belonged to the Minor Brotherhood, a master in theology, a great philosopher, and a skilled expert in many things, including chemistry and magic. As the worthy friar desired to keep up his good reputation with the people and also enjoy such pleasures as he was minded to take, he sought to do his business as cautiously as possible. To provide against every emergency, he always endeavoured to get the support of some nobleman of high repute. Among other friends whose favour he enjoyed in Verona, he had Romeo's father, a gentleman of great credit whom every one highly esteemed. He firmly believed the friar to be a most holy man, and Romeo was also much attached to him, being beloved by Fra Lorenzo in retur n as a prudent and courageous youth. Not only

with the Montecchi but also with the Capelletti he was on terms of close friendship, and he confessed most of the nobility of Verona, the men as well as the women.

Romeo, having decided to do this, took leave of Giulietta and returned home. When morning came, he went to the convent of San Francesco and told the friar of his fortunate love, and what he and Giulietta had detennined to do. Hearing this, Fra Lorenzo promised to do all that he wished, as he could deny him nothing, and also because he felt sure that he could make peace between the Capelletti and the Montecchi and win greater favour with Signor Bartolomeo Scala, who was most desirous that the two houses should be reconciled, so that all strife in the city might cease. The two lovers therefore waited for an opportunity of confessing themselves in order to carry out their plan.

It was the time of Lent, and to make matters safer Giulietta resolved to confide in her old nurse, Profiting by an opportunity, she told the good woman the who slept with her in the same chamber.

whole story of her love. However much the beldame chid her and bade her desist from such an enterprise, this had no effect, so that at length she acquiesced, and Giulietta prevailed upon her to carry a letter to Romeo. When the lover read what was written therein, he felt as if he were the happiest man in the world, for in the letter Giulietta asked him to come and speak with her at her chamber window at the fifth hour of the night, and bring a rope-ladder with him. Romeo had a trusty serving-man, whom he had often trusted with matters of importance, and had ever found him prompt and loyal. Telling him of his design, he charged him to procure the rope-ladder, and when everything was ready set out at the time fixed with Pietro, for so the servant was named. He found Giulietta waiting for him, who on recognising him let down the cord which she had prepared, and they drew up the ladder, which, with the nurse's help, she fixed firmly to the iron grating, and then waited for her lover to come up. He boldly climbed up, while Pietro withdrew to the shed opposite. On getting up to the window, Romeo talked to Giulietta through the iron grating, the bars of which were so close together that a hand was hardly able to pass through them. After loving greetings, Giulietta said to him: “Signor mine, dearer to me than the light of my eyes, I sent for you to tell you that I have arranged with my mother to go to confession next Friday, in the sermon-hour. Inform Fra Lorenzo, so that he may have all things ready.” Romeo replied that he had already told the friar, who was disposed to do all that they wished. When they had talked a while further of their loves, Romeo let himself down by the ladder and returned home with Pietro.

Giulietta became straightway very glad of heart, and every hour before she could wed her Romeo was to her as a thousand years. Romeo, for his part, felt just as gay and full of spirits, as he talked with his servant of it all. When Friday came, Madame Giovanna, Giulietta’s mother, took her daughter and serving-women, and went to the San Francesco convent; and on entering the church she asked for Fra Lorenzo. The friar had already taken Romeo into his cell where he heard confessions, and had locked him in. Then he went to Madame Giovanna, who said to him: “Father, I came to confess myself betimes, and I have also brought Giulietta with me, for I know that all the day you will be busy hearing the many confessions of your spiritual sons and daughters.” Giving them his blessing, the friar passed into the convent and entered the confessional where Romeo was, while Giulietta followed as the first to present herself for confession. When she had entered, and closed the door, she made a sign to the friar that she was within. He then raised the wicket, and after the usual greetings said: “My daughter, Romeo tells me that you have consented to take him as your husband, and that he is minded to make you his wife. Are you both still so disposed ?” The lovers answered that this was all that they desired, whereupon the friar, after saying certain things in praise of holy matrimony, pronounced those words which the Church has ordained to be spoken at marriages, and Romeo then gave his dear Giulietta the ring, much to their mutual delight. They arranged to meet that night, and after kissing each other through the opening of the wicket, Romeo cautiously quitted the cell and the convent, and gaily went about his business. The friar closed the grating so that it might seem as if nothing had been removed, and then heard the glad maiden's confession, as well as that of her mother and the serving-women.

When night had come, at the hour fixed, Romeo went with Pietro to a certain garden. Helped by the latter he climbed the wall, and let himself down into the garden, where he found his bride waiting for him with the nurse. On seeing Giulietta, he went to meet her with outstretched arms. Giulietta did the same, and, winding her arms about his neck, she remained for a while speechless—overcome, as it were, by such supreme delight, while her ardent lover was filled with a like rapture, and it seemed to him that never before had he tasted pleasure such as this. In mutual kisses then they took infinite, unspeakable delight, and, withdrawing to a corner of the garden where there was a bench, they then and there consummated the marriage.

After much delicious dalliance, Romeo and his lovely bride made arrangements for a future meeting, resolving to discover what Messer Antonio would say with regard to the union and the making of peace. Then, after kissing his dear wife a thousand times, Romeo left the garden, saying joyfully to himself, “What man is there alive more happy than myself? Who is there that shall equal me in love? Or who ever possessed so fair and winsome a damsel as mine?” Nor did Giulietta deem herself less fortunate, since to her it seemed impossible that any youth could be found who in beauty, courtesy, and gracious bearing might equal her Romeo; and she anxiously waited until things might be so arranged that she could freely enjoy him without fear. Thus, on some days they met, while on others they forbore.

Meantime Fra Lorenzo tried all he could to effect a peace between the Montecchi and the Capelletti, and had brought matters to such a likely pass that he hoped to make the secret alliance a source of satisfaction to both parties. But at Easter-time it happened that several men of the Capelletti faction fell in with others of the Montecchi near the Borsari Gate facing Castel Vecchio, and, being armed, they fiercely attacked them. Among the Capelletti was Tebaldo, Giulietta's first cousin, a stalwart youth who urged his comrades to give the Montecchi a sound thrashing and respect no one. The scuffle grew fiercer, when each side was reinforced with men and arms; so furious indeed became the fighters, that, recking nothing, they dealt each other grievous wounds.

Suddenly Romeo appeared upon the scene, who besides his henchmen had certain young fellows with him, who accompanied him in a jaunt about the city. Seeing his kinsmen fighting with the Capelletti he was greatly troubled, for he knew of the friar's scheme for peace, and felt doubly desirous that no dispute should arise. Therefore, to calm the disturbance, he called out to his comrades and servants, being heard by many others in the street: “Brothers, let us part these fellows, and see to it that, at all costs, the fray goes no further, but compel them to lay down their arms.” Then he endeavoured to separate the combatants, while his friends did likewise, and tried their best by words and deeds to stop the fight. It was a vain attempt, however, the fury of either side having now reached such a pitch that blows fell thick and fast.

Two or three men had already fallen when Tebaldo, coming sideways at Romeo, dealt him a lusty stroke in the flank; but as he wore a corselet of mail, he was not wounded, as the blade could not pierce it. Then, turning towards Tebaldo, he said in friendly fashion: “Tebaldo, you are in great error if you think that I have come to pick a quarrel with you or with your people. I happened to be here by chance, and have tried to get my men away, being desirous that we should live like peaceful citizens. Thereforel beg you to do the same with your fellows, so that no further scandal ensue, for there has been bloodshed enough already.”

Nearly all present heard these words spoken, but Tebaldo, either not understanding or not choosing to understand them, rushed wildly at Romeo to strike him on the head, crying out, “Traitor! you are a dead man!” Romeo wore gauntlets of mail, and, wrapping his cloak round his left arm, held this up to protect his head, and, turning the point of his sword towards his adversary, he ran him right through the throat, piercing it again and again, so that Tebaldo instantly fell, dead. Then there was a great outcry, and as the officers of the court now came up the combatants escaped, some this way, and others that. Grieved beyond measure that he had killed Tebaldo, Romeo, with several of his folk, went to San Francesco, and hid himself in Fra Lorenzo's chamber. The good friar, at the news of young Tebaldo's death, was in despair, for he feared that now there would be no means of removing the hatred between the two families. The Capelletti in a body went to Signor Bartolomeo, the Governor, to lodge a complaint, while the Montecchi sought to defend Romeo, as there were many who could testify to his forbearance until Tebaldo attacked him. Thus either party argued hotly before Signor Bartolomeo. As it was proved that the Capelletti had been the assailants, while to Romeo's pacifying words several trustworthy citizens bore witness, the Governor made all of them lay down their arms, and banished Romeo from Verona.

In the house of the Capelletti there was great mourning for the death of their Tebaldo, while Giulietta’s tears fell without ceasing, not for the loss of her cousin, but because all hope had

vanished of the alliance, and she grieved greatly and bemoaned her fate, as she could not conceive how the thing would end. Learning through Fra Lorenzo where Romeo was, she wrote him a most sorrowful letter and sent it to the friar by her old nurse. She knew that Romeo had been banished and that he must instantly quit Verona, so she affectionately besought him to let her go with him. Romeo wrote back cheering words and bade her be patient, as in time he would make everything right. He had not yet determined to what place he would go, but he would stay as near Verona as possible, and before leaving he would make every effort to meet her once more, and speak with her in whatever place was most convenient to herself.

As the least dangerous spot, she chose the garden in which she had passed her weddingnight; and accordingly at the time fixed Romeo, armed, came out of the convent, and, with his trusty servant Pietro, went to the garden, where Giulietta received him with floods of tears. For a while they were silent, unable to speak a word, drinking, as they kissed, each other's tears, and mourning bitterly for this sudden separation and all the adversities of fate. As the time for parting drew near, Giulietta fervently besought her husband to take her with him, saying, “Dear my lord, I will cut off these locks of mine and don a page's dress, and wherever you please to go, there will I always come too, and lovingly do your behests. What more faithful servant could you have than I? Oh, my own dear husband, grant me this boon, and let your fortune be my fortune also, that what befalls you may befall me likewise!” With tender words Romeo sought to comfort her as best he might, assuring her that it was his firm belief that ere long his sentence of banishment would be revoked, as of this the Prince had already given his father some hope. Moreover, if he took her with him, it should not be in the garb of a page, but as his bride and his wife, whom he would see honourably attended as befitted her rank. His term of banishment, so he said, would not exceed a year, and if

meanwhile no friendly truce were established between the factions, the Lord of Verona would see to it that at all hazards, and whether they wished it or not, they did become reconciled. Nay, if the matter were protracted overmuch, he would go over to the other side, since he could not live long without his Giulietta. Then he told her to send him news of herself by letter, and said much else to comfort her, but Giulietta was inconsolable, and could only weep. Now, as the lights of dawn showed faint in the east, the sorrowing lovers kissed and embraced each other as before with many tears and sighs, then said farewell.

Romeo returned to the convent, while Giulietta went back to her chamber; and two or three days later, having laid his plans, he left Verona disguised as a merchant, having trusty companions about him, with whom he travelled in safety to Mantua. Here he took a house, for his father kept him supplied with money, and provided in every way for his honourable maintenance.

All day, and every day, Giulietta wept and sighed, scarcely eating or sleeping, her nights being as unrestful as her days. Noticing her daughter's grief, Giulietta’s mother often questioned her as to its cause, telling her that it was time to eease such sorrowing, and that she had mourned overmuch for her cousin's death. Giulietta said that she did not know what ailed her, and whenever she could escape from the company she gave vent to her grief with tears, so that she grew thin and sad, and all unlike the lovely Giulietta that once she was. Romeo kept her comforted by frequent letters, always giving her hope that soon they would be together again. He urgently besought her to be of good cheer and to let merriment dispel her melancholy, as all things were working together for good. Vain, however, was such counsel, as, without Romeo, she could get no cure for all her grief.

The mother thought that the girl's chagrin came from a desire to have a husband, as some of her companions had recently been married. Possessed by this idea, she told her lord of it, and said, “Husband, our daughter Giulietta leads a most miserable life, for she does nothing but weep and sigh, and, whenever she can, she shuns the society of every one. I have often asked her the reason of this sorrowing, and, indeed, have closely watched her on all sides to try and discover it, but I have never succeeded. She always has the same answer, to wit, that she does not know what ails her, while all the servants shrug their shoulders and say they cannot tell. Some grievous passion of a truth torments her, and it is evident that she is wasting away as wax before the fire. Of the thousand reasons that I have imagined, one alone remains in my mind, and it is this—I greatly suspect that her grief comes from the fact that, last Carnival-time, some of her girl companions were married, while there is no talk of finding a husband for her. This next feast of Saint Euphemia she will be eighteen, so, husband mine, I thought I would say a word to you about it, as it seems to me that the time has come for you to find her a worthy and honourable husband, and not let her remain longer unwed, for she's hardly the sort of goods to keep by us at home.”

Messer Antonio thought his wife's speech apt enough, and he replied: “Since you could make nothing, wife, of our daughter's melancholy, and as you think she ought to have a husband, I will do my best to get her one that shall in all respects be worthy of our house. Meanwhile, do you try and find out if she be in love, and let her say who the husband is that she prefers.” Madame Giovanna declared that she would do all in her power, and make fresh inquiries of her daughter, and of others about the house. However, she could learn nothing.

Just at this time Messer Antonio's choice happened to fall upon the Count Paris di Lodrone, a very handsome and very rich young man, about twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. There seemed good hope of successfully arranging the match, and Messer Antonio told his wife of this. Thinking such an alliance most desirable, she in turn told Giulietta, who at the news became as one beside herself with grief. Perceiving this, Madame Giovanna was much annoyed, not knowing the cause of her daughter's discontent.

After much arguing, she said: “Well, daughter mine, as I take it, you wish for no husband;” to which Giulietta answered, “No, mother, I do not desire to wed; and, if you love me or care for me, never talk to me about a husband.” “What do you want, then,” rejoined her mother, “if you will not have a husband? Will you be a nun? Tell me frankly what you wish.” Giulietta said that she did not want to be a nun; all that she desired was to die. At this answer the mother was filled with amazement and displeasure, and she knew neither what to say nor what to do. Those of the household were equally surprised, and could only affirm that ever since her cousin's death Giulietta had been exceedingly sorrowful, weeping incessantly, and never showing herself at the windows. Having heard all from his wife, Messer Antonio sent for his daughter, and after some expostulation said: “My daughter, as you are now at a marriageable age, I have found a noble, rich, and handsome husband for you in the Count di Lodrone, therefore do as I bid you and get you ready to accept him, for it is seldom that matches as honourable as this are made.” Hereupon, with more courage than befits a girl, Giulietta frankly answered that she did not wish to be married. The father was greatly incensed, and in his choler came near to striking her.

However, he only sharply scolded her with many harsh words, finally telling her that, whether she liked it or not, she must make up her mind in three or four days to go with her mother and other kinsfolk to Villafranca, where Count Paris and his companions intended to visit her. Moreover she must show no further opposition to this plan, if she did not wish him to break her head, and make of her the sorriest daughter that had ever been born. Giulietta’s discomfiture may well be imagined; in sooth she was as if struck by some fiery thunderbolt. Upon recovering herself, she let Romeo know everything, by means of Fra Lorenzo. Romeo wrote back bidding her be of good courage, as in a short while he would come and take her away with him to Mantua. So she was forced to go to Villafranca, where her father had a very beautiful estate. She went just as gaily as convicts go to crucifixion or the gallows. Count Paris, who was there, saw her in church at mass, and, albeit haggard, pale, and sad of mien, she pleased him; so he came to Verona, where the marriage was concluded with Messer Antonio. Giulietta also returned to Verona, when her father told her that the marriage contract had been signed, and exhorted her to be cheerful. Struggling to show a brave front, she kept back the tears that rose in torrents to her eyes, as answer she made none. The wedding, so she learnt, was fixed for the middle of next September; so not knowing where to turn for help, she decided to go herself and see Fra Lorenzo, and take counsel with him as to how she might escape from these nuptials.

The festival of the glorious Assumption of the ever-blessed Virgin, Mother of our Redeemer, now drew near, when Giulietta, profiting by the chance, went to her mother and said: “I neither know nor can I imagine the source of this deep melancholy that thus oppresses me, yet ever since Tebaldo's death I have never been happy, and it would seem that I am getting worse, since nothing serves to cheer me. Therefore, at this blessed Feast of the Assumption, I would fain attend confession, as perhaps in this way I shall gain some comfort in my tribulation. Sweet my mother, what say you ? Do you think that I should do so? If there be some other road that in your opinion I ought to take, I pray you show it to me, since in my own mind nothing seems clear to me.”

Madame Giovanna, being a good soul and very religious, was glad to hear of her daughter's intention, and highly commended her for it. Accordingly they went together to San Francesco, to see Fra Lorenzo. When he had entered the confessional, Giulietta, going in at the opposite side, presented herself before him and said: “Holy Father, no one better than you yourself knows what has transpired between my husband and myself, so there is no need for me to repeat it here. You will also remember to have read the letter that I forwarded through you to Romeo, in which I told him that my father had made me the affianced bride of Count Paris di Lodrone. Romeo wrote back that he would come and save me, but God only knows when that will be. Now as matters stand, they have decided to have the wedding next September, and as the time draws near, I see no way to escape from this Lodrone, who should rather be called ladrone (thief) and assassin, since he would steal the property of another. Father, I have therefore come to you for counsel and help. These words that Romeo writes, ‘I will come and set things right,’ are not enough to get me out of the trap. I am Romeo's wife, with whom I have consummated marriage, and I can never be another's; nay, even if I could, I would not, for I mean to be his, and his eternally. Your help, then, and your counsel are what I need. Listen to what I thought of doing. I want you, father, to procure me a boy's dress with doublet and hose, so that, thus clad, I may leave Verona late one evening or early one morning. No one will recognise me, and I can go straight away to Mantua, to my Romeo's house.”

When the friar heard this imprudent plan, he was little pleased thereat, and said: “My daughter, this scheme of yours cannot be carried out, for you would run too great a risk. A damsel so tenderly nurtured as yourself could not bear the fatigue of such a journey, for you are not used to travel on foot, nor do you know the way, so that you would wander about hither and thither. As soon as your father discovered your absence from home, he would send spies to all the gates of the city and along all -the main roads of the country round about; and without a doubt they would soon find you. When you had been brought home, your father would want to know the reason for your escaping thus in the dress of a man. How you would bear their threats and ill-usage I know not, and in your luckless endeavour to reach Romeo you would lose all hope of ever seeing him again.”

At the friar's sagacious words, Giulietta grew calmer, and she replied: “Since my plan does not seem to you a good one, Father, and as I have full belief in you, pray give me your advice, and show me how to cut the hateful knot that binds me, so that possibly with less peril I may rejoin my Romeo, for I cannot live without him. And if you can help me in no other way, prevent me at least from becoming another's, if Romeo's I may not be. He told me of your fame as a distiller of herbs and other things, and that you prepare a water which, without causing any pain, can kill a man in a couple of hours. Give me some of this; enough to free me from the hands of that ladrone, seeing that to restore me to Romeo is out of your power. Loving me as I know he loves me, he will be content that I should die rather than fall alive into the hands of others. Moreover you will save me and my house from grievous shame, and if there be no other way to rescue me from this tempestuous sea, on which I drift as some wrecked and rudderless bark, I swear it, that some night with a keen-edged dagger, in a frenzy, I will slit open the veins of my throat, being resolved to die rather than remain untrue to Romeo.”

The friar was a great experimentalist, who in his day had travelled in various countries, delighting to gather new knowledge. He was specially well acquainted with the virtues residing in herbs and minerals, being one of the most famous distillers of the time. Among other sleep-giving preparations, he made a paste, which afterwards he reduced to a very fine powder of truly marvellous efficacy. For, if dissolved in a little water, whoever drank it fell asleep in less than half an hour, and the draught had such a calming efl.ect upon the vital forces that there was no physician, however famous or expert, who would not declare the drinker of it to be dead—a delicious death, lasting sometimes forty hours and sometimes more, according to the bodily temperament of those who took the draught. When the powder had done its work, the man or the woman awoke just as from some long, calm, restful sleep; and it caused them no harm whatever.

Now when the friar heard the disconsolate damsel's resolve, from sheer pity he was like to weep as he replied: “See now, my daughter, you must not talk of dying, for of a surety if once you die you will not return until the judgment Day, when all the dead shall be raised together. Iwould have you think of living as long as it shall please God, for He gave you life and He preserves it, and, when it seems to Him good, He takes it back again. Thus put away from you such melancholy thoughts. You are young, and must endeavour to live and enjoy your Romeo. We will find some remedy for it all, never fear. In this magnificent city, as you see, I am held by all in high repute, yet if folk should discover that I knew of your marriage, it would bring me infinite harm and shame. And if I gave you poison, what then? I have none, but if I had, I would not give you any, because it would be to sin grievously against God, and also because I should utterly lose my credit. Nevertheless, O my daughter, I will gladly do all I can for you, so that you may remain Romeo's bride, and not become the wife of this Lodrone. Nor shall you die; but it behoves us to act so that no one shall know of the matter. You, for your part, must be resolute and brave, and determine to do as I bid you, though this shall not cause you the least harm. Listen, then, to what I mean you to do.”

Then the friar showed the damsel his sleepingpowder and explained to her its virtues, and that he had often tried it, but had never found it fail in its effect.

“My daughter,” said he, “this powder is so precious that it will give you a harmless sleep, and all the time you thus quietly rest, if Galen, Hippocrates, Messue, Avicenna, and all the most famous physicians past and present were to see you and feel your pulse, with one voice they would all declare you to be dead. And when the powder has done its work, you will awake as healthy and as fresh as when at morning you leave your couch. At the first signs of dawn you must drink the potion, when you will gradually fall asleep, and when the hour for rising comes your kinsfolk will endeavour to wake you, but in vain. Your pulse will have ceased to beat, and you will be as cold as ice. When summoned, doctors and relatives will one and all pronounce you dead, and at evening time you will be buried in the vault of the Capelletti. There, at your ease, you will rest for a night and a day, and the next night Romeo and I will come to take you hence (for meanwhile I shall inform him of our plan by special messenger), and he will secretly convey you to Mantua and keep you there in hiding, until this blessed peace be concluded between your house and his. If you cannot adopt this course, I do not see how I can help you in any other way. But, as I have said, see to it that you keep the matter secret and to yourself, or you will spoil things for both of us.”

Giulietta, who to find Romeo would have gone into a fiery furnace, to say nothing of a sepulchre, implicitly believed all that the friar said, and without another thought consented to his proposal, saying, “Father, I will do all that you tell me, and I place myself in your hands. Never fear that I shall say aught of the thing to any one, for I will keep it a profound secret.”

Then the friar hurried back to his room, and brought the damsel a small spoonful of the powder, which he wrapped up in a piece of paper. Giulietta put this in her wallet, and thanked Fra Lorenzo many times, who could scarcely believe that a girl should have such courage and assurance as to let herself be shut up in a tomb with the dead; and he said to her: “Say, now, my daughter, shall you not be afraid of your cousin Tebaldo, who was but lately killed, and who lies in the vault where you will be placed? By this time he must stink horribly.” “My father,” replied the intrepid damsel, “fear nothing on that score, for if by suffering the grievous torments of hell I thought I should find Romeo, for me the eternal fire would have no terrors.” “So be it, then,” answered the friar, “in the name of our Lord God.”

Giulietta then joyfully returned to her mother, and as they went home together she said: “Mother dearest, of a truth Fra Lorenzo is a most holy man. With his sweet and pious counsel he has given me such comfort that he has almost dispelled the deep melancholy that oppressed me, and so devoutly did he discourse to me upon the subject of my ailment, that nothing better nor more apt can be imagined.” Madame Giovanna noticed that her daughter was more than usually gay, and, hearing this, her joy knew no bounds as she replied, “God bless you, my dearest daughter! Right glad am I to think that you have begun to be of good cheer, and for this we are greatly beholden to our spiritual father. We must be good to him and help him with our alms, for the monastery is poor, and each day he says a prayer to God for us. Bear him often in mind, and send him some goodly alms.”

Madame Giovanna really believed that Giulietta by this apparent gaiety had got rid of her melancholy, so she told this to her husband, who shared her satisfaction thereat, and they both ceased to suspect that she was love-sick for some one, believing that her grief had arisen from her cousin's death, or from some other strange cause. Indeed she seemed over-young to marry, and, if they could have done so with honour, they would willingly have kept her yet for two or three years before getting her a husband. But the contract with the Count was already concluded, and this could not be undone without scandal. A day for the marriage was accordingly fixed, and rich dresses and jewels were got ready for Giulietta to wear. She continued to seem light-hearted and gay, laughing and joking with all, while every hour seemed to her as a thousand years, before that one came for her to drink the potion.

On the evening which preceded the Sunday fixed for her wedding day, the damsel, saying nothing to any one, placed a goblet filled with water at the head of her bed. This was not noticed by her nurse. That night she hardly slept at all, being full of thoughts, and when the dawn drew near, at which time she was to drink the potion, she pictured Tebaldo to herself as she had seen him, with all the blood streaming from a gash in his throat. She thought how she would have to lie beside him, perhaps upon him, and that in the vault there were many mouldering bodies and bare bones. The fear of it sent a cold shiver through her frame, her every hair stood on end, and for sheer terror she trembled like a leaf in the gale. An icy sweat overspread her limbs, and it seemed to her on a sudden as if she were being torn into pieces by the sheeted dead in that tomb. Then, her fears giving place to courage, she said to herself: “Alas! what is this that I am about to do? Where am I going to let them put me? How shall I bear the noisome stench of Tebaldo's rotting corpse, when at home the least evil smell is unendurable to me? Who knows if some serpent or a thousand other hideous reptiles be not in the tomb—vermin abhorred and loathed by me? If courage fails me to look at them, how shall I bear to have them about me and to feel them touch me? Have I not often heard them say what fearful things happen at night, not only in tombs but also in churches and graveyards?”

This grim fancy brought to her imagination a thousand others more grisly still, and she half determined not to take the powder—in fact, she very nearly scattered it about the floor, being distraught by many strange and conflicting thoughts, some prompting her to take it, and others to reflect upon the hideous perils that would surround her if she did. However, at the last, as the dawn peered forth from her orient balcony, being spurred thereto by her fervent and vivid love for Romeo, which only grew greater in all this trouble, she boldly drank off the potion at a draught; and, lying down, she soon fell asleep.

The old nurse, being in bed with her, had noticed that the girl scarcely slept all night, but she never saw her drink the potion, and, rising, went about her household duties as usual. When the time came for Giulietta to wake, the old crone came back to the room, crying, “Get up, get up! it is time to rise!” and she threw open the windows. Seeing that Giulietta never moved nor made the least sign of rising, she shook her, saying, “Get up, slug-a-bed, get up!” But the good old woman's words fell upon deaf ears.

So she began to shake Giulietta as hard as she could, pulling her by the nose and pinching her, but all her efforts were in vain. The powder had so frozen and fettered her vital spirits that not the loudest, most appalling thunderclaps in the world could have roused her with their tremendous clamour. The old nurse, being horrified to find that the girl was as senseless as a corpse, believed she must be dead, and, weeping bitterly, she ran to find Madame Giovanna, to whom, half hindered by sobs, she cried breathlessly: “Madam, your daughter is dead.” The mother rushed, weeping, to the room, and when she found her daughter in this state, needless to say, she was almost overwhelmed with grief. Up to the stars rose her grievous lamentations; they would have touched stones to pity, or softened savage tigers when most wrathful at the loss of their whelps.

The women's cries were now heard all over the house, and every one ran to the bedchamber. Giulietta’s father came with the rest, and when he found his girl cold as ice, without any visible sign of life, he was fain to die of grief. The news spread quickly, and soon the whole city heard of it. Friends and kinsfolk flocked straightway to the house, and the more they came the greater grew the general lamentation. The most famous physicians of the city were instantly summoned, who applied all their most efficacious remedies, but without effect. Then, hearing what life the girl had led for several days, and that during this time she had done nothing but weep and sigh, they all with one opinion declared that she had died suffocated by intense grief. This only served to redouble the universal sorrowing, as all Verona bewailed so cruel and so unforeseen a death; but more than they all the mother mourned, refusing to take any comfort whatever. Three times when embracing her daughter she fainted, and herself seemed like a corpse, so that grief followed grief, and sorrow was added unto sorrow. All the women about her strove as best they might to console her, but she had given reins to her grief in such a way, and had let herself be so transported thereby, that in despair she understood nothing of all that was said to her. All that she did was to weep and to sigh, screaming and tearing her hair like one demented. Messer Antonio was as greatly distressed as she, though he gave less vent to his grief in tears.

That morning Fra Lorenzo wrote a long letter to Romeo, informing him of the potion scheme and of what had occurred; telling him also that on the following night he would go and bring Giulietta out of the tomb and take her back to his chamber. Romeo must therefore endeavour to come disguised to Verona, and he would wait for him until midnight on the following day, and then they would adopt such measures as might seem to them best. The letter being written and sealed, Fra Lorenzo gave it to a trustworthy friar, with strict injunctions to set out for Mantua that very day and find Romeo Montecchio. To him he was to deliver the letter, but to no other person, whoever he might be.

The friar started off and reached Mantua early in the day, dismounting at the Franciscan convent. Having put up his horse, he asked the Father Superior to let him have a companion to take him about the city and help him to do his business. But he discovered that shortly before one of the friars of this convent had died, and there was just a suspicion that his death was due to the plague. The health officers unanimously declared him a victim to this disease, and they were the more certain of this because in his groin was found a tumour much bigger than an egg—proof positive that he had died of this pestilent malady. So it chanced that just as the Veronese friar was asking for a companion, the health officers arrived and ordered the Father Superior under grave penalties to let no one go forth from the convent. The friar protested that he had only just arrived from Verona, and had not associated with any one in the convent. But his protests were vain, and he was perforce obliged to remain there with the other friars, so that he never gave that blessed letter to Romeo, nor sent him any message, which brought about the direst evil and scandal, as you shall hear anon.

Meanwhile in Verona they prepared solemn funeral obsequies for the damsel whom all believed to be dead, and they decided that the burial should take place late that evening. On hearing of Giulietta’s death, Pietro, Romeo's servant, was filled with consternation, and he decided to go to Mantua, but after the funeral; so that he might tell his master that he had actually seen her dead. He resolved to start from Verona and ride all night, reaching Mantua when the gates were opened. Accordingly, at late evening, amid the grief of the whole city, Giulietta was borne on a bier towards San Francesco, the pomp of her train being swelled by all the clerical and civic dignitaries of Verona. Distress at the sad event had so dazed Pietro, who knew how passionately his master loved the girl, that he never thought of speaking to Fra Lorenzo, as he usually did. Had he seen the friar, he would have heard about the sleepingdraught, and, by telling Romeo, would have averted all the ills that ensued. Being well assured that it was Giulietta whom they carried on the bier, he mounted his horse and rode at a good rate to Villafranca, where he stopped a while for rest and refreshment. Then, starting again two hours before daybreak, he reached Mantua at sunrise, and went to his master's house.

Let us now go back to Verona. When the damsel had been brought into the church and over her bier the customary solemn service for the dead had been chanted, about the midmost hour of the night she was laid in the vault. This was of marble and very spacious, being situated in the graveyard outside the church, one side of it touching the wall, with an enclosed space adjoining, where, when another corpse was laid in the vault, the bones of those previously interred were flung. When the vault was opened, Fra Lorenzo dragged Tebaldo's body to one side of it, and after it had been swept and made clean he had the damsel gently placed therein, with a little pillow at her head. Then he closed the tomb.

On reaching the house, Pietro found his master in bed, and for grievous sobs and tears could say not a word when presenting himself before him. This greatly astonished Romeo, who, thinking of ills other than those which had actually occurred, said: “How now, Pietro? What is amiss? What news do you bring me from Verona? How goes it with my father and the rest of our family ? Speak, nor keep me longer in suspense. What can it be that grieves you thus? Quick, tell me!”

Then Pietro, giving vent to his emotion, in broken accents told him of Giulietta's death, and how he himself had seen her borne to the sepulchre, her death, as they said, being due to grief. The dread news nearly drove Romeo out of his mind, and, leaping from his bed in a frenzy, he cried: “Ah! traitorous Romeo, perfidious, disloyal, and of all men most ungrateful! Not grief it is that has slain your lady-love, for of grief one dies not, but it is you, cruel man, you that have been her executioner; you have been her assassin; you have done her to death! She herself wrote to you that she would die rather than become another's bride, and besought you to take her away at all hazards from her father's house. But you, ungrateful one, laggard in love, and wretched mongrel that you are, you gave her your word that you would go and do everything, and bade her be of good cheer, while from day to day you put it off, never resolving to do her will. Now you have chosen to stay with your hands at your girdle; and Giulietta is dead. Dead she is; and you are alive! Oh! traitor, how often did you write it to her, and with your own lips tell her that you could not live without her! But you are living at this moment. Where, think you, is she? There in twilight beyond the grave she wanders, waiting for you to follow, as to herself she exclaims: ‘Ah, what a liar, what a false lover and faithless husband is this! for at the news of my death he yet can bear to remain alive!’ Forgive me, oh, forgive me, my own dearest wife, for I confess my very grievous sin. As, however, my immeasurable grief may not for all its poignancy deprive me of life, myself I will do its work, and slay myself with mine own hand!”

Then he grasped the sword hanging near the bed's head, and, wrenching it from its scabbard, set the point of the blade at his heart. But Pietro was quick enough to prevent him from wounding himself, and disarmed him in a trice, snatching the sword from his hand, as, like a faithful servant, he respectfully chid his master for such madness, bidding him take comfort and live, as the dead girl was beyond all human help. The dreadful news had so stupefied Romeo, that, as it were, he became like stone or marble, while never a tear fell from his eyes. Looking at him, one might have thought it was a statue, not a man. But ere long tears came in torrents, and then he resembled a fountain where water welled in abundance. And the words that, thus weeping, he uttered, might have moved pity in the hearts of barbarians, however hard or adamantine these might be. When the first bitterness of his grief was spent, Romeo, swayed by passion, began to give way to evil and desperate thoughts, and, since his darling Giulietta was dead, he determined nowise to remain alive. But of this dire intent he said not a word, hiding what was in his mind, so that by no servant nor another he might be hindered from carrying out his scheme. To Pietro, who was with him in the room, he gave injunctions to say nothing to any one of Giulietta’s death, but bade him get two fresh horses saddled, as he was going back to Verona.

“I want you,” said he, “to go on first, as fast as you can, saying nothing to any one, and when you reach Verona do not tell my father that I am coming, but try and get picks and other iron tools necessary for opening the vault in which my wife is buried. For I shall arrive at Verona late to-night, and will go straight to your cottage at the back of our orchard. About the third or fourth hour of the night we will go to the grave yard, for I would fain look once more upon my hapless wife as she lies there, dead. Then, all unrecognised, I will quit Verona betimes, you following me a little way after; and we will both return hither.”

Accordingly, soon after this Pietro started, and Romeo wrote a letter to his father, asking pardon for marrying without his permission, setting forth in full the story of his love and of his marriage. He also tenderly besought him to have a solemn service for the dead said at Giulietta’s grave, as if it were for his daughter-in-law, and make this service a perpetual one by endowing it with the revenues which he (Romeo) possessed, as certain property had come to him from an aunt who, dying, had made him her heir. For Pietro also Romeo made such provision that he could live in ease without depending upon others for support. These two things he most urgently requested of his father, declaring it to be his last wish, and, as his aunt had died a few days before, he begged his father to give the first-fruits of her property to the poor. Sealing this letter, he put it in his bosom, and, taking a phial full of deadly poison, he dressed himself like a German and mounted his horse, telling the folk of his house that next day he would soon return.

So he set out for Verona, travelling at great speed, and got there at the hour of the Ave Maria. He at once went to look for Pietro, who was at home, and had done all that he had been told to do. About the fourth hour of the night they both started for San Francesco, taking all necessary tools with them, and on reaching Giulietta's tomb they adroitly opened it and propped up the lid. Romeo had told Pietro to bring a dark lantern with him, which helped them not a little in their work. Entering the tomb, Romeo saw his darling wife lying there, to all appearance cold and dead. At the sight he swooned, and sank down at her side overcome with grief. Then, recovering himself, he tenderly kissed and embraced her, bathing her face with scalding tears, as sobs choked his utterance. But after a long spell of weeping he found his voice, and spoke words that must have touched the hardest of hard hearts to pity.

As he had resolved to be quit of life, he took the phial containing the poison, and putting it to his lips drained it at one draught.

Then he called to Pietro, who kept watch in a corner of the graveyard, and bade him approach. So Pietro, climbing up, leaned over the mouth of the tomb, when Romeo thus addressed him:

“Listen, Pietro; my wife lies here, and you partly know how much I loved and still do love her. I felt that it was as impossible for me to live without her as for a body to exist without a soul, and so I brought poison with me—snake-water, which, as you know, can kill a man in less than an hour. This of my own free will I have drunk, so as to die here by the side of her whom living I so dearly loved; and though in life. I was not allowed to be with her, I shall at least lie beside her in the grave. See, here is the phial, which, if you recollect, we got of the Spoletine in Mantua—the fellow that had those live asps and snakes. Of His pity and infinite goodness may God pardon me, for not to offend against Him have I slain myself, but because without my dear wife I could not live. And if you see these eyes of mine full of tears, not for my lost youth do I weep, but because I grieve for her death—she deserved to live a happier, more tranquil life. Give this letter to my father; I have written to him that which I wish done after my death; also about my burial here, and concerning my servants at Mantua. For you, who have served me so faithfully, I have made such provision that henceforth you will not need to become the servant of another; and I am sure that my father will carry out all my wishes to the letter. Now, get you hence, for death, I feel, is near; the poison overcomes me, and every limb grows numb. So, do you close the lid of the tomb, and leave me to die by my dear one's side.” At these words Pietro felt as if, for very grief, his heart would break. All his remonstrances were vain, for there was no remedy against the poison, which now had gained hold of all parts of Romeo's body. Taking Giulietta in his arms, the lover kissed her unceasingly, and disposed himself to die, while again telling Pietro to shut down the lid.

Just then Giulietta woke, as the effect of the powder had passed off. Feeling herself kissed, she thought it was the friar, who in a moment of carnal impulse was embracing her as he bore her back to his chamber. So she said, “Alas! Fra Lorenzo, is this how you prove the trust that Romeo placed in you? Back, I say!” Then, as she struggled to free herself from his grasp, her eyes opened, and she found that he who embraced her was Romeo. Although he wore a German dress, she knew him well, and exclaimed: “Oh! my dear heart, is it you? Where is Fra Lorenzo? Why do you not bring me out of this tomb? Let us go away, for God's sake!”

At the sight of her eyes and the sound of her voice, Romeo knew of a certainty that Giulietta was not dead but verily alive, and he felt at once tremendous gladness and measureless, unspeakable grief. Straining her to his bosom, he cried, “Oh life of my life, and dearest heart of mine, what man has ever felt a joy like this which now possesses me? For I firmly believed you to be dead, but behold! I clasp you alive and safe in my arms! Yet what grief may match my grief? What torturing pain can vie with that which fills my heart, as I feel myself reach the end of all my dolorous days, and as life slips from me now, when most I need it? For at the most I cannot live more than half-an-hour! What mortal ever felt at one and the same moment such rapturous joy and such infinite grief? Though, dearest consort, I rejoice unspeakably that you are come back to life, incomparable sorrow covers me as I think that all too soon I may no longer see you, nor hear your voice, nor stay near you to enjoy your sweet company. But the gladness at your return to life far exceeds the sorrow at my own approaching death, and I pray the Lord God to give you those years of my hapless youth which now He takes away from me, letting you live long and have a far happier fate than mine, whose life, as I feel, now touches its close.”

Then Giulietta replied: “What is this, love, that you say? Do you come from Mantua to comfort me with such news? What is it that ails you?” Then Romeo told her how he had drunk the poison, and she exclaimed: “Alas! and woe is me! What awful thing is this you tell me? Fra Lorenzo never wrote to you of the plan which he and I had made? He promised me that he would inform you of it all by letter!” And in her anguish the despairing damsel wept and shrieked, being well-nigh beside herself, as she told Romeo all that had befallen, and all that she and the friar had arranged.

As thus she grieved, Romeo spied Tebaldo's corpse, and, turning to it, said: “Wherever now you be, Tebaldo, know this, that I never sought your harm. I joined the fray as a peace-maker, and to exhort you to get your men to withdraw, making my folk also lay down their arms. Yet, full of rage and ancient hatred, you cared nothing for my words, but with dire intent attacked me. Forced thereto, I lost patience, never ceding an inch, but, standing on my defence, as ill-luck would have it, I slew you. Now, for the harm I did your body, I crave your forgiveness, the more so as I was to have become your kinsman, by marrying this your cousin. If vengeance is what you desired, behold, you have it now. What greater vengeance would you have than to know that he who killed you has now poisoned himself in your presence, and dies here by his own hand, being buried with you in your tomb? Though in life we fought, in death we shall rest at peace in the self-same grave.”

At these dolorous speeches Pietro, listening, became like a statue hewn out of marble. He knew not if he heard aright, or if he dreamed. Then Giulietta said to Romeo: “Since it has not pleased God that we should live together, may it please Him at least that I be buried with you in the tomb, for be sure that, come what may, I will never go hence without you.” Romeo again embraced her, and, comforting her, besought her to live, that thus he might die happy in the belief that she would remain alive. Many things did he say to her, until, as strength and sight gradually failed him, he grew so weak that he sank down on the ground, and with his eyes turned piteously towards his sorrowing wife exclaimed, “Alas! dear heart! I die.”

Now, for some reason or another, Fra Lorenzo did not wish to bear Giulietta to his chamber on the night of her burial, but next night, seeing that Romeo did not come, he went to the tomb with a trusty friar of his order, bringing tools wherewith to open it. He got there just as Romeo sank down in his death-agony. Seeing the tomb open, and recognising Pietro, he said: “Ho, there! where is Romeo?” Giulietta heard him, and cried: “May God forgive you for not sending the letter to Romeo!” “I did send it,” replied the friar; “Fra Anselmo took it: you know him. Why do you speak thus?” “Come into this place and you shall see,” answered Giulietta, weeping bitterly.

The friar entered, where Romeo lay half dead, and he said: “Romeo, my son, what is it? what ails you?” Then, with a languid look, Romeo recognised him, and bade him take care of Giulietta, since he was now past all living help or counsel; and, repenting him of all his sins, he craved forgiveness of him as of God. So saying, he feebly beat his breast, and then his eyes closed, and he lay there, dead.

In excess of grief Giulietta fell senseless upon her husband’s body, and remained for some while in a deep swoon. The friar and Pietro sought to revive her, and when she regained consciousness she gave vent to her tears as she kissed the corpse, and exclaimed: “Oh fairest home of all my thoughts and of my pleasures! my one and only darling lord, from being sweet how are you now become bitter! You have ended your course while yet in the flower of your lovely and pleasant youth, caring nothing for a life that all others held so dear. You wished to die at a time when others most long to live, reaching that end to which sooner or later all must come. Oh, my lord, you came to die in the arms of her whom most you loved, and who loved you with a matchless love, for, thinking her dead and buried, you of your own free will were for burying yourself with her. Never did you deem that these her tears would fall for you; never did you think to pass over to the other world and not find her there. But soon, love, soon will I come to you, and stay with you for evermore!”

Distressed at her anguish, the friar and Pietro did all they could to comfort her, but in vain; and Fra Lorenzo said at last: “My daughter, what is done cannot be undone. If mourning could bring back Romeo from the grave, one and all we would dissolve ourselves in tears, that so we might succour him; but for this thing no remedy exists. Take heart; be comforted, and hold on to life; if you desire not to return to your home, I will find shelter for you in a nunnery, where, in the service of God, you can pray for the soul of your Romeo.” However, she would on no account listen to him; but, being resolved to die, she checked within her all her vital forces, and, embracing Romeo once more, straightway expired.

As the friars and Pietro were busied with the dead girl, believing that she had swooned, the sergeants of the watch came along, and, seeing a light in the tomb, they all hurried thither, to seize Pietro and his companions. On being told the sad story, they left the two friars strongly guarded, and brought Pietro before Signor Bartolomeo, the Governor, and told him under what circumstances they had arrested him. Signor Bartolomeo caused the tale of the hapless lovers to be minutely narrated to him, and, as dawn had now come, he rose and went out to view the bodies.

The report of the tragedy soon spread throughout all Verona, so that young and old flocked forthwith to the vault. Pietro and the friars were set at liberty, and the burial of the two lovers took place with great pomp, amid the great grief of the whole city. The Governor desired that they should be buried in the same grave, and this caused a peace to be made between the Montecchi and Capelletti, though it did not last very long.