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oh: 31s< Aug. 1875. 

B M E : 




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Note by the Editor. 

rp H E circumstances under which 
this little book comes forth, are, 
alas I eo different from those which 
attended the projection of it, that a 
word in explanation of them seems 
to be required. 

The plan and scope of the school 
established by Mrs Gould in Rome, 
where her husband Dr. Gould resides 
as physician to the American legation, 
have become too widely known, for it 
to be necessary to enlarge upon that 
subject here. It is sufficient to state, 


that among other means of prejjaring 
the destitute children, whom Mrs . 
Gould had bidden to come unto her, to 
earn a reputaole living, a printing 
press had been established in the 
school . And the publication of a 
volume, such as the present, was sug- 
gested in the winter of 1874, as a 
means of at the same time assisting in 
a manner much ifeedcd, the funds of 
the little establishment, employing the 
printing press, and shewing what the 
pupils could do in that line. It was 
hoped that the volume would be issued 
in the spring of 1875. But delays, 
easily understood under the circum- 
stances, occured. And then — in the 
summer of this year came the fatalest 
cause of delay of all,— the very serious 
illness of her, who was the life and soul 
not only of this enterprize, but of the 
larger and more important work, for the 
sake of which it was undertaken ? Then 

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after a few months of incessant sufferiDg 
heroically borne on her part, and of 
faint hope gradually extinguished in 
black despair on the part of those 
around her, came the end. Mrs Gould 
died at Perugia on Tuesday the 31st 
August, 1875. 

This is not the place for any attempt 
to give an account of the good work 
undertaken and done by Mi's Gould, or 
of the truly rare spirit of entire self- 
devotion with which it was carried out. 
All those, (and they were many) who 
witnessed her life in Rome, can testify 
that the above expression is as simply 
un exaggerated a statement of fact as if 
it were the enunciation of a mathemati- 
cal fact. She gave her life to the work ! 
So little did she ever look back from 
the plough, to which she had set her 
hand, that even amid the paroxysms of 
pain which it was her lot to suffer 
during many long weeks , her mind 


was constantly reverting to the arran- 
gements to be made for the bringing 
out of this volume. 

And now it is brought out, — pos- 
thumously ! And we, all of us, the 
contributors to its pages, though we 
may still hope that the publication 
inay, by the help of the public, be of 
some avail towards giving the aid so 
urgently needed to the funds for the 
support of the school, will never liave 
the pleasure we had promised ourselves 
in seeing her pleasure, for whose sake 
each did his best ! 

Our plans were laid, our suggestions 
were made so merrily, so laughingly ! 
all sorts of jesting titles for our pro- 
jected volume were proposed ; and one, 
conceived in merry mood, by her who 
will never jest more, was by acclama- 
tion voted the best ! We have none of 
us the heart to put any such words on 
our title page now. We did each his 


part as a testimonial of affection and 
admiration for one who lived only for 
others — let it stand now as a memorial 
and tribute to her memory. 

T, Adolplius TroHope. 



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I ^mi\ 4 f^rn |<a»<i8' 


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Lines by Lord Houghton xvii. 

Preface ------------ xix. 

The prayer of the children xxv. 

Author Subject Page 

&. P. Marsh - - - Thoughts and aphorisms 1 

Claudia H. Bamsay Christopher Columbus - 9 

T. Adophus Trollope Bernardo nostro - - - 13 

Mathew Arnold - - Rorae-slckness - - - - 49 

.^.„. ^ Progressive steps of 

William Howitt - - i i ^. 

popular education o3 

Mary Howitt - - - In Seven-Dials - - - 85 

Mrs. T. A. Trollope The Rectory-llouse - - 89 

TF. ir. Story - - - Song 115 

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Author Subject Page 

V. Eyre - - - - Something new - - - 117 

Treasures of Art lost and 

Charles I. Ilemans ' j • t^* i-,n. 

vco ^. j^c iu,uo recovered m Rome 119 

Alfred Pearson - - Ode to my pipe - - - 151 

Howard M. TicTcnor Ma che 155 

The author of %n Art The story of him who 

student in Munich " wore the wreath 159 

Un cducatore italiano del 

p. nilari gee„i„xv 177 

3Iary Cowden Clarke An idyl of London streets 187 

^'Aunt Friendly " - Miss Jones 205 

C. Cowden Clarke - The course of Time - - 222 

JV. Lawless - - - Nothing more - - - - 223 

W. Davies - - - - A visit to Genazzano - - 229 

A. Y, ----- The open casement - - 249 

F. M. Peard - - - At last 255 

E, T. H. - ' - - United 271 

Elizabeth M, Farmar This life 273 


While in this book with care you build 
From fragment of the hand and pen, 
A little temple to be filled 
With presences of famous men; 
Bemember that each good work done. 
All alms in pious pity given. 
Each risk of self for others run 
Will be your autograph in Heaven, 





J[T is now six months since at Castella- 
M mare, on the lovely bay of Naples, I 
prepared a preface for this volume. In it 
I gave a r^sum^ of the labours of our dear 
friend, Emily Bliss Gould, from the date 
when she commenced them with a few lire 
and three little girls in an upper chamber 
of the Vicolo Soderini, down to that time 
w^hen she had finally attained, as she be- 
lieved, to the summit of her hopes, and 
had established an Industrial School and 
Home in the Via in Arcione . All was 
hopeful then ; liventy orphans or homeless 
children were established there ; the vari- 

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ous schools were centred there; educa- 
tion, intellectual and moral, and work 
were going on cheerfully together. Two 
printfng- presses were at work; and lu- 
crative employment was largely promised. 

The children were the type-setters, 
evincing , as is generally the case, great 
facility in the work, which to these 
young bright Italians was one of interest 
and delight. Various descriptions of work 
were in progress, but this volume, the idea 
of which was suggested by its gifted editor, 
was the most important. It was a scene of 
cheerful intelligent industry which filled 
my mind with a confidence beyond hope. 

But alas ! there was even then a cloud 
on the sunshine. The health of our friend 
was giving way. Nevertheless I wrote 
that preface with faith in the future, and 
transmitted it to Rome, where by some 
mysterious chance it disappeared. The 
printing of the volume was finished, but 
the words which were to introduce it to 
the world remained unsupplied. Meantime 

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the heats of summer had come on, and she 
who was the head and heart of the Home iu 
the Via in Arcione, now utterly prostrate, 
was obliged to leave the scene of her love 
and her labours, hoping, as all hoped, 
that she might return in the autumn, able 
to resume the oversight of the work which 
was so dear to her, and which without her 
lost its sweetest life. But God who loved 
her, willed otherwise. Her work though 
so incomplete in her own estimation, was 
accomplished in His. Mysterious are the 
wiays of Divine Wisdom ! We thought 
that she never was more needed here, but 
her place in heaven had been preparing 
during these years of her beloved work. 
With little children clustered round her 
knees, she had been advancing heaven-ward, 
in progressive purification, through months 
of long and unknown suffering, to take 
her place in that higher school of the 
angels, to which it had been her dearest 
wish to make her schools on earth a fore- 
court of preparation. Humanly speaking 

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she had worn herself out in her ardent 
labours, and on the 31st August she passed 
away, the jDowers of her mind undimini- 
shed, and the love which burned in her 
Iieart as fervent as ever, but the worn-out 
frame , enfeebled with the severity of 
unexampled suffering , no longer able to 
enshrine the living spirit. 

She is gone, like the true and noble of 
all times, from works to rewards. But is 
the work which she began to perish? 
Surely not. This volume, every letter of 
its type set by the agile fingers of little 
children, whom she loved — whom she 
rescued from want and ignorance — from 
crime and degradation, it may be— upon 
whose heads she had laid her hands in 
blessing, whom she had led to the Saviour 
and raised in the scale of humanity— this 
volume — their work as well as hers, conies 
forth as an appeal for them. She speaks 
through it and beseeches the friends who 
love her memory — all the friends of little 
children athirst for knowledge, as are these 

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willing lambs of Christ's fold, to stand in 
her place, pillars as it were of that Home 
of industry and true instruction of which 
she laid the foundation. And surely this 
appeal will be regarded ! 

My first paper was lost. It was not 
needed. This much shorter , but alas ! 
much sadder, supplies its place, and in the 
name of our dear departed friend and of 
the children whom she loved, I speak for 
her — from the grave. Let the motherless 
and homeless children, whom she gathered 
into a home of labour and love, become 
your children, now that she is gone ; so 
that they — if not others also, may become 
a living, noble lasting monument, enduring 
through them to countless generations, to 
the memory of her who did all that she 
could — and perished in the doing of it. 

Mary Hoivitt. 
Austrian Tyrol, 

September Wh, 1875. 

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3]^ E A U T I F U L the children's faces 

Spite of all that mars and sears, 
To my inmost heart appealing, 
Calling forth love's tendcrest feeling, 
Steeping all my sonl in tears ! 

Eloquent the children's faces,— 
Poverty's lean look ^hich saitli 

**Evil circumstance has bound us ; 

Sin and ignorance surround us ; 

Life is oft'times worse than doalli ! 

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Look into our childlsli faces, 

See ye not our willing heart? 
Only love us, only lead us, 
Only let us know you need us. 

And we all will do our part ! 

We are thousands— tens of thousands ; 

Every day our ranks increase ; 
Let us march beneath your banner — 
We, the legion of true honour, 

Combating for love of peace ! 

Train us, try us ! days slide onward. 

They can ne'er be ours again I 
Save us ! save from our undoing, 
Save from ignorance and ruin, 

Make us worthy to be men J 

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Give us light to cheer our darkness ; 

Let us know the good fVom ill : 
Hate us not for all our blindness ; 
Love us, lead us, shew us kindness !— 

You can make us what you will ! 

Raise us by your Christian knowledge ; 

Consecrate to man our powers, 
Let us take our proper station, — 
We, the rising generation ; 

Let us stamp the age as ours I 

We shall be whatever you make us :— 
Make us wise, and make us good ! 

Make us strong for time of trial, 

Teach us temperance, self-denial. 
Patience, kindness, fortitude I 



Send 118 to our weeping mothers 

Angel-stamped, on heart and brow ! 
We may be our father's teachers, — ~ 
We may be the mightiest preachers, 
In the day that dawneth now !" 

Such the children's mute appealing- 
All my inmost soul was stirred. 
And my heart was bowed with sadness. 
When a voice, like summer's gladness, 
Said, "the children's prayer is heard !" 

Mary Howitt. 


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H E power of simulation and 
dissimulation is often supposed 
to imply the talent of dramatic 

personation. This is a great mistake. 

The distinction between the two arts is 

just that between lying and speaking 

the truth. 

There are few secrets which do not 
cover a wrong, none perhaps which does 

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not involve a lie. Hence, though a true 
religion may have mysteries, it can have 
no secrets. 

Charity, benevolence, liberality, are 
common virtues; gratitude is compara- 
tively rare, for it is easier to be generous 
than to be just. We pride ourselves 
on*our indulgent judgments, our for- 
giveness of wrongs, our benefactions, 
because they flatter our self-love as 
savouring of magnanimity and heroism, 
while justice is felt as a mere mechan- 
ical calculation of debit and credit, a 
matter of arithmetic not of sentiment. 

The truest kindness is justice; to 
render to every man his due. Our 
means , moral as well as material, are 
so meted out to us that we never have 

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more than enough to fulfil our obligations; 
for our duties increase with our means, 
and we cannot give to one that to which 
he is not entitled , without denying to 
another that which he has a right to 

A weak character may be generous; 
only a strong one can be just . 

Subjectiveness of character is often 
mistaken for selfishness. Some persons 
of a narrow range of thought are so 
exclusively occupied with what im- 
mediately concerns them, that they 
habitually^ obtrude themselves and their 
affairs upon others in a way that sav- 
ours of excessive egotism ; and yet the 
sphere of their real sympathies and 
even of their active benevolence may 
be a wide one. On the other hand, 

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an appariBnt forgetfulness of self, and 
an attentiveness to the feelings and 
interests of others , the mere resnlt of 
social training, is not inconsistent with 
the extreme of selfishness. 

The best ordered life is that which 
least haunted by its own past. 

The silent man is incommunicative 
from diflidence , or shyness of tempera- 
ment , or from a conscious want of the 
power of expression ; the reserved man 
from constitutional prudence or distrust. 

The tongue of the former may be 
loosened ; that of the latter, not. 

With the majority of men not merely 
animal in life , the strongest passion is 

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love of power; the strongest tie, attach- 
ment to party. When a New York poli- 
]tician said: "I would vote for the devil 
if he were ow regular candidate," h^ 
expressed a sentiment which, consciously 
or unconsciously, controls the action of 
most men in religion and politics. 

We meet in fiction and in history 
characters and incidents which seem to 
belong equally to the domain of both. 
When these occur in a romance, we say : 
this is too true to be imaginary ; it 
must have been borrowed from real life. 
When we find them in biography or 
historical narrative, we say : this is too 
good to be true; it must be an invention. 
For example, the true story of the lady 
who ordered a copy of Allor^s Judith, 
because the colour suited her hangings 
and furniture, but desired the painter to* 

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put a bouquet in the hand of Judith 
instead of the head of Holofernes. So 
the dialogue in the Mill on the Floss, 
where the invalid Aunt Pullet describes 
her husband's care in keeping all her 
pill-boxes and medicine phials, in order 
that ^^when she was gone, folks might 
see" what a quantity of " doctor-stuff" 
she had taken. 

A question being raised about Mr. — 's 
religion, I said: ^^His prie-dieu is a 
mirror, and he serves the God he sees 
in it." 

In the dialect of criticism, an author 
who acknowledges his obligations is a 
compiler; one who conceals his thefts 
is an original writer^ 

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To borrow a book and not return it 
is worse than stealing. It is theft 
aggravated by breach of trust. 

Speaking to a European lady of Mrs. — 
of New York , whose fine qualities of 
heart and intellect have not been smoth- 
ered by the indulgences, the pride or the 
penury of great wealth, I said: " Enfin, 
elle est digne d'etre pauvre. " 

Every one is willing to be blamed when 
he is in the wrong; but some people 
never are in the wrong. 

The hardest work in the world is our 
work; the easiest, other people's. 

G. P. Marsh. 
Borne, Feb. 1, 1875. 

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'HAT time I wander'd on a southern shore, 
Beside the waters of a shelter'd bay, 
The voice of each long billow evermore 
Unto mine ear did seem to sing a lay 
Of him who found the evening land, aflsir 
Beyond the western star. 

Oft in my childhood, did I dream of him, 
That venturous sailor of the days of old, 

Whose hope long years of waiting could not dim, 
Whose courage through long sorrow, wax'd not 

Nor rested he, until his flag was ftirl'd [cold ; 

Within a new-found world. 



Most like the chieftain famed in ancient song, 
Who sail'd away into the goldan west, 

And wander'd on the stormy waters long, 
Seeking in vain the islands of the Blest : — 

But never more unto the Grecian strand 
Came that heroic band. 

And sages oftimes said that there must lie 
A land beyond the moaning of the wave, 

Beneath the crimson of the sunset sky, 
Awaiting still the coming of the brave, 

Who there should drink the waters of the well 
Where youth doth ever dwell. 

Such dim sweet legends had they told. And he, 
Who sang the threefold kingdom of the dead, 

Spake of an island in the middle sea. 
Whereto the spirits of the just were led, 

There to be purified by grief and pain 
From every earthly stain. 

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And yet the world was waxing old ; and none 
Had dared to cross the desert waters wide : 

But now at last the marvellous goal is won, 
And a new realm hath bow*d before the pride 

Of those who are enthron'd among the flowers 
Of bright Granada's bowers. 

But what of him who gain'd the glorious spoil, 
And gave to Spain that fair, new hemisphere? 

What recompense hath he for all his toil. 
For care and sorrow borne through many a year? 

In sooth, the land he won from out the wave 
Bears not the name he gave I 

Yet had he his reward —for it is well 

That from our toiling, joy's deep fountains flow 
Not in the end attain'd doth gladness dwell ; 

We find it by the wayside as we go,— 
Then labour, till thou sleep beneath the sod ; 

Leave thou thy work with God ! 

Claudia H. Bamsay. 

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t A R K E N the room! Shut out 
all the light of the work-a-day 
world around us I We are going 
to see a picture from the raree - show 
of History. Now we light the magic 
lantern ! See 1 through the darkness on 
the white sheet, there shows itself the 
magic circle of light I 

Rome at the end of the second decade 
of the 16th century I It is May in the 
year 1520. A garden terrace, flooded 
by such moonlight as only those match- 
less skies produce I The bell - towers^ 

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throughout the reposing, but not silent 
city, are striking the first hour after mid- 
night. Not a silent city; for Rome 
was in those halcyon days an eminently 
pleasure - loving community ; and those 
small hours of the lovely moonlit summer 
night were, to very many of the dwel- 
lers in the Eternal city, the hours 
specially dedicated to festivity and enjoy- 
ment. That jovial Pagan, Leo the 10th, 
was on the Papal throne, then in the 7th 
year of his Papacy; he, who on his elec- 
tion exclaimed, ^^Since God has given us 
the Papacy, let us enjoy it 1 " and who 
forthwith set himself with his whole 
heart to do so, giving an example, which 
Rome did her utmost in all ways to 
follow ! 

Surely it is the terrace of the Colonna 
gardens on the Quirinal, which designs 
itself on the magic light circle ! No one 
of those, who have visited the Eternal 

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city oan mistake it, even though in many- 
respects , it was not then , as they have 
seen it . The famous horses, said to be 
master pieces of Phidias and Prax- 
siteles , which have given its world-cele- 
brated name to the Monte Cavallo , were 
not then on their pedestal. The trim ever- 
green hedges enclosing flower gardens , 
which now top the hill , were the work of 
a Colonna who lived an hundred years 
later. The place was very unkempt, 
and to a gardener's eye in very slovenly 
condition . But perhaps it was not less 
lovely , not less full of that strangely 
intense and yearning sadness, which 
is so singularly characteristic of Rome, 
and of its indefeasible dower of beauty . 
Then , as now , the terrace on the brow 
of the Quirinal commanded the grand 
outlook over the modem city; though 
not as yet had the mighty dome , planned 

by the genius of Michael Angelo reared 

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itself in air to complete the landscape , 
Then, as now, there were to the right 
hand of the terrace the huge walls and 
shapeless masses of colossal masonry y 
which were once the baths of Constan- 
tino ; though no modem roof had beeii 
thrown over them to destroy the pic- 
turesque eflfect of them . And then , as 
now , to the left of the terrace , looking 
city-wards , there lay on the soil those 
wonderful fragments of Titanic archi- 
tecture , ( one mass of marble , a part 
of a grand gigantic frieze, weighing, 
upwards of an hundred tons ! ) which 
have rested there , since the barbarians 
destroyed Aurelian's Temple of the Sun; 
and seem as likely to remain there as 
Nature's mountains to remain firm on 
their foundations ! A few huge plants of 
cactus, and of the wild aloe, the pale grey 
green of whose spiky leaves assorted 
admirably with the weather-stained frag- 

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ments of marble^ nestled close to these^ 
evidently mistaking them for Nature's 
ewn ruins, cleaved by her own hand 
from her own rock towers 1 A few 
brilliantly coloured roses filled all the 
«till night air with fragrance. And the 
same compassionate moonlight , that 
silver'd those mighty fragments, when 
they sparkled white beneath the rays 
on the summit of Aurelian's temple, 
now gently bathed the hoary ruins 
with its pale beam, jand flooded the 
whole terrace with its radiance. 

And now, as we gaze at this fair 
scene presented on our light-circle, see, 
the magic lens evokos for us from the 
dark abysses of the past, the living 
actors, who on that May night, some 
three hundred and fifty years ago, were 
peopling the scene, and passing across 
the enchanted field of light in the great 
procession of the ages, like May-flies 

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dancing through their day of life in the 
summer sunbeam. 

But if to the nineteenth century mind, 
an ineffable melancholy be the main 
characteristic of the scene, it does not 
seem by any means so to impress 
itself on the senses of the group, we 
now see occupying it. And why should 
those revellers be sad? with a Leo the 
10th in Peter's chair, and golden 
streams of tribute pouring into the city 
from every country in Europe, why 
should any in Rome be sad? — why, 
above all, those whose position made 
them sharers in the good things which 
the Pontiff was so determined to enjoy? 
Those were halcyon days in Rome, 
Rome eating, drinking, painting, singing, 
making verses, making love, under her 
soft blue skies, could not yet hear the 
warning growls of the tempest that was 
rising on the other side of the Alps; the 

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tempest, that so soon was to break and 
scatter to the winds all ^^enjoyment" of 
the Papacy ! Little did one of the small 
festive party, the eldest among them, wot 
of that other yet nearer and more 
immediate storm, that within seven short 
years of that moon-light May night, was 
to burst over Rome, with the renegade 
Bourbon, the terrible Constable, in the 
character of the destroying angel, and 
to make liis cherished bijou of a home a 
heap of smoking ruins, destroy his choice 
gardens, and scatter to the winds his 
books, his manuscripts, his medals, and 
his antiquiiies! He is Angelo Colocci, now 
in his fifty-third year, being as has been 
said the oldest of the party. ^ He is the 
only layman of the company, though he 
did not long remain so, having a few years 
later received the bishoprick of Nocera 
from his patron Leo the 10th, as soon 
as he had qualified himself for accepting 

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it, by burying his second \fife. It was 
"only the other day thcat he received a 
present of four thousand crowns from the 
Pontiff, in recognition of a copy of 
verses in his pmse I Yet none of the 
poets and poetasters, the wits and wit^ 
lings of all sorts, who were in those 
palmy days attracted to^ the eourt of » 
Pontiff who- thus paid for flattery, evew 
asvultures congregate from every quarter 
of the sky to a carcass>-no cmeofthem 
envied Angelo Colocciy either his four 
thousand crowns^ or all th« many pretty 
pickings he got from the various offiee^ 
heaped upon him by his patron. For 
what he woji easily, he spent gener- 
ously; and was in his turn a patron of all 
the literary brotherhood, who were less- 
well provided than himself. Yet layman 
as he was, and dignified ecclesiastics as 
some of his companions at that moon- 
light revel were, Colocci was the grave 

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and reverend senior of the party, tolerat- 
ing, with the easy license of the time, 
but not sharing in, the somewhat more 
than lax morality of his companions. 

Between him and young Franoesoo 
Berni, sat the hero of the little festival, 
Pietro Bembo theVenetian,who9e fiftieth 
fcirthday the little knot of choice spirits 
bad taet to celebrate; — elegant, scholar^ 
ly Bembo, who, all churchman as be was, 
had been just writing to his friend Sado- 
leto, the Bishop tif Carpentras, conjuring 
him not to read those barbarous Epistles 
of St, Paul, for that he would infallibly 
«poil his latia style if he did] — sagaci- 
ous, political Bembo, not Cardinal as yet, 
(for which dignity be had to wait yet 
nineteen years longer;) but holding the 
high and responsible position of private 
secretary to his Holiness ; — pleasure- 
loving Bembo, whom neither his fifty 

years, nor the counsels of his graver 

_. ogle 


friends could avail to separate from a 
certain Morosina, the grave secretary's 
fondness for whom was no secret among 
his friends, — which meant well-nigh all 

Next to Bembo, on his left hand, 
sat,^ — if that term can be applied to one 
whose unceasing, restless movements, 
never left him quiet for a minute together, 
young Berni, whose burlesque and satiric 
muse had already at twenty-five, made 
him the delight and the terror of 
Rome; — Berni, of whom his friends 
might say that they could neither live 
with him nor without him, so charming 
was his ever ready wit; — so temble his 
pungent and biting tongue — so pleasant 
the easy licence of his high-kilted muse 
— so dangerous the malignant stab of his 
dagger-pen! He had come to Rome 
penniless from his native Tuscan Casen- 
tino valley, and was waiting for the rich 

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Florentine canonicate, which came in 
due time to secure to him an easy old 
age in his native Tuscany. Some men's 
lives are failures because they have 
fallen upon times, or spheres not suited 
to them. But Rome under Leo the 10th, 
was of all the world, and all the ages, the 
very spot and time for Berni. At any 
other time or place, he would have been 
a witty, amusing dog, but too loose 
an^ scurrilous a ne'er-do-well, to have 
reached a higher or more reputable 
social standing, than that of a tavern- 
haunter, and boon companion. But 
at the court of Christ's Vicegerent, where 
sock and buskin alike were worn beneath 
the cassock, and the most profligate wit 
naturally took "holy orders," Berni was 
the right man in the right place ! Already 
at five and twenty, he was universally iu 
request; no feast or revel was complete 
without him, and ecclesiastical honours 

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and secure wealth, awaited his old age. 
Next to Bemi, there sits a young maa 
— he is now in his thirty*-first year, — 
who has all the appearance of a worn out 
rake, well on in his journey towards the 
wretched ending,, to which his irregu- 
larities and excesses in a few more 
years conducted him. Itis,-as nobody 
then living in Rome need have been told^ 
Francesco Maria Molza, the poet ; and 
brother member of Berni at the Acade- 
mia of the Vinaiuoli, — ^the "Vintager s^ 
Club," as one of the many such associ- 
ations then flourishing in Rome called it- 
self.Molza unfortunately, had disqualified 
himself for making his fortune atRome, by 
committing the great mistake of marrying 
before he came thither. He had a wife 
and children in far off Modena; but what 
he could do toward qualifying himself 
for the society of the gay and tonsured 
bachelor world of the Pontiff's Capital, h^ 

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BERNABD0 N08TR0. 2r, 

did, by leaving his incumbrances iH his 
native Modena, to be cared for by his old 
father, wha disinherited his scapegrace 
poet-son for his reward. Molza however, 
though considered a black sheep at 
Modena, was, despite his profligacy, a pet 
among all the '^Eminent" and "Right 
Reverend" patrons of learning and liter- 
ature in the capital of the Christian world, 
which was at that time the most emin- 
ently Pagan city in Christendom, and 
was ever a welcome guest at such 
meetings, as that we are looking at, in the 
Colonna gardens on the Quirinal, on the 
night of the 20th of May, 1520. 

Dignified personages as some of the 
party are, — and the most dignified is 
still expected to join the symposium; — 
the supper before them consists of the 
simplest fare;-a ham from the Casentino 
woods, sent up as a present to Berni 
from his peasant friends at home, salad 

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of the freshest and crispest, with genuine 
Lucca oil, and Modena vinegar; — a 
choice and special cheese from the fat 
Lombardy pastures, which Bembo has 
received from Padua; and last, not least 
assuredly, more than one fair big-bellied 
Tuscan flask, — none of j'our slender and 
mengi^e Roman pretenders to the name 
of that jovial article ! — of real Monte- 
pulciano wine. And though Redi had 
not yet sung the praises of that monarch 
of the Tuscan vineyards, and the Roman 
topers boasted, as they still boast, of their 
Montcfiusconi andOrvieto, it had already 
been discovered by experience, — Experi- 
mentaUtei — that the ruby brilliant Mon- 
tepulciano is indeed, as the Tuscan phy- 
sician-poet assures^us "di ogni vino il Re!" 
One guest, as I have said, is yet 
expected, as is evident from the talk of the 
four who have met; — expected, but not 
waited for; as is evident from the empty 

_.ditized by Google 


and prone condition of one of the flasks. 

"Francesco mio," says Molza turning 
to Berni, "your Tuscan wrist has the 
trick of it ! Toss me the oil out of the 
neck of yonder flask; featly now, as 
none but you Tuscans can, so as to 
leave the flask neck clean, and waste not 
above half a dozen drops of the precious 

" Shall we not keep our second flask 
unbroached, till our tarrying friend join 
us?" rejoins Bembo. '^ Nay ! I meant 
but to have his glass in readiness for 
him. lie must surely be here soon ; " 
returns the thirsty poet. 

"Nostro Bernardo is late to-night ! Ho 
has doubtless been tired in looking to 
the last of the preparations for to-morrow's 
representation;" says friend Angelo Co- 
locci; "if it were any other occasion than 
our Bembo's birth-day, I should think he 
had forgotten us". 

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"It is astonishing how strangely the 
purple injures the memory 1 " quoth 
caustic Berni, who unheeding Bembo's 
suggestion had siezed Colocci's second 
flask by the long neck, and with that 
dexterous outward jerk of the wrist, 
which every true Tuscan is master of, 
and none save Tuscans have the knack 
of, had thrown out the half-inch depth 
of oil from the slender neck of the flask, 
with the least possible waste of wine. 

" Francesco loves to bite !" says Bembo 
quietly, "but purple, or no purple, I 
never knew our Bernardo forgetful of a 
friend; — or even of a needy relative 1" 
he adds with a caustic smile addressed 
to Berni, who in truth was a far-off 
cousin of the Bernardo, whose coming was 
so long delayed ; — Bernardo Dovizi, 
then, as since, better known as the 
Cardinal da Bibiena, except among such 
friends as are now assembled in the 

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Colonna gardens among whom, purple, 
or no purple, asBembo, himself, to become 
a "porporato" some nineteen years later, 
had said-he was still as always "Bernardo 
Nostro." He too, his kinsman Berni, 
whom, as Bembo had hinted, Bernardo 
Bovizi had with, true clannish feeling 
drawn after him to Rome, even as he 
himself had been drawnj-he too, grand 
personage as he now is, had been bom 
a poor lad in the obscure and secluded 
little Tuscan town of Bibiena, and had 
often gazed wistfully from its high piazza 
terrace wall over the sweet Casentino 
woods and streams, away to the spur of 
the Appenine, which shut in him and 
his native valley from the Valdarno, from 
Florence, and from fortune. But an 
elder brother of the Dovizi had succeded 
in crossing that wistfully gazed-at hill, 
beyond which,lay for the young Bernardo 
the realization of all sorts of golden 

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dreams, and had achieved the far greater 
success of hitching himself on in some 
capacity to the mighty house of Medici. 
Given such a chance and needful dlow- 
ance of brains, and what might not 
be asked and expected from Fortune ! 
The elder Dovizi, Scotchman-like and 
Tuscan-like, was not forgetful of the 
poor family left at home in poor little 
hungry Bibiena; but seizing fitting 
occasion by the forelock, with shy wist- 
ful reverence and cap in hand, confides 
to the "Magnificent" Lorenzo that he 
has a brother at home in the Casentino, 
who was dying of ambition to become, 
he also, a devoted servant of the good 
and gracious Medici!-a likely lad, who, 
the brother was sure would do credit to 
his recommendation. "So, so! To be sure! 
Why not! Let him come! There's our 
son, His Eminence, the Cardinal, who 
will be fourteen next birth-day; your" 

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^^brother is nineteen, you say. Well, let 
him come and serve our boy-cardinal." 
And so, with that careless word, all the 
life-course and future fortunes of our 
Bernardo were shaped out and settled. 
He came, and at once made himself 
acceptable to the pleasure-loving, but also 
study-loving young Cardinal. The 
two lads studied together, went to- 
gether to Rome, went together into 
exile, when the bad days came with 
the invasion of French Charles the 
eight; and together emerged into the 
sun of prosperity and Rome, when the 
second Julius sate in Peter's seat Of 
course '^our Bernardo" was long since in 
"Holy orders". What is the use of 
being attached to a Cardinal if you don't 
qualify yourself for any favours Fortune 
may have in store for you! The young 
satellite of the House of Medici found 
the means of making himself agreeable 

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and useful to Julius; and when Julius 
died, was of no small assistance in 
helping his patron to climb into the 
vacant chair. And no sooner had he 
done so, than he forthwith pulled his 
ladder up after him, making "Bernardo 
nostro" a Cardinal in his turn. And now 
in his fiftieth year, for he was born in 
the same year with Bembo — he is 
"enjoying" his cardinalate quite after 
the fashion in which his master is 
"enjoying'^ the papacy. 

A useful man too is our Bernardo in 
the more serious business of-life, as well 
as a pleasant boon companion 1 He has 
recently returned from France, whither 
he had been sent by Leo on an embassy to 
Francis the first; to whom also it seems, 
our Bernardo has found the means of 
making himself especially agreeable. So 
much so, that it is whispered by our 
Bernordo's nearest intimates, that he has 

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come back' from France with certain 
strange and unseemly ideas and ambitions 
in his head, put into it by that kindred 
spirit, Francis of Valois,-ideas of what 
might haj)pen, the French king aiding, 
if-if-if he, the Cardinal da Bibiena 
should survive his oM master and friend, 
and junior by some five .years, the 
reigning Pontiff! Dangerous matters 
to whisper even in the ears of dearest 
fri«nds,-dangerous to think of even in 
that Papal city ofopen ears and cautions 
tongues ! No harm yet however, thank 
Hieav^ii, as far as can be judged from 
Vatican serenities, and the jocund face 
and friendly ways of our jovial Pagan 
" Servus Servorum " I Yet there are 
certain capacities for savage passions 
observable enough in the small eyes of 
that heavy jowled face, which Raffael's 
brush has made as well known to our 
aineteenthi century world, as that of the 

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most familiar of our contempararies; — a 
certain evil glance, much similar to that 
which may be seen in the vicious eyes 
of swine, when excited to anger. And 
then " Nostro Bernardo" is perhaps 
scarcely as prudent as might be wished. 
At present however, on this 20th of 
May, 1520., there can be no menace of 
storm in the Papal atmosphere, for is 
not the already celebrated drama of 
" Bernardo Nostro," his " Calandra, " 
by many esteemed to be the earliest 
genuine comedy in the Italian language, 
to be represented tomorrow in gala 
fashion before His Holiness at the 
Vatican? Baldassare Peruzzi, our painter, 
architect, decorator, and artistic uphol- 
sterer in chief, has been for weeks past 
engaged in turning one of the halls of 
the Apostolic palace, into a charming 
theatre for the representation of our 
Bernardo's drama. And doubtless as 

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Colocci has suggested, his delay in join- 
ing his friends' little supper on the 
Qurinal has been caused by the necessity 
of superintending the last preparations, 
to assure himself, that all is in readi- 
ness for the grand gala to-morrow. 

Francesco Berni was endowed by na- 
ture and by practice with far too large 
a stock of unblushing impudence for 
him to be in the least abashed by Bembo's 
sarcasm. '^ Let us hope it may be so"! 
is all his answer, ^'for I have need of 
much more at his hands, than I have 
yet had from him! " 

"Amen ! And if I mistake not, there 
comes his Eminence up the hill through 
the gaTden* I saw the twinkle of 
his torch-bearers' light between the bay- 
trees. To think that because a man 
wears purple stockings, the moon should 
be no longer good enough for him!" 
cries Molza. 

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In another minute, "nostra Bernadc/* 
— His Eminence, the Cardinal da BibieriE 
tops the steep ascent, and stands among 
the little knot of his intimates. 

Bronzino's pencil, with characteristic* 
ally individualiz;ing touch has recorded 
for us the exaet presentment of him, as 
he stands recieving the greeting of his 
friends, and as the reader may still see 
him on the walls of the Corsini gallery 
in the Trastevere. There is the florid 
face> the sensual yet pleasant mouthy 
the bright black eye with a shrewdly 
wicked twinkle in it, full of intelligence, 
but telling nothing of the higher order 
of intellect; the full forehead large over 
the eye- brows, and betokening all that 
richness of the perceptive powers, which 
constitutes the artistic temperament, but 
shewing little above, of those develope- 
ments, that indicate the possession of 
the nobler mental qualities, which ally 

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themselves with the moral sentiments. 
A comely countenance upon the whole; — 
nay a handsome one, to eyes not wont 
to look for spiritual nobility, as a need- 
ful complement to their idea of beauty. 
He is now in his fiftieth year, and young 
looking for his age ; — the same as that 
of his friend Bembo, the secretary, 
whose birthday the little party are 

**And how has Messer Baldassare 
acquitted himself?" asked the last named 
member of the party, as soon as the 
usual salutations had passed, and the 
new comer had seated himself between 
Bembo and Melza, and had filled a tall 
glass from the flask of Montepulciano, 
declining the offer of any more solid 
viands; "is everything ready for the 
representation to-morrow, as your Emi- 
nence would have it? Viill the locus in 
fpio be worthy of the action?" 

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"More than worthy ! Our Baldassare, 
has surpassed himself. I think I may- 
say that our modern day has not yet 
seen a drama placed upon the stage with 
comparable magnificence. The repre- 
sentation will be worthy not only of the 
poor poet's work, but of the audience V^ 
replies our Bernardo, showing his white 
teeth, as he looked round with a self-grat- 
ulatory smile. 

^^His Holiness then has positively 
decided to be present?" asks Molza with 
a slight flavour of envy in his tone. 

^^ Altro ! why it was for that, that our 
Peruzzi has been labouring. " 

" I wonder whether his Holiness has 
any idea of the nature of the entertain- 
ment provided for him?" asks Colocci, the 
grave and reverend Senior of the party^ 

" Ta....ta....ta....*ta; what chant are 
you chanting me there my good Angejo ?'' 
returns his Eminence* 

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"DoesMesser Colocci suppose that 
anything so full of choice fun, as the 
Calandra, could have been in existence 
a week without our Holy Father having 
shaken his sides over it? " says Bemi. 

"Thanks Francesco mio I" returns the 
Cardinal dramatist. 

"Full of the choicest wit, yes, undoubt- 
edly. Still it cannot be denied that 
our friend's facetious vein has carried 
him into . . . well, into regions where 
one hardly expects to have a Pope 
for fellow laugher," rejoins Colocci with 
a smile and a shrug. 

"Old wives tales, my Angelo. Obso- 
lete! Out of date! These ideas of 
yours, pardon me for saying so, belong 
to the old barbarous days, before the 
rebirth of classical taste had modified and 
civilized the asperities and crudities of 
bfblical prejudice. Is it not so, myPietro?" 
says the dramatist, turning to Bembo. 

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"Nay; it is not my wont, or my place 
to be censorious, " says Colocci, with a 
tolerant shrug, and raising of the eye- 

In justice to Colocci however it may 
be whispered in the reader's ear, that 
this "Calandra," the proto-comedy of 
Italian literature could not be tolerated 
on the most licentious stage of the nine- 
teen century. It is a kind of comedy of 
errors, turning on the absolute similitude 
of a brother and sister, who, each sup- 
posing the other to have perished in the 
sacking of their native city by Turks, 
are led by a variety of circumstances to 
travesty themselves, each in the gar- 
ments of the other sex, and pass through 
sundry adventures, the nature of which 
may be dimly imagined, but which it is 
quite impossible to reproduce in these 
pages. The indecency however, — and 
tkis is a curious trait of almost all Italian 

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licentious writing, markedly distinguish- 
ing it from the tone of similar works 
in French; — ^is rather that of a savage 
than of a rake; is pUt forth with a sort 
of naive unconsciousness, that there is 
anything amiss in it; and appears to 
accept facts and situations the most 
abominable and revolting, with a calm 
conviction that such is the common course 
of things, and an utter oblivion that 
*^ ought'' OT ^^ought not''hB,& B,Jiy part to 
play in human affairs. 

"For my part,'* says Francesco Berni, 
who had about as much capacity for 
reverence in his composition as a tom-tit, 
"I don't see for the life of me, why a Pope 
should not laugh as well as another !" 

"Nor I, Francesco miol .... and 
the day may come perhaps when it will 
be well for the laughers that I do think 
so I It would never do, would it, that 
our holy Father should have a fanatic or 

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an ascetic for a successor I" says ^^Ber- 
nardo Nostro" with a meaning look at his 
young kinsman. 

"Pardon me,my friend/' puts in Bembo 
with a somewhat uneasy look upon his 
handsome features, " if I hint to you, 
that it is not well or wholesome, to talk 
of Pope's successors;" 

" Pooh, pooh ! Pietro ! cautious old 
long-head that you are I are we not 
among friends, and those of the closest? 
and let me tell you, friends all, since 
such we are all here, that there is 
an other Francesco, besides our Berni 
here, who thinks as we do on the 
matter, a Francesco, who is the noblest 
cavalier, the most delightful companion, 
and the greatest monarch in Christen- 
dom ! Ay ! even so, my friends ! one has 
not the chance of such companionship 
for nothing. And I can tell you, that 
when I took leave, not six months since, 

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of his most gracious Majesty, certain 
words were said. . . " 

"Hush ! hush ! Bernardo, I for one 
like not such talk! let us speak of 
something else, "urges Bembo again. 

"Weill Chi vivra vedra ! Those 
who live will see, what they shall see; 
but let us talk of something else, if 
you will. Who else besides his Holiness, 
think you, Signori miei, is to be present 
at the performance to-morrow? I will 
give you sm hundred guesses to guess it. 
Colocci will turn up the white of his 
eyes with more compunction than ever, 
and belike cross himself, if he has not 
forgotten th^ trick of it," says the jovial 

"Perhaps His Eminence of Florence 
"the Cardinal of Medici, (*) returns 
Colocci, with a sly smile. 

(♦) Who afterwards in 1523, became Pope 
Glement the seventh. 



^'Hang him; the sly, hypocritical fox ! 
one worth a thousand of him. What 
say you, Signori miei, to the noble, and 
gracious lady, Blizabetta di Gonzaga?" 

A little movement of surprise ran 
through the party ^^Brava la Gonzaga !'' 
Berni is the first to cry, 

"Your Eminence was right! I confess, 
I am surprised," says Colocci quietly. 

"Why should you be surprised Mes- 
ser Angelo? Who may not follow, when 
Chirst's Vicar leads the way? " put 
in Molza in atone of nrock seriousness. 

"Come, come! I like not to be censori- 
ous" says Bembo, "Elisabetta di Gonzaga 
is a most virtous lady." 

"Of course she is, and la Calandra, is 
a most virtous comedy. And Messer 
Bernardo is a most virtuous dramatist, 
and cardinal papabile'^ (*) sneers Fran- 

(♦) In the language of the Conclave, those cardi- 
nals who are considered at all likely candidates for 
the papacy are called "papabUi". 

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C6SC0 Berni, sinking his voice however, 
as he uttered the last words, so that 
only his neighbour, Molza, heard them. 

^'And now my friends, one glass more 
to thank you all for your courteous 
kindness, and to our n^xt pleasant 
meeting and then, we will get us home to 
our beds. The moon is beginning to wane 
suadent que cadeniia sidera mmnunfC* says 
Bembo, filling his own glass, and those 
of his friends. And the little sjrmpos- 
ium terminated; Colocci, whose house 
was near at hand, walking thither alone, 
while "Bernardo Nostro," and Bembo 
strolled off together in one direction 
to their respective residences, and the 
two juniors, the brother members of the 
Vintagers' club, Molza and Berni, moved 
off, arm in arm . . . probably not in the 
direction of their's. 

And with that, click goes the magic 
lantern, the lens is darkened the en- 

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chanted circle of light vanishes; the 
scene which has been evoked is once 
again swallowed up in the abysses of 
the past; the actors in it disappear into 
the vast darkness, and "leave not a 
wrack behind !" 

The Calendra was duly or unduly 
performed at the Vatican on the mor- 
row. Leo, the jolly Pagan, shook his 
fat sides at the coarse jokes. The 
blameless lady, Elizabetta Gonzaga hid 
her face, it may be supposed, behind 
her fan; and the noble Roman dames, it 
is to be hoped followed her example. 

But to complete the story of the 
florid, happy-looking dignitary who 
still lives on Brozino's canvass, in the 
Corsini palace, it should be told that 
"Nostro Bernardo" neither in the pleas- 
ant Colonna gardens, nor elsewhere kept 
any subsequent birthday. 

Despite the flattering insinuations 

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of that noble cavalier, and perfect 
scoundrel, Francis the first of France 
nay, as the biographers and historians 
of that day thought, because of those 
insinuations, "Bernardo Nostro/' in the 
midst of his high prosperity, and higher 
hopes, died on the ninth of the following 
November — poisoned, as was believed, 
^'in a couple of eggs." 

His jovial Beatitude, Leo the tenth, 
though by no means unwilling to 
stretch a point of papal duty in the way 
of doing a kindness to a fellow Tuscan, 
and especially to an adherent of his 
family, yet did not by any means like 
speculations, as to what was to happen 
in this bright sunshiny world, after he 
should have set off on the dark journey 
— he knew not whither. 

"But" says judicious, courtly Tirabo* 
schi, who does not like speaking evil of 
dignitaries "it seems to me that if ^eo 

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the tenth had caused him to be poisoned, 
he would not have permitted the body 
to be opened." 

And Tiraboschi may be right. 

• T» Adolphus Trollope. 



I ) dally tasks we set our hand, 
And oft the spirit, pent at home, 
Breaks out and longs for Switzerland, 
Longs oftener yet and pines for Rome. 

I pass d to-day o'er Walton Heath — 
The coming spring-time's earliest stir 

Quickened and moved, a happy breath, 
In moss, and gorse, and shinhig 11 r. 

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Fortunate firs ! who never think 
How flrs less curst by Fortune's frowu 

O'er Glion fringe the mountain's brink, 
Or dot the slopes to Vevey down. 

I cross'd St. George's Hill to-day- 
There in the leaf-strewn copse I found 

The tender foxglove-plants display 
Their first green muffle on the ground. 

They envy not, this tranquil brood, 
The cyclamens whose blossoms fill 

With fragrance all Frascati's wood 
Along the gracious Alban Hill I 

Man only, with eternal bent 
To come and go, to shift and range, 

At life and living not content, 
Chafes in his place, and pines for change. 

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Yet happy, - since his feverish blood 
Leaves him no rest, and change he will, - 

When restlessness is restless good, 
Still mending, lessening, human illi 

Unwearied, as from land to land 
The incessant wanderer takes his way, 

To liold the light and reach the hand 
To all who sink, to all who stray ! 

Matthew Arnold. 





||i?|^ H E spirit now abroad for 
I I universal education is apt to 
^llliiv cause us to forget how very 
recent is this spirit. Its growth and 
growing prevalence, are things mainly 
of the last thirty or forty years. Thirty 
years ago, parish schools for ihe work- 
ing classes in England were rare; many 
parishes of England had no such schools; 
in many, such a thing had never existed 
since the Norman conquest. Scotland, 
on the contrary had long had its parish 

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schools, and the effect of this was 
shown by the greater facility with which 
Scotchmen of the operative class^ made 
their way in the world. 

It is not be to supposed, that even 
then, the educational spirit sprang up at 
once. It had a long embryo period, 
indicating its partially recognized exist- 
ence in different countries by scattered, 
isolated, and for a long time, by 
comparatively abortive efforts. It was 
moving both in Europe and America as 
early as the middle of the last century, 
and betwixt that date, and the commence- 
ment of this century, the names and 
plans of Hacker, Pestalozzi, Fellenberg, 
Raikes,Beil and Lancaster had awakened 
a lively interest. From the opening 
of this century, popular education has 
gone on continually opening new phases ^ 
developing new institutions, and within 
the period of thirty but still more 

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markedly of twenty years, its progress 
has resembled that of mechanical science, 
the introduction of steam, telegraphy, 
and railroads : acquiring an ever-increas- 
ing velocity , and an ever-expanding 
field of operation. 

It is worth while to take a concise 
review of this grand march of popular 
instruction. The noble-spirited lady, 
who is now introducing the principle of 
working-schools into Rome, and from 
whose school-press the present volume 
issues, is an American, and it is a notable 
fact that the originator of popular 
education was also an American, at least, 
by residence. 

The first Sabbath School for tho 
children of the poor was established by 
Ludwig Hacker at Ephrata, in Lancaster 
t^ounty, Pennsylvania, between 1740 
and 1747. We are accustomed to regard 
Robert Raikes of Gloucester, England^ 

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and his coadjutor Dr. Stock, as the 
originator of Sunday Schools, but it 
will be seen by this , that Raikes , 
whose first Sunday School was opened 
in Gloucester in 1781, came after 
Ludwig Hacker, at least thirty-four years. 
The Sabbath Schools of Hacker had a 
successful existence of thirty years, and 
were only put an end to by the cursed 
extinguisher of good and propagator of 
evil,-War. In 1777, Hackers original 
School was broken up in the war of In- 
dependence by the battle of Brandy wine; 
the school-room, being turned into a 
hospital ; and owing to the same 
cause the other Sabbath Schools of the 
German Seventh-day Baptists, to whom 
Hacker belonged, were.dispersed. 

About four years after this deplorable 
end of so admirable an institution, but 
thirty-four 3' ears after its commencement, 
Robert Raikes opened his first Siindajr 

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School in Gloucester. In 1833, this 
"happy thought" of utilizing the only- 
leisure hours of the generality of the 
children of the working class, the majority 
of them being "working children" had 
expanded itself into 16,828 schools , 
containing 1,548,890 children. In 1802, 
the Sunday School union was founded; 
and this Union alone in 1867, supported 
652 schools. In the same year 1802, 
which witnessed the formation of the 
Sunday School Union, was established 
the first school on a new principle, 
constituting a new epoch in popular 
education; that of Pestalozzi and 
Fellenberg, at Hofwyl, in Switzerland. 
This school combined the ordinary 
branches of primary education, with the 
teaching of agriculture, and other arts. 
It also adopted the plan of mutual 
instruction, called the Monitorial System 
introduced by Dr. Bell in India, in 

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1795, and by Joseph Lancaster into 
England, in 1796. 

The Hofwyl school, however, was 
but the perfected outgrowth of ideas 
and practices introduced by Pestalozzi 
as early as 1775, whilst Hacker's 
Sabbath School was still existing in 
America, and six years before Robert 
Raikes had started his Sunday School 
at Gloucester. Pestalozzi had for 
twenty years laboured under many dis- 
couragements, but with undiscourageable 
philanthrophy, at his generous plans. 
In 1775, he converted his farm into a 
school, not only for reading and writing, 
but for working. It finally failed from 
want of public sympathy and support, 
but still undaunted, he organized in 1798 
an orphan school, where he made his first 
trial of mutual instruction, by employing 
the more advanced children to teach 
the others, and to assist in maintaining 

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order, under the name of Monitors. Dr. 
Bell at Madras and Joseph Lancaster 
in England, had preceded him in this 
particular practice; the one by three 
years, the other by two, but probably 
without any one of these philanthropists 
being cognizant of each other's move- 
ments. Discoveries generally reveal 
themselves in constellations . Pestalozzi's 
monitorial school, like Hacker's Sabbath 
School in America, fell a victim to the 
demon of war. Like the American 
parent school, it was turned into 
a hospital for the Austrian army. 
Finally, Pestalozzi united with Fellen- 
berg in the enterprise of Ilofwyl, 
which for a time possessed a world-wide 
reputation. The year 1795 gave perma- 
nent existence to the Monitorial system, 
by its introduction into the Orphan House 
at Madras by Dr. Bell, and its appli- 
cation in England in the following year, 

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1796, by Joseph Lancaster. He was a 
young Quaker, who began his school for 
the children of the poor, with a most in- 
considerable number of pupils. When 
only eighteen years of age however, he 
had ninety scholars, and in 1798, two 
years after his humble commencement, 
they had increased to one thousand. Yet, 
he could not boast of much zealous 
patronage of his scheme till about 1805, 
when his efforts had attracted the regard 
of his own Society, of the Dissenters in 
general, and above all of George the third; 
and was established under the name 
of the Royal Lancastrian Institution, by 
the British and Foreign School Society. 
The schools were open to all denomina- 
tions, and the religious teaching of the 

Much and warm controversy arose 
betwixt the respective adherents of 
Bell and Lancaster, as to the priority 

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of their claims to the .introduction of 
this monitorial system. 

It would now seem sufficiently cleat 
that Bell was the earlier introducer of 
the system, but only in India, and 
Lancaster the earlier in England, but 
only by the space of one year. These 
gentlemen however, were only in the 
field, the one three, the other two years 
before Pestalozzi's second, or monitorial 
experiment; he having most pro- 
bably been previously making proof of 
it in his earlier working school. The 
dates of introduction were so near to 
each other, that it was scarcely worth 
while, to contend for the priority of 
a plan, adopted in ignorance of each 
other's proceedings. The graad, the 
all important fact, which constituted 
them the perpetual benefactors of their 
race, was that they each and all in 
different countries, gave a new and 

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beneficent impulse to the noblest of 
works; that of the intellectual discipline 
and moral growth of the great toiling 
mass of humanity. 

In 1811, six years after the establish- 
ment of the British and Foreign School 
Society, the church of England, which 
naturally patronized their fellow be- 
liever. Dr. Bell, established his system 
as "The National Society for Educating 
the Poor." Both these institutions have 
done a great work. In 1815, another 
substantial step to the temple of popular 
knowledge, was laid by a poor shoe- 
maker, John Pounds of Portsmouth, who 
whilst at work in his little shop, collected 
about him small children, and taught 
them their letters. This was the origin 
of Infant Schools, which in 1818, were 
introduced into London, and gradually 
spreading everywhere, gave birth at a 
later period, to the Kinder-Garten of 

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Herr Froebel. By this time, the educa- 
tion of the people had become a subject 
of much importance, and was so strongly 
pressed on the attention of the British 
government that it commenced its annual 
grants for this object in 1834. Great 
was the need of this governmental 
stimulus; for the deficiency of parish 
schools for the labouring classes was 
most deplorable, and still more deplorable, 
the violent prejudice of the rural aris- 
tocracy against educating the people. In 
parishes in the suburban districts of 
London, no such schools existed in 1835. 
Shortly before that time in the parish of 
Esher, only sixteen miles from London, 
Admiral Baine, a great friend of educa- 
tion, who had lately settled there, found 
two hundred and fifty children growing 
up in utter ignorance. 
The only school for the poor which had 
. ever existed in the parish, was a dame's 

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v.i rn()auEs.sivE stepson* 

school, commenced by the Princess 
Charlotte in one of the lodges of Claremont 
Park, and discontinued after her death. 
There had been none in the next parish 
of Oxshott, except one opened by the 
Duchess of Kent, the mother of Queen 
Victoria, but at that time standing a 
dismal spectacle of desertion, with broken 
windows and tumbling-in doors, but 
with the words ^'Royal Kent School" 
boldly blazoned on its front. In the 
parish of Ockham, a few miles distant. 
Lord Lovelace assured us there had 
never been a school for the poor until he 
built one. Yet in Esher, the landed 
gentry vehemently opposed the opening 
of a school for general use , on the 
plea that it would ruin both boys and 
girls for service, and enable the girls 
to pry secretly into their mistresses' 

Admiral Baine, therefore, opened a 

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school at his own cost, and in utter 
opposition to his neighbours. 

So little was the English government 
aware of the need of the education of 
the poor, that the first parliamentary 
grant for that purpose in 1834 was 
merely £20,000. It has now advanced 
to £1,500,000 annually. From this 
period , the progress of popular instruc- 
tion in England has been increasingly 
rapid. The "Home and Colonial Schools 
Society" was established in 1836. The 
Ragged Schools sprung to light in 1844 ; 
and Shoeblack Brigades were instituted 
to give employment to some of the 
uninstructed lads of the London streets. 
The Industrial School Act was passed 
in 1857. 

The Training Ship at Greenwich was 
established for homeless boys in 1866 ; 
but a school for homeless boys, the son.s 
of sailors, was existing in Greenwich- 
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Hospital long before. Whoever made a 
visit to that school under the admirable 
management of Mr. Hughes, too soon 
removed by death, beheld a marvellous 
sight. It was nothing less than the 
developement of regular features and 
reconstruction of heads , in the persons 
of those little rescued outcasts, by the 
developement of mind, commencing in 
the lowest class with a set of Calibans 
bearing all the marks, and stamped 
with the expression of ages of in- 
herited depravity and wrong, and as 
you ascended from class to class 
progressively, modulated into bright, 
well-feattired, shapely lads, all activity 
and intelligence, a really magical trans- 

In 1867, Technical Institutions were 
recommended by a committee of the 
House of Commons, and soon after 
introduced in various towns. In 1868, 

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compulsory education was recommended 
bj'^ a Conference at Manchester , and in 
1870 Mr. Forster s bill made it the law 
of the land. 

It would exceed the limits of this 
sketch to trace the progress of national 
education on the continent of Europe 
and in America. Germany had intro- 
duced it at least thirty years before 
Englanji. Even Austrian ultra-con- 
servatism in Mettemich had declared, 
so far back, that the empire must 
educate the people, and bend the human 
twig as it would wish the tree oi 
opinion inclined, or democracy would 
do it for them , in an opposite direction. 
Switzerland of late years has rapidly 
and liberally legalized popular educa- 
tion, and amongst other admirable 
means of humanizing its population , 
has taught in iis schools kindness to 
animals . 

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Contemporaneously with direct educar 
tional processes, the various specula- 
tions for the improvement of the popular 
condition by Fourier, St. Simon, Owen, 
Birkbeck, and others for education and 
social amelioration were collaterally 
working to awaken the public mind to 
a new life, more or less sound, more or 
less visionary and erroneous. Robert 
Owen's socialistic plans were inaug- 
urated at New Lanark in Scotland, 
as early as 1801; and more fully at 
New Harmony in America in 1824 ; 
with a supplementary attempt at 
Tivoli in Hampshire, England, ten or 
more years later. St. Simon's system 
was tried in France in 1819, and the 
Mechanic's Institutes of Dr. Birkbeck 
in our English towns date from 1823. 
The great reformatory system for juve- 
nile delinquents was commenced in 
France in 1839, by M. de Metz in his 

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^Reformatory Schools, and in 1849, a 
similar establishment was founded at 
Redhill, near Reigate in England. In 
these admirable institutions , the boys 
were instructed in farm labour. These 
reformatories did not appear too soon , for 
it was calculated that in 1856 there were 
in London no fewer than 30,000, and 
in England, 100,000 youths under seven- 
teen years of age leading vagabond 
lives, and the'majority of them coming, 
at one time or other, under criminal 
discipline. In that year, 1856, the 
great National Reformatory Union 
came into existence, and through the 
operation of different acts of parlia- 
ment and of philanthropical exertions, 
had opened into active agency in 
1863, fifty one reformatory schools 
in England, and nine in Ireland. In 
1865 a great exhibition of the works 

of these schools took place in the 

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Agricultural Hall in Islington , opened 
by the Prince of Wales. 

In the mean time the stern suppression 
of education in Italy, under papal and 
sacerdotal rule , was awfully revealed by 
the Vatican census of 1 8 61 . This brought 
to light the astounding fact, that out of 
twenty-six millions of people , seventeen 
millions could neither read nor write. In 
the old papal states, from eighty to ninety 
percent of the population were in a 
condition of utter ignorance. In the 
Neapolitan States the case was still 
worse. In five years , the new Italian 
government had set oh foot eleven 
thousand one hundred and thirty-seven 
schools for children of both sexes, and 
there has been a steady increase of these 
schools since. As yet however com- 
pulsory and, therefore, universal educa- 
tion has not been enforced in Italy, 
whence the necessity of individual efforts 

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to bring within reach of reformatory 
discipline the neglected children of the 
ignorant and indifferent. 

By far the most conspicuous and effi- 
cient labourers in this cause have 
been Mrs. Gould in Rome, and Madame 
Schwabe in Naples. Of course, the 
different bodies of Italian Protestants 
have their schools for the children 
of their respective congregations, and 
there are other efforts, supported by 
English and American funds for a like 

In the sketch of the progress of 
educational measures in England for the 
people at large , I have not yet spoken of 
two or three facts which , perhaps more 
than any other bear upon my present 
theme,-that of working schools ; such as 
the 'Tioneer Working School" placed 
at the head of this paper. These facts 
demand notice all the more from having 

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been nearly, if not wholly passed over by 
the annalists of popular teaching. The 
brightest, and most estimableside of the 
character of Lady Byron was that of her 
zeal and generous efforts for the educa- 
tion of the children of the laboring classes 
in a thorough and practical preparation for 
the duties of life. She was a warm 
admirer of the Metray and Ilofwyl 
systems, and her efforts doubtless con- 
tributed greatly to the introduction of 
Reformatories into England. At her 
residence for many years at Ealing, near 
London, she had a school in which the 
boys were taught agriculture, horticulture 
and other arts, as those of carpentry and 
smithwork, the girls knitting, sewing, 
washing, an d cooking. At Kirby Mallory , 
on her Leicestershire estate, she erected 
a similar working school and induced 
her son-in-law. Lord Lovelace to build a 
third at Ockham in Surrey, as I have said, 

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the first school erected there at any- 
period. These schools were founded 
between 1830 and 1836. 

At Lord Lovelace's school at Ock- 
ham, Mr. Wright, the master, informed 
me that his brother had been the 
schoolmaster of Captain Brenton at 
Hackney Wick near London. Captain 
Brenton ! I had seen him described in a 
series of scathing articles in the Times 
of that period, as an infamous kidnapper, 
who beguiled friendless boys into his 
premises, under pretence of educating 
them, and sold them abroad ! To my 
great astonishment I now heard another 
side to the story; as it regarded the 
founder and the school itself, a most 
melancholy one. Mr. Wright assured 
me that Captain Brenton was a most 
excellent and humane man, who, seeing 
the misery of homeless boys in the streets 
of London, had. conceived the desire of 

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educating and caring for as many as he 
could, and had devoted his little fortune 
to this noble object. He had taken 
premises there, where boys were fed, 
lodged, and educated until they were 
fit for some employment , and then they 
had the option of learning a trade, or going 
out to the colonies. Going out to the 
colonies ! On this part of the alternative 
and an excellent one too for young, adven- 
turous lads, some ignorant or evil person 
had seized , and made such a distorted 
report to the Timesy as brought down on 
the scheme its most desolating thunder. 
Most probably the leading j ournal believed 
that it was doing a righteous piece of 
work, but it was with a neglect of 
inquiry most culpable. In vain did 
Captain Brenton endeavour to justify 
himself. He was more accustomed to 
the quarter-deck than to the pen. Every 
species of human advocacy has its mar- 

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tyrs, and poor Captain Brenton became 
the martyr of the juvenile outcasts of 
the streets of London. His school was 
destroyed by the ruthless cannonade of 
that journal; the old man sank broken- 
hearted, and there was an end of his 
benevolent hopes. On visiting the place, 
I found the worthy schoolmaster, pre- 
paring amid its ruins, to emigrate to 
America with the last half dozen of 
the boys, to teach them agriculture, 
on some small farm in a happier field 
of exertion. 

Another and more fortunate Working 
School was mentioned to me by Lady 
Byron, who begged that I would visit it 
and endeavour to make it more known. 
This was a working school fpr boys and 
girls, picked out of the gutters of 
London, and established in the heart of 
one of its most dense and neglected 
districts ,-Whitechapel. Through this 

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wilderness of crowded and little regarded 
human creatures ; through square miles 
of its thick, jostling, and yet disintegrated 
life, struggling but not upwards, eager 
for gain but never escaping into suffici- 
ency; dark, depraved, hopeless of 
everything, a physical life in death; a 
district which even to the present hour, 
strikes clergymen whose duties lie there, 
with despair , -walked one sympathize 
ing man long ago, and resolved to do 
something, as a first effort towards 
its social regeneration. This was Mr. 
Davis , a magistrate of Kent , a di- 
rector of a Life Insurance Company, 
whose business led him frequently into 
London. He at once devoted three 
thousand pounds to building and endow- 
ing a school for the homeless children 
of the vicinity. 

When I visited this school in 1838, 
the master and mistress of it appeared 

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about forty years of age. They were 
amongst the very first children, gathered 
from the streets into it. Supposing 
them then ten years of age, thirtj'- years 
must have elapsed, and this would 
bring the foundation of the school to 
about 1808, or into the very commence- 
ment of the century. This would make 
it about contemporaneous with the found- 
ation of the British and Foreign School 
Society, when all eyes were turned in 
that direction as on a novel wonder, 
and left the rest of the great desert of 
London unvisited by instructors of the 
poor, and especially of the little Arabs of 
the streets. Mr. Davis expended half of 
the three thousand pounds on the pur- 
chase of the ground and on the building 
of the school; the other half he invested, 
as a fund for its support. His plan, 
however, was that the school should, as 
far as possible , be self supporting , ahd 

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for this purpose , the girls were to sew 
and knit for its benefit, and the boys 
were to prinL It was not at all his inten- 
tion to turn all the boys of Whitechapel 
into printers, but merely into juvenile 
printers for the benefit of the school ; 
and he sought press-work of all and 
every kind; books, journals, pamphlets, 
placards, handbills, anything. At first 
there was some fear lest the printers 
should take a prejudice against the 
school, and oppose it as calculated to 
flood London with printers, but Mr. 
Davis explained that his real object was 
the support of tlie school, as well as the 
benefit of the boys by giving them 
dexterity of hand, and habits of business, 
so that at the end of their school 
term, at the age of fourteen, they 
might be apprenticed to any trade open 
for them. So far from the printers 
entertaining a jealousy of the school. 

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they wero soon foand seeking for 
apprentices there , because the boys 
were already become good compositors; 
and had passed the damaging period of 
maJcing ^ie. 

In a word, the school had been a great 
success, and the printing had been its 
grand spring of prosperity. It had 
always been full to repletion; nay, the 
master said, that if there were a 
dozen such schools in the neighbourhood, 
they would all be full. Printing flowed 
in from all sides, printing had made it; it 
had never needed a single penny of the 
fund established in its favour. The money 
had gone on accumulating and why Mr. 
Davis or others had not opened more 
such schools is a mystery. The children 
on leaving the schools at the age of 
fourteen, were not lost sight of, the boys 
were apprenticed to trades, the girls got 
into service in respectable families , and 

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ill this part of the scheme perhaps we 
have a clew to the limitation of the school. 
It would be much easier to receive a 
large number of children into a school 
than subseqcntly to plant them out 
satisfactorily in decent trades and 
families. The latter charge would 
cntiiil much enquiry, care and labour on 
the part of the conductors of the enter- 
prize. However, so successful was the 
management of the whole scheme, that 
the children , both boys and girls , almost 
universally turned out well. During 
the time that they continued in the 
school, a certain proportion of their gains 
were credited to them , but not paid till 
they quitted the school, and it was 
understood that should they leave it from 
any delinquency;, or without sufficient 
cause, it would be forfeited for the benefit 
of the school. The rule was absolutely 
necessary to protect the childrenfrom the 

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selfish designs of real or pretended 
relatives on their savings ; and it had a 
wonderful effect in keeping them steadily 
in the school. 

The master and mistress at the time 
of my first visit were highly intelligent 
and practical people well fitted for their 
posts. As I have said, they had been 
brought amongst the first children into 
the school: had been educated and 
formed in it. It was amazing that such an 
institution for reclaiming the juvenile 
outcasts of the East of London, so emi- 
nently adapted to its purpose, should 
have continued its operations for so 
many years, almost without notice, and 
wholly without imitators. But the founder 
seems to have been a quiet retiring 
unambitious man, who was contented 
with his work, and took no pains to 
give it notoriety. The account I gave 
of it in Howitt'a Journal^ excited a sort 

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of astonished curiosity about it for a 
time , but it again subsided. The East 
of London at that day was to the West 
of it, very much as the desert of Sahara, 
or any other far off region. 

A good many years after, I visited the 
school again. The same master and 
mistress were at its head. It was still 
fall of children , still pressed with appli- 
cations for the admission of fresh ones, 
but I could not learn, either that the 
school had been enlarged, or that others 
had been opened by the founder, or by 
any one else. The worthy founder 
himself was gone to his rest, and the 
school was under the care of two trus- 
tees ; the founder's son , and the rector of 
the parish. There was I was told, a 
talk of erecting fresh schools with the 
accumulated capital, but of the realiza- 
tion of these intentions I have no know- 

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At the funeral of the founder appeared 
a long train of respectable tradesmen, 
and of as respectable , matronly women. 
Who were they ? The former boys and 
girls , whom the benevolent hand of 
the deceased had gleaned from the 
wretchedness and ruin of the streets, 
and had moulded into so many well- 
informed , well-to-do, and happy heads 
of families. 

In the Whitechapel church there is a 
marble tablet erected and inscribed , in 
everlasting and grateful remembrance 
of the founder of the Whitechapel Work- 
ing School, by these substantial men and 
women , whom he had metamorphosed 
from creatures of rags and ignorance, 
into intelligent, virtuous, and happy 

May Whitechapel School be the 
harbinger of equally happy results in the 
school and school press, from whence 

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this volume issues in Rome ! May the 
boys print themselves into self-support- 
ing and prosperous citizens , and at some 
very far distant day, may they erect a 
tablet of equally grateful recognition of 
the beneficent services of Doctor, and 
Mrs. Gould! 

Williaiii Howiit, 



JP an alley of Seven Dials , 
*Mid the dirt , and the noise , and the crowd 
Went a poor, crippled child upon crutches, 
Alone , yet crying aloud. 

*'And why are you crying," I asked lier, 
"Alone mid the crowd of this place. . ?" 

In a moment was silenced her weeping ; 
She paused , and looked into my face, 

**A11 the scholars are gone up to Hampstead,— 
They set off this morning at seven ;— 

The vans were so lovely with ribbons ! 
And I know that Hampstead is heaven I 

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"Nay-— Hampstead is nothing but Londot* 
Just pushed out into the green ; — 

How can it be heaven, where God is , 
And never came sorrow nor sin!" 

Her pale face grew radiant in beauty 

As stedfastly thus she replied , 
*'I know it is heaven, for my mother 

Went to Ilampstead the day that she died . 

"She went with a neighbour; they wrapped her 

In blankets because she was ill , 
And so weak and so dazed with the noises ^ 

And pining for where it was still . 

" She came back at evening , towards sunset ;— 
And Hampstead was heaven , she said 

Where the blackbirds were singing like angels , 
And the blue sky was all overhead . 

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*'She died before midnight, and whispered 
. Just when she was passing away , 
*I bless tliee, my Lord, for tlie foretaste 
Thou liast given me of heaven to-day i' 

*'So I know that Ilampstead is licaven, 
And I'm pining like her, to be there , 

Where the w^omen are kind to the children, 
And the men do not get drunk and swear. 

"But my breath is so short , and I tumble , ' 
My legs are so weak, — when I run. 

Now I'm going to the end of the alley, 
Where it's quiet, to stand in the sun !" 

Mary Howitt, 


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|T all happened very long ago ; but 
there are some things that we 
cannot forget. I do not often 
tell the story now, but when I do, it 
is I do believe, in the very same words , 
certainly with the very same sensations, 
with which I told it first, nearly fifty 
years ago. Stir the fire into a blaze, 
and give me my warm shawl; for I 
always feel chilly when I think of-never 
mind ! Now to my story : 

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My husband and I were young, and 
poor. We had two little children to 
provide for* Ralph was a curate without 
interest, or immediate hope of promotion 
in the church. Putting these facts 
together , you may judge how glad and 
thankful we were, to receive a letter one 
morning, oflferingmy husband a curacy 
at a far higher salary than he was then 
receiving , and a house and garden rent 
free, in one of the most beautiful English 
counties. "Oh Ralph, dear!" I cried 
joyfully, as I read the letter over his 
shoulder. And then I gave him a 
great hug and a kiss. But Ralph did 
not appear quite so exultant as ' I 
could have wished. He held the 
letter in a doubtful, deliberating sort of 
way, and kept his eyes fixed on the 
crabbed writing, until I felt provoked 
with his indifference. "Don't you see, 
don't you feel, what a blessed change 

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it will be for us ? And think of a garden 
for the darling children , instead of a 
stuffy London street !" said I. 

Then my husband explained to me 
that his uncle, who was the Rector of 
Holme Abbots, and who offered him the 
position of curate there , had been 
estranged from his family for many 
years , and bore an evil reputation. He 
was the brother of Ralph's mother, and 
her senior by fifteen years; being indeed 
a man ovfer seventy. He was said lobe a 
godless , intemperate , and arrogant man : 
malignant in temper, and unbridled in 
conduct. Withal, what is called a ^'jolly 
fellow" and a ''boon companion" when it 
suited his humour to be so. In a word, 
a specimen of the country parson , whom 
the slowness and difficulty of commu- 
nication, and the rougher tone of manners, 
made more possible, -or at least more 
frequent in those days than he is now. 

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The Reverend Stephen Mott rector of 
Holme Abbots, had held no commu- 
nication with his sister or her children 
for years past And now, he wrote to 
Ralph , to say that his failing health 
compelled him to absent himself from 
England during the autumn and winter, 
and offering Ralph the curacy and the 
use of the Rectory house as long as its 
owner should remain abroad . My 
husband knitted his brows a little, 
"Why should he pitch on me?" he said. 
"I don't much like owing a favour to 
Uncle Stephen." 

But of course, in our circumstances, it 
was out of the question to refuse such an 
offer. Nor, for my part, did I see any 
reason to hesitate about accepting it. 
"If your uncle is not a good man ," said 
I , "all the more reason for you to go 
and do some useful work in his parish . 
And as for ourselves, his bad name* 

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cannot hang about the house like an 
infections disease ; nor poison the sweet 
country air for our babies ." 

It was a lovely evening in the latter 
part of September when we reached 
Holme Abbots. In that southern coun- 
try, the air was mild and balmy still . A 
full harvest moon was rising above the 
tree tops of a little wood behind the 
rectory-house. A clear amber glow 
lingered in the western sky, and the 
twilight air seemed full of fragrance 
from the old-fashioned flower-beds in 
the garden. Peace and beauty brooded 
over every thing. And when as I stood 
on the threshold of our new dwelling, 
the chimes from the ancient village 
churjch began to peal with their sweet 
mellow tones, the thankful serenity in 
my heart made my eyes brim over with 
happy tears. I could have stood there 
all night drinking in the sweet sounds 

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and sights and odours. But Ralph who 
was more prosaic, or more pratical, if 
you choose, made me go into the house , 
and warned me against the imprudence 
of standing bare-headed in the open air , 
whilst the dew was falling. 

The first week of our residence at 
Holme Abbots was busy and cheerful. 
The house was large, -far larger than 
was needful for the accommodation of 
our family, and well-stocked with antique, 
but comfortable furniture. Mr. Mott 
had left everything liberally open , except 
his wine-cellar. And as I found no 
inventry or memorandum of tffe contents 
of kitchen or store-closet, I was occupied 
for some days in making out careful lists 
ofchina,glass,plate,and linen. The things 
were abundant, solid, and handsome, 
(Mr. Mott was a man of considerable 
private means , having married a 
County heiress) but in a tarnished 

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and neglected state. This was accounted 
for to my mind, by the fact of the rector 
having lost his wife about a twelvemonth 
previous to our arrival , and there being- 
no lady to look after the details of the 

We had a nursery and a play-room 
for the children on the second floor ; 
both large, airy, rooms. On this floor, 
too were the servants sleeping chambers , 
and some disused store-closets. My 
husband and I slept on the first floor, and 
close at hand, was a comfortable little 
room fitted up with book shelves which 
Ralph made his study, and where I sat 
with him of an evening when the children 
were in bed. The dining-room and a 
couple of drawing-rooms were on the 
ground floor, opening from the flower- 
garden , and the front door gave access 
to a spacious stone-flagged hall. I must 
say a few words about the disposition 

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of our bed chamber. It was approached 
by a door from the stair-case landing ; 
and it had a second door leading into a 
small dressing-room . The dressing-room 
also opened on to the landing. Our 
bed was so placed, that a person lying 
in it , had his feet towards the windows , 
his head towards the wall , the stair-case 
door on his right hand, and the dressing- 
room door on his left. And thus it was 
possible to enter our chamber, pass 
through it , and go out by the dressing- 
room on to the stairs again. Now 
before I had slept two nights in the 
house , I became aware of a singular 
inconvenience caused as I conjectured 
( having no better theory on hand,) 
by. some unfortunate combination of 
draughts. The inconvenience was this- 
In the course of the night, the dress- 
ing-room door was sure to blow open ; 
and then the other door would clap to 

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in its turn with a disturbing noise. You 
will remember, if I have made my 
description clear , that these two doors 
were one on each side of it . It was 
therefore no trifling annoyance to have 
them opening and shutting just as one 
was enjoying one's first sleep. Let me 
be careful as I would, to shut them 
both securely , 1 was sure to hear them 
flapping and banging and startling me 
into uneasy wakefulness by midnight, 
and the strange thing was, that habit 
did not at all blunt the nervous tremor 
which these noises were sure to throw 
me into. Nay , I believe my sense oi 
terror and disquietude was stronger 
after a week or two , than it had been 
at the beginning of my stay in the 
Rectory house . I spoke frequently of 
the matter to Ralph, and suggested 
changing our bed-room ; — ^the house was 
large enough ! But he said the present 

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arrangement was the most convenient 
that could be made , and that was trae . 
So I made up my mind to endure the 
annoyance until I could find some way 
to remedy it. It would have been 
easy, you may say, to have locked the 
doors and I would willingly have done 
so , in order to secure my night's rest . 
But my husband had a peculiar objection 
to sleeping with locked doors. 

Well, the time went on pleasantly 
enough with that one exception. Ralph's 
work was easy. The parish, though 
large, was thinly populated, and the 
neighbouring families were friendly. 
I soon discovered that Mr. Mott bore 
a very bad character in the whole 
country side, ^ew people even asked 
after him. One or two said they 
supposed that he would never return to 
England ,- or at all events not to Holme 
Abbots, but when I enquired why 

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they supposed so, they invariably 
drew back, and evaded the subject. 
I remember calling once on a farmer's 
wife, a portly sensible dame who had 
lived in our parish all her life , and 
asking her some questions about Mr. 
Mott's family. She fixed her eyes 
on me with a singular look, and 
said '^ There were but the two, you 
know : the rector and his wife . We 
did'nt see much of them. They were not 
sociable neither the one nor the other." 
Then she asked (still looking at me in 
the same odd way,) "And how do 
you like the Rectory house, Mrs. Raby ? 
Do you find it,- quiet?" 

"Quiet!" I exclaimed. "Oh for that 
matter it is quiet as possible . Not 
a sound to be heard firom morning to 
night but the chirp of birds and the 
lowing of cattle. It is a delightful 
change from the noise of London." The 

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farmer's wife nodded gravely, and then 
she changed the subject and we talked 
of other things. It was about three 
days afterwards , on the night of the 
thirteenth of October, (I shall not easily 
forget that date), that I was awakened 
as usual by the clapping of the door near 
my head , — the door which gave access 
to the staircase . There were curtains 
at the head of the bed on either side, but 
they did not extend far down. They 
were only large enough to shut in a space 
about as wide as the pillows. Directly 
I awoke with the old tremor and dread 
on me, I became aware of a light in 
the room. In a minute the rays fell 
more strongly in my eyes and there 
emerged from behind the bedcurtains, 
a figure carrying a lighted candle in ^ 
common brass candlestick. There was 
nothing in the appearance of the figure 
to alarm one. And yet I was motionless. 

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almost stupified with terror. What I 
saw was an elderly woman dressed in 
black, and wearing a close muslin cap 
—of the old-fashioned kind called a 'mob- 
cap '-over her iron-gray hair. 

She had a pale plain face with an 
unpleasant expression about the mouth , 
and one of her legs must have been 
shorter than the other, for she limped 
in her walk . I have said that there 
was nothing terrible in her appearance, 
but I ought to have excepted the 
expression of her eyes. They were 
wide open eyes of a light grey colour, 
and had a look in them which I cannot 
describe , but which it freezes my blood 
even to remember. They were turned 
away from me and fixed on a distant 
part of the room : and as I lay and 
watched her move with her slow limping 
gait around the bed, past the foot of it 
and towards the dressing-room door, I 



said to my-self "if those awful eyes look 

at me 5 I shall die ! " Slowly, slowly, 

she moved along until she was 

within an inch of disappearing behind 

the curtain next to my husband's 

head, when all at once she paused, 

and without changing her attitude, 

turned her eyes deliberately upon me. 

No sooner had that intolerable gaze met 

mine, than in the excess of my agonizing 

terror I uttered a loud shriek. Instantly 

all was dark, the door clapped to loudly, 

and then followed dead silence. My 

husband started up awakened by my cry. 

He struck a light, and demanded to know 

what was the matter, "Ralph, Ralph," I 

panted, "something dreadful is going on, 

there are people in the house." 

When I was able to explain more 

coherently what I had seen, he 

shrugged his shoulders and tol3 me 

that I had been dreaming . But as 

-. ogle 


I persisted in saying that a strange 
woman holding a light in her hand 
had passed through the room , he arose , 
partially dressed himself, and deter- 
mined to search the house . He made , 
me accompany him in order, as he said, 
that I might be satisfied of my folly. 
I threw a warm dressing-gown around 
me, and went with him downstairs. We 
looked at the fastenings of all the doors. 
Everything was undisturbed . Then I 
stole softly up stairs, and listened at the 
door of the childrens' nursery. They were 
sleeping peacefully, thank God ! I could 
hear their regular placid breitthing. 

''Now are you convinced , Helen ," 
said Ralph " that your old woman was a 
nightmare ? It could have been nothing 
else in the world . Pray go to sleep , 
and let me sleep too . " 

I did let him sleep , and said no more . 
But for me , slumber was at an end for 

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that night . The n^xt day, even under 
the influence of the light with its 
cheerful sounds and sights , the painful 
impression of what I had seen was by 
no means weakened. I told my husband 
that it was impossible for me to sleep 
in that room again , I should risk having 
some serious nervous illness if I attempted 
to force myself to go to rest again with 
the dread of seeing that pale face and 
those awful eyes near my bed . Ralph 
yielded very unwillingly to my whim as 
he called it. But although he laughed 
at my fancies, he could not but per- 
ceive that my terror was very real 
and very serious. I and the nursery- 
maid worked hard all day to change 
tlie furniture from one room to the 
other. We made Ralph's study our 
bedchamber, and he took the room 
we had hitherto slept in, for his study. 

That night;, I enjoyed unbroken rest . 

_^ /Google 

THE HECTORY house. lOo 

I had been careful not to frighten the 
servants or the children by any account 
of my vision-if vision it were ,-and merely 
said that the draughts made my old 
bedchamber unpleasant to sleep in as 
the winter was coming on . 

The next time that I paid a visit to 
my friend, the farmer's wife, I asked 
her as carelessly as I could, if there had 
been any domestic , -housekeeper , or 
such like in Mr. Mott's family, who was 
pale, grayhaired, and had a limp in 
her gait. The woman changed colour, 
but answered quite eagerly "Oh no, no; 
there was nobody at all answering to 
that description in the Rectory house 
Mrs. Raby, you must not fancy that!" 

Now I had not told her that I fancied 
anything on the subject, and her 
answer convinced me that she kept some- 
thing which she knew, concealed. But 
I could learn no more at the time. Soon 

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afterwards Ralph and I gave our first 

dinner party at Holme Abbots . It was 

a very small party, and the chief guests 

at it were a Mr. and Mrs. Conyers, 

kind neighbourly people who had been 

friendly to us on our first arrival at the 

Rectory. Mr. and Mrs. Conyers were 

the first of our guests to reach the house. 

The others had to come from a greater 

distance , and owing to the state of the 

roads, we had to wait for them some time. 

During this interval , my husband , 

somewhat to my surprise , began to 

speak of my obstinate fancy about the 

old woman ; and of our having had to 

change our room in consequence of it . 

And then he said " Tell our friends , 

Helen about your dream." I replied 

that it was no dream , but proceeded 

to do as he asked . When I began to 

describe the appearance of the figure, I 

saw Mrs . Conyers start, and clasp^ her 

_^ . ^oogk 


hands together. And when I spoke of 
the figure moving round my bed with a 
slow, limping gait, she turned to her 
husband , and exclaimed in an awe- 
stricken whisper, ^^ Mrs. MottP* 

^^What!" cried I, catching at her 
words, ^'Was the rector's wife like that?'' 

But Mr. Conyers checked his wife by 
a look, and answered with a forced laugh, 
"Oh Pooh, Pooh, my dear, you must not 
put such ideas into Mrs. Raby's head ! 
Mrs. Mott was by no means strikingly 
pale, as far as I remember, and besides , 
Oh you must not think of suph non- 
sense , Mrs . Raby ! you must not really! 
But I did think of it. And the more I 
thought, the more was I convinced that 
the figure I had seen was nothing more 
nor less than the ghost of the late mis- 
tress of the Rectory House. I frankly 
told Ralph that I firmly believed this . 
But he combated the notion with might 

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and main. ^'Why should Mrs. Mott's 
unquiet spirit haunt the Rectory house ?" 
said he . "As to her having died in that 
very room as you say you are tolu,-let me 
remind you, my dear Helen, that you 
probably never slept in a house in all 
your life where some human being had 
not died 1 Yet it would be as reasonable 
to expect your London lodging to be 
full of departed spirits, as to insist on 
making but this figure in a dream to be 
Mrs. Mott's ghost. Besides I dont believe 
in ghosts ." Nevertheless I was not to 
be shaken. My remembrance of that 
terrible night of the thirteenth of Octo- 
ber , was too vivid to allow of its being 
argued away. I induced Mrs. Conyers 
to confess to me privately, that my de- 
scription of the figure I had seen , was 
the exact portrait of the late Mrs . Mott, 
even to her dress and attitude. And 
she further acknowledged to me under 

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the seal of secresy that ugly rumors had 
been afloat in the village as to the cause 
of Mrs. Mott's death : that her husband 
and she had quarrelled on the score of 
the very umbecoming and scandalous 
life which he notoriously led : and that 
after his wife's brief illness and death , 
he had found public sentiment so strong- 
ly against him , that he resolved to quit 
Holme Abbots altogether . That and 
not ill health , said Mrs . Conyers , was 
the real cause of his going abroad . 
Moreover , we needed not to feel our- 
selves deeply indebted to our uncle's 
generosity for allowing us to live in the 
Rectory House , inasmuch as he had 
tried to let it several times , but no 
person of the neighbourhood would live 
in it . It was commonly reported to be 
haunted . 

All this naturally deepened the pain- 
ful impression that the apparition had 

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made ou my mind . However , months 
passed on , and I saw nothing more to 
alarm or disquiet me . I was thankful 
to see that my children bloomed , and 
throve in the pure country air. The evil 
influence hanging around that house, 
whatever it might be did not touch 
their innocent souls . It was true that 
I never remained late in the room, that 
was now the study . And nothing 
would have induced me to enter it alone 
after nightfall . But Ralph and I used 
to sit there a good deal of an evening, 
especially when the winter had fully 
set in, and the days were short. 

One January night , when the year 
was but a few days old , my husband 
and I were sitting by ourselves in that 
ill-omened chamber . I was sewing, 
and he was reading. We had a lamp 
between us on the table, which shed 
a bright light , and a blazing fire made 

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the room warm and cheerful. All at 
once J I had an overpowering sensation 
of terror. And at the same time , I was 
conscious of a cold blast of air blowing 
oyer me, that chilled me to the marrow. 
My work fell from my hands on to my 
lap. I was scarcely able to breathe. I 
made a strong ejQFort to raise my eyes , 
and when I did so , I saw-how can I 
describe what I saw?-I saw a shadowy 
bulk , less substantial looking than u 
cloud , through which I could discern 
surrounding objects, as one can see a 
reflection through a breath on a mirror , 
and which showed the dim and vague 
outlines of a human form . There it 
stood, or hovered rather between me 
and my husband in the very spot where 
the bed had been formerly j and still the 
icy air seemed to grow more piercing 
with a deadly cold. I looked at 
Ralph. He held his book before him , 

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and his eyes were fixed on it, but I 
was aware with absolute certainty that 
he was not reading. His face was 
white, and the hands with which he 
held the book trembled violently . The 
silence and spell-bound motionlessness 
seemed to endure for hours . It may 
have lasted a minute . I longed to rush 
from the room . But I dared not call 
to my husband to <jome away , for I felt 
that if I spoke to him , the thing would 
hear me . At length he lifted his eyes ; 
they met mine ; he held out his hand ; 
I seized it , and we ran together headlong 
from the room and down the stairs . 

When we reached the hall, we 
stopped breathless and quivering , hold- 
ing each other's hands , gazing in each 
other's eyes. I would not speak. I 
was resolved that this time I would not 
be accused of yielding to a delusion . 
Finally Ralph released my hand, and 

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wiping his forehead on which the per- 
spiration stood thickly, said hoarsely 
'- Helen , what was that ? " 

"Ah! "I cried, "Then you saw it 

The post travelled slowly in those 
days; more slowly than you of this 
generation can well believe . But the 
next foreign mail that arrived in 
England brought to Holme Abbots the 
news of the death of its rector, the 
Reverend Stephen Mott - He had died 
in Naples on that very January evening , 
and at the very hour when we had seen 
that cloudy shape hovering between us. 

What it was , I know not . My own 
mind tends to the theory that it was the 
spirit of Stephen Mott returning in that 
supreme instant of dissolution between 
soul and body , to revisit the scenes of 
its earthly life, perhaps, -who can 
tell ? - of its earthly crimes . 

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My husband got the living of Holme" 
Abbots. But we removed from the old 
Rectory house to a pleasant cottage in 
the village; a much humbler, but much 
more cheerful abode. The Rectory House 
is now shut up . It is to be altered and 
repaired and if possible, sold. No nativei 
of Holme Abbots would live in it. No 
servants would stay there. And yet to 
the best of my knowledge, after the 
January night I have spoken of, the 
figure of the pale old woman , with her 
limping gait, and awful grey eyes , wa& 
never seen there more . 

Mrs. T. A. Trollope. 



' O M E Love ! the strn has risen long, 
And hedge and tree 
Are all aliye with tremnloos song ; 

Awake ! and come with me» 
The grass is pearled with gleaming dew, 

The larks are thrilling in the sky, 
And all the world's awaiting you— 
And I— my darling— I. 

Look Arom above, that those dear eyes 

May dawn on me. 
My love, my life, my light, arise 

That I the morning see. 



There's ne'er a cloud to mar the day, 
The air is soft, and jfresh, and sweet ; 

But all the world is dull and gray 
Till thy dear face I greet. 

Sweetest of all that live and move , 

Arise ! Arise ! 
The day is short, too short for love. 

The swift hour fleets and flies. 
The moments ne'er will come again 

That heedlessly you waste , 
And joy deferred is half a pain 

Then ! haste ! my darling, haste I 

W. W. Story. 



[A little hcturefor lively ladies."] 


jHr O R Novelty how oft, ma ch^re ! 
We sigh, with artificial care, 

What shadows we pursue ! 
Even in things that yield increase 
Of home-born pleasures, love and peace, 

We sigh for ^^ Something New!" 


Yet many novelties, I ween , 
Diversify this lower scene , 
gnjerging on the view t 



While ever, o*er each earthly things, 
A languor spreads its dusky wing, 

We sigh for ^^ Something New ! " 


Grieve not for this !— in upper skies 
Is stored what always satisfies , 

And stored, I trust, for you I 
This treasure, how unsearchable 
No Seraph's eloquence can tell , 

Shall be for ever— "JVc«<7.'* 

F. JSyre. 



iih^ U C H unearthing of the treasures 
n^m ^^ antique Art as we have seen 
^mi^^ accomplished since the change 
of government in Rome , may be classed 
among the memorable events on this 
city's historic page that have signalized 
the period since Papal absolutism was 
overthrown, and the whole of Italy 
united under a constitutional sceptre . 
Recent discovery has afforded new 
evidence of the amazing wealth in art- 
works ; the splendours an(J refinements 

- - 3Qie 



of the Imperial City ; bringing before us 
with more palpable distinctness the outer 
form, the draperies and jewels of that 
wondrous supremacy , whose task for 
promoting the world's civilization was 
so marked out by Providence , whose 
influences in preparing a way for the 
triumphs of the Cross were so admirably 
adapted to that purpose . 

One conclusion to which we are led 
by the extent and intrinsic value of 
these long buried treasures must (I 
think) prove adverse to the traditionary 
belief hitherto generally admitted as 
to the paucity, among the antique sculp- 
tures in Roman collections, of Classical 
works pertaining to Greek schools, or 
produced by the masters of ancient Art 
belonging to that gifted nationality. 
The tradition has been, I believe, greatly 
overstated — granting even that it may 
rest on a certain b^sis of truth — that 

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among, all ancient works of sculpture 
in Rome the Greek originals have 
suffered most from the hand of Time 
or the outrages inflicted by man; and 
that, among the thousand examples of 
statuary and relievo art here before us 
in so many rich Museums, scarcely 
more than some half dozen-a few in 
the Vatican, a few in the Capitoline 
halls-are really from the chisel of 
Hellenic artists , the great ones of the 
greatest schools . Historic testimony is 
rather on the opposite side ; and the 
proof from such sources is, in fact, that 
BO immense was the aggregate of artistic 
wealth brought with other spoils of 
victory to the Republican and Imperial 
metropolis, that it is inconceivable, 
an inadmissable assumption indeed, 
that the major part among those 
priceless trophies of conquest can hav§ 
perished . 

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Time, injury, vicissitude, barbarian 
outrage have, no doubt, done their dire 
work in destrojdng, mutilating, and over- 
whehning; but why should the more 
precious among Arts' fair produce have 
suffered most, the less valuable and 
beautiful been more generally exempted 
in the destroyer's path ? 

Let us glance at the details relevant 
to this subject on th6 pages of Latin 
Historians. The first Roman General 
who undertook to transport all obtain- 
able art-works from a vanquished city 
to the great Capital, was Marcellus, the 
conqueror of Syracuse (b. c. 211) — that 
splendid Sicilian city, the London of 
ancient Europe , which had at the time 
a population of about two millions. 
Claudius Marcellus, we are told by 
Plutarch, avowed his purpose and desire 
of enriching the public edifices of 
Home with aU such art as the temples 

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and palaces of Syracuse contamed in 
marvellous plenitude. 

Next was this example followed by 
M. Fulvius Nobilior,who, returning from 
a victorious campaign in ^tolia (b.o. 
189), brought to Rome 280 bronze and 
230 marble sculptures. The mighty 
Sulla, one of the most unscrupulous 
despoilers, brought to Rome, after his 
wars against Mithridates in Greece 
(b. c. 871), all the treasures, artistic 
and others, which he could remove from 
three among the most famous sanctu- 
aries in that land : the temple of Apollo 
at Delphi, that of ^sculapius near 
Epidaurus, and that of Jove at Elis. 
The two great rivals, Pompey and 
CsBsar, were both men of taste in art, and 
ready to indulge that taste at the 
expense of their vanquished en^mies- 
as all readers of Roman history are 

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The theatre and temple of Venus 
Victrix , founded by Pompey the Great 
in Rome, were among the most superb 
ancient structures ; and how much of 
statuary entered into the decorations 
of those edifices , we may infer from 
the specimens still extant — the colossal 
bronze statue of Hercules , now in the 
8ala Rotunda of the Vatican, the famous 
Belvidere torso (also a Hercules), and the 
two Satyrs, now in the open court of the 
Capitoline Museum. One of Pompey's 
conspicuous adherents in his long wars, 
iEmilius Scaurus, who was appointed 
b3'' him Governor of Jiidea, erected a 
temporary theatre in Rome, the interior 
of which was adorned with 3,000 bronze 
statues— all, we may conclude, by 
Greek masters. Arriving at the period 
of Empire, we find the augmentation of 
the spoils of the vanquished, especially 
in arfc-works, proportionate to the means 

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and desires of more luxurious civilization 
under munificent, however guilty, rulers* 

Nero, in his famous theatrical progress 
through Greece, ransacked the most 
splendid cities for obtaining and enjoy- 
ing in his own residence all such trea- 
sures as he coveted . From Delphi 
alone ( v. Pausauias c . 6 . ix ) he 
brought 5000 bronze statues for adorn- 
ing his "Domus aurea" erected on 
( indeed extending far beyond ) the 
Palatine Hill. 

The recent discoveries, to which I 
have alluded, have been for the most 
part obtained on that high ground , 
a wide plateau, where the Bsquiline 
and Viminal hills converge; spreading 
eastward as far as the city-walls, and 
filling the space between those forti- 
fications and the valleys and declivities 
occupied by populous streets. There 
is reason to believe that this plateau, 

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in modern time but scantily inhabited^ 
and for the greater part left to quiet 
gardens , orchards , solitary convents 
and half deserted villas, was once among 
the densely peopled regions; and we 
have the testimony of one chronicler to 
the effect that, in the time of the first 
Constantino, 200,000 was the number 
of citizens on the Esquiline Hill alone. 
Glancing back at more distant times 
than I have here immediately to consider, 
I may enumerate the earlier obtained 
treasure-trove on the same Hill. In 
the course of the xvm. century were 
found here the semi-colossal Apollo with 
a lyre, called the "Pythian Apollo," now 
in the Capitoline Museum ; the double 
bust of Epicurus and Metrodorus , dug 
up below the foundations for the facade, 
raised in 1749, on the southern side of 
S. Maria Maggiore ; also from the same 
vicinity, the bust of the orator Isocrates , 

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all which portrait sculptures are now 
in the "HaD of Philosophers" in the 
same museum. 

In 1862 were brought to light, in the 
course of works for the Railway Station 
on the Viminal, the ruins of an octagonal 
Nymphaeum together with those of a 
patrician Mansion, the chainbers of which 
Were profusely ornamented with fresco 
painting, mosaic pavements etc. In 
the once (no doubt) luxuriously adorned 
Nymphaeum was fotind a semi-colossal 
statue recognised as Faustina, the un- 
worthy wife of the estimable Antoninus 
Pius, represented with the attibutes of a 
Goddess; the cornucopia in one hand, a 
patera (for the offerings of worshippers) 
in the other ; her costume the long tunic 
andi^aSa or enveloping mantle, on which 
garments were seen vestiges of colour- 
ing, as likewise of gilding on the hair, 
when this statue was first brought 

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to light after having been interred 
for ages. 

The siege of this city on the eventful 
day when Rome was conquered for the 
constitutional, and emancipated from 
the Papal sovereignty, led to an almost 
immediate discovery , which never per- 
haps would have been made but for the 
bombardment of the walls on the 20th 
September, 1 870. The new Government 
ordered the demolishing of the Salarian 
gate , which had been slightly damaged 
during that siege. After the removal of 
the flanking towers , which pertained to 
the fortifications of Honorius, a cluster of 
tombs and monuments appeared , hidden 
by those structures , on this site ; the 
most valuable memorial thus discovered 
being that (a cenotaph) which was much 
commented on at the time , — the monu- 
ment raised to a youth, Quintus Sulpicius 
Maximus , a veritable prodigy of pre- 

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cocious intellect , who won the prize for 
Greek poetry declaimed at the "Agones 
Capitoline /' instituted by Domitian , a. 
D. 86^ and held every five years on the 
Capitol ; the Emperor himself rewarding 
the successful candidate with a crown 
of laurel, hound with fillets of gold 
tissue . 

The victor whose name is here pre- 
served from oblivion won that crown 
against fifty-two competitors , a. n. 98 ; 
he being then certainly not older than 
eleven years, for this epitaph informs us 
that he died in his twelfth year. He is 
represented in a relief-statuette( Carrara 
marble) , clad in the toga prsetexta worn 
by patrician youths ; and not only are a 
Latin epitaph and a Greek epigram in 
his honor here incised on the marble, 
but also the whole of his Greek poem 
so brilliantly rewarded - this being in- 
scribed on the pilasters beside the niche 

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in which the statuette-effigy stands. The 
obligatory theme of this young aspirant's 
verse was: ^'The arguments used by 
Jove when he reproved Phoebus for 
entrusting the chariot of the Sun to 
Phaeton I " 

In 1872 two interesting sculptures 
were found within the limits of the public 
cemetery near the extra-mural Basilica 
of San Lorenzo : a statuette of the 
"Mater Terra", the "Gaea" of the Greeks, 
seated within an sedicula, holding a 
sceptre and patera; her matron head 
being veiled and also crowned with ears 
of com. The aedicula, like a small temple, 
is perfectly preserved, and on the front 
is inscribed a dedication, in the name of 
Hortensius Cerdo , to the ^' Benign 
Goddess " (DecB Fice)^ whom he regards 
as his heavenly protectress, "Conserva- 
trici mese." This curious antique lay 
buried among the ruins of a building 

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probably belonging to one of those 
sodalities which deemed it their duty 
to give honorable interment to all who 
had been their own members . 

The other sculpture brought to light , 
about the same time and within the same 
teritory, is the graceful little " Amor as 
Hercules'*, with the lion's hide drawn 
like a hood over his head, his face lit up 
with smiles, the golden apples of the 
Hesperides in his hand; the forms of 
childhood most natural, and the character 
most pleasing. This statuette , and that 
of the "Mater Terra", are now in 
the Capitoline Museum. 

The pleasant Villa built fo? himself 
by Sixtus v . when Cardinal ( the 
architect , Domenico Fontana) , on the 
slope of the Esquiline below S. Maria 
Maggiore, has proved a mine of an- 
tiquities, there brought to light through 
recent works . Remains of arcades , 

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halls, porticos etc., lie beneath these 
grounds ; but the only sculpture hither- 
to dug up thereon , is a fine hermes of 
the bearded Bacchus . In the vicinity 
of the old church of S . Cesario , on the 
Appian Way , have been found relics 
confirming the tradition that a temple 
of Isis formerly stood on that site. 
Here was exhumed, among other 
marbles, the base of a candelabrum 
(such as were dedicated in temples), 
with well designed figures in bas-relief 
of Jove, Hercules, and Hope, that genial 
goddess to whom several fanes were 
dedicated in Rome, - the first on record 
founded by the consul Atilius Calatinus, 
B.C. 354, on a site between the Tarpeian 
Rock and the Tiber. The symbol of 
the " Spes " (deified Hope) in antique 
art (as here before us), is a flower 
held in her right hand . The other 
artistic fragment from the ground near 

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S. Cesario consists of about one half of 

a colossal female foot, with a sandal 

the thick sole of which is adorned with 

bas-reliefs, freely designed and of 

superior style , representing subjects 

often seen in funereal art:-Tritons and 

dolphins floating along the sea, and 

apparently guided by. a winged Eros 

who precedes them, gracefully flying, 

rather than floating, along the waves ; a 

group which we may interpret perhaps, 

as similar ones are believed to signify 

in sepulchral art, in sense emblematic of 

the soul's voyage to the Islands of the 

Blest. The statue to which this foot 

belonged must have been about eighteen 

feet high, representing probably Isis, 

Proserpina, or some other goddess potent 

among the shadowy realms of Hades. 

The discovery on the Forum of two 

large marble panels, with bas-reliefs on 

^ach side , has been hitherto the most 

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interesting result of the works long 
prosecuted at that most productive 
centre. These panels were found under 
the ruins of a mediseval tower. On 
what was apparently the inner side of 
each, as originally placed, are represent- 
ed the three animals (very natural and 
life-like) , a bull , a ram and a boar , — 
offered in the Suovetaurilia sacrifice at 
the lustral rites , when the census of the 
Roman people was taken every fifth year. 
On the other sides are relievi representing 
two historic subjects, with numerous 
figures, as to which sculptures sundry 
explanations have been advanced; but I 
believe the most admissible respecting 
both to be-that they illustrate events 
in the reign of Trajan: first, that Emperor 
causing all debts to the state , up to the 
current year of his reign, to be cancelled, 
and the tablets on which they were 
registered burnt before him in the 

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Foram ; second , a subvention from the 
state treasury for the children of indigent 
parents , not only in Rome , but in all 
Italian cities . A mother with a child 
in her arms , and a boy (this figure now, 
however, lost) led by her hand , appears 
in the act of giving thanks to Trajan , 
who is seated on a throne > for this 
provision of charity flowing in so boun- 
teous a stream . Both these interesting 
relievi are sadly mutilated, the heads 
almost all broken off. 

But the fecundity of antiques from 
those high grounds on the Esquiline and 
Viminal hills, where the streets and 
piazzas of a new city are now rapidly 
springing up, exceeds all hitherto 
obtained in the course of antiquarian 
research within Rome's walls. 

Besides objects pertaining to a higher 
class, there have been found in this 
region immense stores of miscellaneous 


antiques, terra-cotta heads, hands, feet, 
limbs and other parts of the/ human 
body, all in the same substance , and 
all destined , no doubt, as ex-votos to be 
hung up in temples in token of gratitude 
to deities for healing from disease in 
those respective parts . In the course 
of the last month of 1 874 were dug up, 
in the same region : 2493 bronze coins 
and medals, 54 specimens of manufactures 
in glass, 25 lamps of terra-cotta and 
bronze, 73 styli and hairpins of ivory 
and bone , some silver medals and gem 
cameos . From the station of the Vigiles 
(Fire-brigade) which was discovered , 
deep under the surrounding level of 
streets, some years ago, in Trastevere, 
has been supplied a unique example of 
a bronze torch , in shape like a long 
staff with a flame-like apex (this part 
hollow) , such as those ancient firemen 
used. From some spot on the Esquiline 

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came two other objects, hitherto unknown 
among Roman antiques : silver forks , 
each with two prongs , affording proof 
that the ancient citizens were acquainted 
with those implements , not used in 
England till about the year 1600 , but 
much earlier in familiar use among the 
Italians . An English poet of the 
Elizabethan age argues against certain 
staunch adherents to ancient practice , 
who objected to such novelties at the 
substantial banquets of our forefathers,- 
hi« verse wisely advocating 

"The laudable use of forks 
For the sparing of napkins." (1) 

The ground near the western side of 
the Praetorian camp has yielded a 

(1) The earliest hitherto known example of 
this article , a two-pronged fork in bronze , was 
found , 1874 , on the site of Nineveh, during the 
researches energetically carried on by Mr. George 
Smith. Forks were first heard of in Europe, as 
articles of luxury brought by a Greek Princess from 
Constantinople to Venice, about the end of the 
eleventh century. 



multitude of epigraphs ; a large and most 
richly wrought Corinthian cornice and 
frieze of white marble, with eagles 
clasping thunderbolts among its orna- 
mental relievi ; u graceful statuette of 
Venus , and a wild , but finelv expressive 
head of a Faun crowned with a circlet of 
pine-cones. Vestiges of red color are seen 
on this striking ideal of the semi-brutal 
semi-divine mythologic creatures, who 
haunted earth's lonely places, and some- 
times appeared to the eyes of astonished 
mortals. The origin of such belief is per- 
haps discoverable in the strange aspect 
of savage races little known save through 
exaggerating report in times when 
few travelled and when vast regions, 
Asiatic and African, yet lay unexplored. 
Pomponius Mela (De situ Orbis) men- 
tions "Saiyrs with nothing human besides 
their outward form/' among the nations 
of inner Africa . A Christian Father of 

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the Church states that a half brute 
creature, believed to be a satyr, was met 
by the hermit Saint Antony in the 
Egyptian desert ! 

Almost all artistic objects belonging 
to the higher class, exhumed thourgh 
recent works , have been found on the 
Esquiline , namely on that wide plateau 
to which I have alluded as so fertile a 
field for the reward of researches. 
Curious testimony was afforded to the 
abuse of marble antiques in mediaeval 
Rome, when, in the course of their labors 
on that summit, the workmen came to an 
old wall deep below the surface, entirely 
built up with fragments of statuary 
and architectural details (all in marble) , 
some hundreds of which, the wrecks of 
lost grandeur, had thus been utilized! 

A dim-lit Hall of the ancient Tabula- 
rium on the Capitoline Hill has been 

made the place of provisional deposit 

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for an immense number of statues, relievi, 
and other marble fragments , comprising 
many of great value and beauty. Among 
the finest of those lately rescued from 
oblivion, still in this provisional museum, 
may be signalized a Hercules of heroic 
size, the head noble and at once recog- 
nisable as of the Herculean type ; the 
action that of subduing the horses of the 
Thracian King, Diomedes, who fed 
those animals with human flesh . Few 
remnants of the marble steeds were 
found ; but the vigorous effort apparent 
in the muscular figure of the Demi-God, 
makes strikingly manifest the task on 
which he is engaged; and we may imagine 
the complete group to have been highly 
imposing. In pleasing contrast to this last, 
are (in the same collection) two life-size 
statues of children , one probably a por- 
trait, representing a chubby little boy 
with a do^ ; the other a more graceful 

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and naive figure , most natural in action , 
of an older boy in the act apparently of 
digging , though the mutilated arms no 
longer hold the implement used , nor 
serve to indicate precisely the employ- 
ment in which the little laborer is evi- 
dently exerting his utmost strength . 
Another child-statue, the youthful Eros, 
still fortunately possesses its well- 
executed and lovely head . 

Among the busts here deposited may 
be noticed one of Hadrian; two (well 
preserved and finely wrought) of ladies, 
probably Empresses, both distinguished 
by beauty and intellectual aspect; 
above all, a fine head of Scipio Africanus, 
recognisable from resemblance to that in 
the Capitoline museum , and , like the 
latter , with the cicatrix of a wound oh 
the high bald forehead . 

The broken marble pieces of a large 
fountain, here seen, display some highly 

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finished relievi, especially one spirited 
group of an amorous Silenus (or satyr), 
and a nymph . Three life-size statues 
of Athletes have been added to this 
collection from Velletri, where they 
were brought to light a few years 
ago. In these sculptures we perceive a 
certain dignity and refinement which, as 
is obvious, cannot pertain to the hireling 
performers on the public arena, but 
rather to patrician combatants whom 
we may suppose to be here represented 
disporting themselves in the palestra , 
on the premises , perhaps , of some Im- 
perial Thermae . Athletes who had been 
victorious in the games were honored 
by statues placed in , or near , temples ; 
but such images were conventional , 
— that is not portraits , unless in the 
case of competitors who had thrice 
vanquished in the gymnastic combat , to 
whom were erected veritable eikones , 

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life-size portrait statues in bronze, 
or marble . Pausanias describes such a 
statue (bronze) of a thrice victorious 
Athlete, seen by him in the sacred grove 
around a temple of jEsculapius near 

On the Chris tmas-^ve of 1874 the 
richest among all recent treasure-trove 

was obtained on the Esquiline Hill 

namely, various sculptures, more or less 
complete, exhumed near the spot where 
had previously been laid open a most 
splendid pavement of considerable 
extent*, formed in part of the finest 
colored marbles, but principally of veined 
oriental alabaster, the so called "rose 
alabaster," — comprising indeed almost all 
the known species of that'beautiful stone. 

The statue which has won highest 
tributes of praise, among all found on 
that site, and was first reported of as a 
Venus, is now generally recognised as a 

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Nymph. It is an exquisitely wrought 
figure in Parian marble, and seems to me 
probably intended for a Naiad , perhaps 
the portrait of a lovely girl in that 
xsharacter, presiding over her fountain, in 
v.'hich she has just been bathing. Both 
arms are wanting, but part of the left 
hand remains, the fingers placed on the 
knot into which her hair is gathered at 
the back of the head. The action may 
have been that of binding a fillet 
(which remains) around the braided 
hair; and the sandals on the feet, 
(though the figure is otherwise nude) 
confirm the supposition that the lovely 
Naiad has just risen out of the waters of 
her own consecrated stream, which may 
have gushed into its marble basin 
beneath the dome of some richly decora- 
ted Nymphaeum, like the so-called 
Grotto of Egeria. Beside her is laid a 
mass of gracefully treated drapery, on 

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a vase which has a figure, in low relief, 
like a serpent, and on an ornamental 
basis are flowers with leaves — ^in none of 
which accessories can any attribute of 
the Venus in art be recognised. The 
serpent may be the symbol of the Naiad 
or of her fountain; the flowers and 
foliage are not those of the trees , or 
plants , which were sacred to Aphro- 

The other sculptures found in this 
mine of genuine wealth are the 
following : Bacchus (heroic size), the 
lower limbs and left arm wanting , the 
right arm preserved , with hand resting 
on the ivy-wreathed brow; the form 
delicately but fully developed and most 
graceful ; the head inferior to the body , 
and betraying some defective drawing , 
notwithstanding which we perceive in 
the countenance the more refined and 
peotic ideal of this God . In the elastic 


imagination of the ancients Bacchus 
had diflferent aspects ; he was not only 
the God of wine and mirthfulness, but 
the teacher of agriculture, with its 
attendant benefits to Humanity ; a 
mighty conqueror in his mundane career, 
and pre-eminently beautiful among all 
the Olympic deities. In this incomplete 
statue he appears as the genial Dionysus 
of the higher my thologic ideal ; and we 
may believe him to be here reposing, 
serenely triumphant, after his conquests 
over the farthest Indies. 

Commodus , with the attributes of 
Hercules, the ' Demi-god under whose 
protection that Emperor placed hmself, 
and whom he affected to imitate , is a 
hingly effective half-statue resting^ upon 
an elaborately chiselled marble base, or 
bracket . Over the head is drawn the 
lion's hide, which, hanging down the 
shoulders, is gathered in a massive knot 

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over the muscular chest. Both the 
arms are introduced , one hand holding 
the Herculean club ; the other , the 
golden apples of the Hesperides . The 
countenance resembles other busts of 
Commodus , but is rather more pleasing, 
with such finely marked features , 
haughty in character, as seem to have 
distinguished him. Nothing could exceed 
the elaborate finish of this work, in 
the closely curling hair and beard 
carried to the extreme of minuteness ; 
and the smoothly polished surface is 
like that of a sculpture fresh from the 
studio. (1) 

The basis , found broken intp many 
pieces is overladen with symbolic orna- 

( 1 ) This half-length statue of Commodus 
confirms the report of the Greek historian, Herod- 
ianus, respecting that Emperor's ferocious manners : 
" he repudiated the paternal cognomen, and instead 
of calling himself Commodus , son of Marcus , 
desvied to be named Hercules, son of Jove; and, 
throwing aside the imperial mantle , muffl ed himself 

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ments , and in a fragmentary state we 
perceive , among its details , a glol^e 
with the signs of the zodiac, and a 
kneeling female form. Two Tritons, 
half-length figures , probably not other- 
wise finished, both with scales (indi- 
cating the marine nature of such beings) 
on the broadly deyeloped breast, are 
distinguished by a certain wild grandeur 
suitable to those mysterious creatures 
of the lonely deep — like, but severed 
from, Humanity. Vestiges of gilding 
are seen on the matted hair, heavy with 
sea-water, in these finely imagined 
embodiments of the ocean deities. 

Two draped female statues , life-size^, 
both wanting the arms, but otherwise 

in a lion's hide , and went about with a club in his 
hand ; wearing over this costume vestments of 
purple interwoven with gold , not without laughter 
from those who beheld feminine fineries thus united 
with emblems of heroic virtue" ( History of the 
Empire c. I.) 



entire , are probably meant for Muses 
(Erato and Melpomene, as I should con- 
jecture), which characters would accord 
with the sweet aud serious expression 
of the heads; but no attribute being left, 
it is diflficult to determine farther. A 
beautiful female bust, with hair gathered 
in a diadem-like knot, is perhaps meant 
for Aphrodite, and might well be the 
goddess of Beauty herself. Another 
female head (discovered January 16th, 
on the same Esquiline site) is of a still 
more interesting and lovely type, serious 
even to sadness, yet perfectly serene. 
This might be an Ariadne after her 
desertion by Theseus, or an Andromeda 
chained to the rock, yet relieved from the 
terror of her impending fate by the 
approach of hw deliverer, Perseus. 

More recently have been found in the 
ruins of a Patrician mansion, near the 
new streets, two statuettes, one of 

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bronze, a smaller one of silver,much muti- 
lated; representing Household Gods; also 
a statuette of larger scale and superior 
style intended for the fabulous Herma- 
phrodite . 

May we not infer that even this 
aggregate, precious and various as it is, of 
lately discovered art-treasures, is but the 
earnest of what future researches may 
obtain? The extent of such wealth as 
has been for ages buried under the soil 
of Rome , the promise held out by a 
region so favored, can hardly be over- 
estimated. Without forgetting all that 
has been accomplished by several muni- 
ficent Popes, we cannot but admit that a 
government so constituted as was the 
pontifical wanted the qualifications 
requisite for persistent and systematic 
forwarding of the interests of Art and 
Antiquity in the sphere over which its 
powers extended. 

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Many sites within this city,-the Fora 
of Trajan , Augustus and Nerva , the 
great area occupied by the buildings of 
Pompey ,- remain to this day almost 
unexplored ; and what may they not 
yield if worked to such a degree as have 
been , since 1870 , the Esquiline and 
Viminal HiUs? 

Charles L Hemans. 






toOW seated here to meditate 
On tliis or that in each one's state. 

While thoughts are ripe ; 
Or, saddened, I would fkin unbend 
In sweet communion with a Mend ; 

Come then my pipe I 

Who scoffs at charms he fl&ils to see 
May hope in vain to blacken thee^ 
Or favors win : 

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154 ODE. 

I love thee, little rounded thing, 
Thy paleness and thy colouring, 
Thy fire within ! 

Consoler of my solitude I 
When worrying threatening thoughts 

I thee invoke. [intrude, 

Inhaling thy philosophy 
The gloom, the doubts, the fear, I see 

Dissolve in smoke. 

Alfred Pearson. 



SOFT and lovely light 

Touches the sea, the coast, the isles ; 
The waves are crowned with limpid white. 
The clouds are massed in lucent piles, 
A radiance rare is everywhere, — 
And yet alight is wanting there. 
Mo, chef 

A mild and jfragrant breath 

Comes o'er the bay from odorous bowers, 
Leaving or ere it vanisheth 

The essence of delicious hours. 


Io6 MA CHEr 

A perfumed air Is everywhere , — 
And yet a breath is wanting there.. 
Ma chef 

A low and gentle sound 

Floats with the perfUme from afar ; 
Into its harmony profound 

Such tender melodies woven are I 
Voices most rare are everywhere, — 
And yet a sound is wanting there. 
Ma chef 

Aye Wanting is the light 

Is wont to shine in eyes I know ; 

And wanting is the sound of sighs 
On breath of balmy lips that flow. 

Life debonair is everywhere , — 

And yet a charm is wanting there. 
Ma chef 

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MA CHE ! 167 

Ah, if you will, proclaim 

Me ingrate for the good I find ; 
Admit I may, but not explain 

Such inconsiderate state of mind. 
A world how ftiir ! is everywhere ,— 
Tet wanting her, all' s wanting there » 
Ma che ! 

Howard M. Ticknor* 


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SCHOLAR, an already aged 
man , who had endured much 
sorrow and disappointment 
throughout his weary life, had pored 
hopelessly over his books during the silent 
hours of the long night. With the first 
yellow streaks of dawn , he listlessly 
arose from his studies, shivering in 
the dim ante-chamber, and stumbling, 
as if giddy from sleeplessness, against 
the stools and chairs laden with dusty 
folios and still more dusty manuscripts, 

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he flung over his shoulders his shabby 
old black velvet mantle , and went forth 
into the narrow and ancient streets of the 
city , yet silent , as a city of the dead . 
Listlessly did the little black figure , 
with bent head, wend its weary way 
over the rough pavement ; the gable ends 
of the irregularly built houses , with 
their clusters of quaint chimneys, seemed 
ready to meet above his head , and shut 
out the long orange gleam of light her- 
alding the dawn and which, with vacant 
blear eye, the scholar had already beheld 
from his dormer-window shining forth 
upon the horizon, far-oflf behind the 
jagged mountain range; beyond the vast 
stretch of plain, and beyond the thousand 
roofs of the sleeping city. On, and on 
Went the little figure, with bent head, 
and stooping rounded shoulders; past the 
closed portals of the houses; beneath their 
heavy carved balconies, and muUioned, 

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windows defended with iron frame- work; 
past iron-barred, nail-studded doors and 
curious^ dark and escutcheoned portals. 

Unobservant of all things , appeared 
the scholar, until his foot catching in a 
something upon the ground he stooped , 
looking to see, what this might be. 

It was nothing but a faded garland . 
He picked up the dry and unattractive 
thing. The once fresh, and fragrant 
blossoms had either scattered their 
petals entirely , or only a bleached and 
crumpled petal yet clung here and there 
. to the stems , amidst the brown and 
withered leaves. Bay and myrtle , roses 
and some sprays of an exotic creeper 
might yet be recognized . A rare and 
pathetic fragrance clung to these faded 
relics of a once tender loveliness . The 
scholar wondered in a listless way, whose 
hand had let fall this wreath , and upon 
whose young brow it had rested , making 

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it yet more bright with its evanescent 
loveliness; whether perchance, it had 
graced a marriage festival — or a funeral, 
or whether it had fallen from a painted 
banner, borne aloft in some holy church- 
festival. Any way, it now was faded 
and miserable, a fitting crown for a faded 
and melancholy brow like his own . 

The strange fragrance in its decay, 
someway pierced to : the long-buriad 
tenderness of his old heart, even as 
though it had been a keen arrow of 
love. Involuntarily, he placed the 
faded wreath upon hi« grizzled and thin 
locks. He heaved a deep sigh, standing 
thus bare-headed, except for the 
wreath, beneath the ever-brightening 
sky, whilst all the long pent-up aspirar 
tions of his life welled forth like living 
waters. His eyes were full of tears , and 
his lips full of strange words. A burning 
sensation was in his brain, and a mist 

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before his eyes. His footsteps became 
stately ; his cloak fell around him ia 
fuller folds , and a shining glory came 
over his countenance. 

As the rising sun kissed the towers 
and pinnacles of the cathedral , and the 
bells of all the churches began to ring 
for matins , the flocks of white doves 
which housed amidst the stone saints 
upon the roofs^ flew round in a bright 
cloud, with sun-illumined wings. 

Early worshippers hastened in through 
the great open doors of the cathedral , 
while the country-folk began to fill the 
wide square with motley groups, some 
bearing upon their heads baskets filled 
with ripe fruits, melons and figs, grapes 
and russet pomegranates; or driving 
laden asses, or oxen slowly drawing 
Along wagons filled with the leafy and 
rich produce of meadows and orchards. 
Then did the scholar, with the counte- 

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nance of one transfigured , approach the 
fountain, in the centre of the vast square, 
and like one in a dream lean himself 
against a column which rises opposite 
to it. Upon this lofty column, stands the 
figure of *' our Lady " wearing the crown 
of stars, whilst her heart is pierced with 
the sword, and her gentle feet rest 
upon the crescent moon. 

But the wreath upon the head of the 
scholar was more fresh and fragrant than 
any garland which had at any time made 
beautiful this place of garlands . 

As the people came and went, passing 
in and out of the Cathedral, or to 
the fountain, or to oJOTer chaplets at the 
feet of the Lady of Sorrows,the man who 
wore the wreath had ever a word to say 
to each one who approached — a word,, 
which was spoken to him, or to her 
apart. And each one, to whom the man 
had spoken his word, was seen to depart 

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with an unwonted fire in the eye, a glow 
upon the cheek or with an added grace 
and dignity to their bearing ; the aged 
had become more holy of look; the wo- 
men, maids and matrons, more full of a 
brave, sweet innocence ; the children 
of quaint wisdom and divine joy; and 
the young men of a stronger courage , 
yet withal mingled with a strange 
and subtle tenderness. 

Many a one glancing up towards the 
figure of the Holy Mother, to cross 
themselves , ere they departed , and 
catching sight, were it only for a moment, 
of the transfigured countenance of the 
man wearing that wonderful garland of 
flowers , which might have bloomed in 
Paradise itself, were struck with an 
awe which made the heart stop beating 
for a moment, as they thought- 1« not he 
an angel f For now the sunshine falling 
fully upon the wreath , with its manv 


gorgeous flowers^ it appeared to gleam 
around his brows with a glory as of an 
angelic aureole ! And ever as each one 
looked upon him , his lips opened , and 
to each one was spoken the mystic 
word apart, which unclosed the innermost 
locked up doors of the heart , and the 
God-guest within was revealed for the 
first time to each man, woman and child. 
And as the crowd ever increased in the 
market-square , and the jongleurs and 
the merry-andrews came, and the singers 
of ballads, and the gypsies, and the 
wild folk from the mountain-fastnesses , 
and the soldiers from the citadel , the 
retainers from the castle of the great 
Lord of that city , and the great mer- 
chants, not to speak of the many peasant 
folk, such a mighty concourse crowded 
into that great square as had never been 
seen within it since the ancient city 
had been built. And aU drawn thither 

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by the magic of the man's word j for 
the news of this mysterious word, spoken 
by the man who wore the wreath — or 
as some said, by the angel — spread 
in a whisper which grew ever louder and 
stronger through the city; and then the 
high-bom and gently nurtured ladies 
came from the fragrance of their fair 
gardens, or from their tapestry-hung 
chambers J from their cedar oratories, 
and their ivory embroidery frames, some 
leading fair children by the hand ; and 
each one was impelled by a strange 
yearning to look upon the illumined 
countenance of the strange man, and to 
hear spoken in their ear, the mystic 
word which wrought so wonderfully 
upon every heart. Many a maid and 
matron that day, became so filled with 
joy by the hearing of the word, that 
they departed with likewise transfig- 
ured countenances — and the joy was a 

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joy that endured with them forever; and 
in future days and years , the babes that 
were born of these gentle and joyful 
ladies, were of the transfigured race— 
and it became a saying in that land, that 
such babes were born with the wreath 
about the brew, or the aureole of 
the angel. — 

But not alone, did the ladies come to 
hear the word, but the kni^ts and the 
high - born lords and gentlemen came 
forth , by twos, and by threes to hear 
the word spoken to each one apart, as 
they could best receive it: some came 
upon great war-horses, steel clad as 
from battle > others velvet -clad with 
falcon on wrist, and falconer at the side, 
attended by long haired pages; — ^yea, 
and there came groups of merry pages, 
without their masters j^— and the pert 
rosy-cheeked waiting women of the 
high-born Udiesj and skilled Ji-ytigts of 

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divers kinds, and artisans and mecha- 
nics of the great city; workers in 
gold and in silver, in iron, and in steel ; 
and the weavers of fine stuflFs, of silks 
and of velvets, of linens and of woolens ; 
and the moulders of holy images and 
sacred vessels; the potters; and they 
from the deep woods upon the mountains, 
who formed the fair and resplendent 
cups and goblets of crystal . Here 
there too might be seen a priest , or a 
sandaled monk or a Biiaggy hermit from 
among the lonely hills. The men and the 
women of all races and of all degrees 
were drawn by one impulse towards the 
man who wore the garland. And to 
each and to all, in the same manner, 
did he speak , as one in a dream, his 
wonderful word , and each one returned 
to his home with the God-guest within 
the innermost of his heart revealed to 
himself; for the first time. 

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But as the sun rose high into the 
zenith, and then began to descend, and 
the great square was filled with a glare 
of a great brightness and heat, the 
man as if awearj-but still as one in a 
trance-opening his lips unconsciously, 
to utter to each and to all, his magic 
word withdrew into the dark shadow 
of an ancient arcade, sculptured with 
curious figures of saints and of angels^ 
of men and of beasts, and which with 
its low, dai:k archen, encircled the 
market-square — ^and there, in a deep 
shadow, growing ever more and more 
weary he seated himself upon an 
ancient block of marble. 

Here , quite unobserved by the 
great and surging sea of human life 
in the market-square — all of whoni were 
busied in their own occupations and their 
own thoughts — the man, who in the 
shadow had quite lost his transfigured 

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look, mechanically raised his hand to 
his head, and withdrew his lovely, 
although now fading wreath . Laying 
it with his trembling old hands upon the 
ground , it was again as he gazed upon 
it, the same dried -up, pitiful garland 
which he had picked up from the rough 
stone at dawn . 

Looking at it thus with wan eyes , he 
heaved a very bitter sigh , saying : " a 
wasted, a disappointed life ! Ah , where- 
fore was I bom ! So much to be accom- 
plished in this poor world , and I have 
no power to do aught — ^no, not even the 
meanest thing ! " And truly very weary 
and very faded , and very melancholy, 
did the old man now appear-even as the 
disappointed scholar of the dawn. His 
mantle was again of rusty black , and 
hi6 locks were thin and grizzled . A 
very ghost of a man , did he seem . 

Verily, ere the sun had sunk beneath 

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the great cathedral, leaving its many 
pinnacles , towers and statues , together 
with the slender column bearing aloft 
the image of the Mother of the Sorrowful, 
black, against a blood-red heaven , the 
man had become a ghost . There , 
leaning up in the dark corner , was the 
faded husk of the old scholar , out of 
which , as the many bells of the city 
musically rung forth the Ave Maria, 
the spirit had softly departed , leaving 
a snule of inefikble joy upon the pale , 
thin face . 

And they, who at night-fall discovered 
the human chrysalis, knew not that it 
was the mortal remains of the wonderful 
man, with the transfigured countenance, 
and the glorious wreath, who had spoken 
the mysterious words to the folk of the 
city. But as they bore the body by 
torch-light to the place where lay the 
unclaimed dead, they spoke among 

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themselves, all unconscious of whose 
body it was they bore, — of the great 
event of the day — of the wonderful 
stranger who might be an angel , and 
of his power over the minds of men. 

And as the magic of his word was still 
quick within all hearts, pity for the 
desolate dead was rife within them, and 
he received decent burial. 

He was laid in a quiet, and a green 
spot, near to the old Cathedral . The 
hundred stone saints gazed down upon 
the grave, and the cloiid of white doves 
would long hover over it, with wings 
gleaming in the sunlight, and as you 
stood beside it, the very earth , and the 
air would seem to tremble when the 
bells of the Cathedral rang sweetly 
forth at the hours of prayer and all 
day the scent of incense found its way 
to that spot. Also, rarely was it, that a 
fresh wreath of flowers did not grace that 

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nameless grave. The hearts of the dwell- 
ers in that city, stirred by the magic word 
felt the thrills of a tender imagination, 
and became very pitiful and gracious in 
all action whether small or great. 

And it may be , that the spirit of the 
man who had worn the wreath so 
greatly for the benefit of the city might 
be conscious of the grace of flowers thus 
love-laid upon his nameless grave. But, 
be that as it may, his spirit was rejoiced 
with a mighty and a wonderful astonish- 
ment , for then found himself wearing a 
more excellent wreath than any which 
could have been plucked and woven from 
any royal garden upon the whole earth. 

And his heart burned within his spirit- 
body, as it was gradually revealed to him 
that the wreath dropped before his feet 
upon the last day of his mortal life had 
fallen straight from the hand of a mighty, 
world-famed master of song, even as he 

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had aseended into a fuller Angel-band^ 
even as lie had ceased to dwell in recol- 
lection upon the memories of his own 
earthly fame^ and had ceased to lament^ 
as is the wont of most men, over his own 
uncompleted labours upon earth. 

Thus infinitely praising Almighty God 
for His wonderful ways towards men 
and angels, in a manner too ineffable 
for mortal ears to eomprehend, was the 
• spirit of the (Mice poor scholar with- 
drawn within the veil of yet diviner 
joys, whilst the fragrance of the Angelic 
Wreath of Divine Love remains still 
potent within the hearts of the people 
of that city, to quicken the yet unborn 
generations, and to send them forth to 
speak the magic word of inspiration to 
all the world. 

The Author of ^^ An Art Student 
in Munich ." 

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A storia della letteratura italiaua 
del secolo XV ci da una serie, che 
iiiliilil P^^ ^^^^^ stermiData , d'uoniini 
dotti, i quali sono conosciuti col nome di 
eruditi odi umanisti, e godetteio al loro 
tempo d' una fama grandissima. Ma chi 
legge le loro biografie , trova quasi sempre 
gli stessi aneddotti, le stesse passioni , le 
medesime qualita ed error! ; spesso anche 
i loro libri trattano gli stessi argomenti e 
portano i medesimi titoli . Cosi la fisono- 
mia di tutti sembra confondersi in una sola. 
La ragione di ci6 sta nel fatto, che la pi a 

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parte degli scrittori si sono occupati pifi 
della storia esterna e materiale, che della 
intrinseca, ideale e psicologica di quel 
periodo. Chi si ponesse a questo secondo 
lavoro, vedrebbe subito chegli eruditi sono 
raolto diversi gli uni dagli altri. Un gran 
numero di essi non fanno che ripetere mec- 
canicamente cose gik dette da altri, e non 
meritano quindi di essere ricordati dalla 
storia; ma ve ne sono altri non pochi i 
quali ebbero im ingegno assai originale/e 
sotto r apparenza d' imitatori degli antichi, 
furono invece veri e grandi novatori. La 
vita di questi ultimi anderebbe scritta, non 
per raccontare gli aneddotti, ma per misu- 
rare e pesare la originalita che essi ebbero. 
Alloranon solo si vedrebbe, ma si capirebbe 
in che modoT Italia di quel secolo, mentre 
copiava i Greci ed i Latini, scopriva T Ame- 
rica ; rinnovava la letteratura e 1' arte, la 
critica e la filosofia ; fondava la scienza 
militare e la scienza politica. 

E tra le altre cose, puo dirsi che in quel 
secolo sia nata ancora la moderna pedagogia, 

_. ogle 


ossia quella soienza che iusegna a educare 
ed istruire la gioventii, secondo norme e 
criterii scientifici. H primo inventore di 
questa scienza fu appunto un erudito, di- 
scepolo d'un altro erudito. Guarino Ve- 
ronese, professore a Ferrara dove insegna- 
va latino e grecp, scrisse molte opere, ebbe 
irna gran fama ; ma i suoi veri meriti furono 
due : quello d'essere onestissimo in una so- 
cieta corrotta , quello d' avere un dono 
singolare per Tinsegnamento. Si diss^ 
perci6 che erano usciti piu dotti della sua 
scuola, che Greci dal cavallo Troiano. Uno 
di questi dotti fu Vittorino Rambaldoni da 
Feltre (1378-1446) , il primo educatore 
modemo. Di nobile carattere, d'animo 
semplice e religiose, pieno della stessa 
passione per 1' insegnamento che aveva il 
suo maestro, punto curante d'onori o di 
guadagni, apri una scuola a Venezia che 
subito acquist6 molto credito. Allora Gio- 
van Francesco Gonzaga , Signore di Man- 
tova, lo invit6 con ricco stipendio e con 
ampio locale, a fondare col^ una scuola 

_. ogle 


modello. E Vittorino si mise aU'opera con 
Tardore di un apostolo. La scuola fu chia- 
mata Casa giocosa, perch^ insegnanti e 
discepoli vivevano una vita allegra e felice, 
in conseguenza d'un lavoro regolato da 
sani principii, e diretto ad uno scopo che 
si poteva dir santo. 

In questa scuola s'insegnava, come per 
tutto allora , il greco , e questo da eru- 
diti venuti di Grecia , quali il Gaza ed il 
Trapezunzio ; latino ; filosofia e matematiea. 
Si aggiungevaper6, cosa insolita allora, la 
musica, la danza, il disegno, la ginnastica, | 

r equitazione. La novita peraltro non stava 
gi^ nel numero, nelF brdine o nel nome 
delle materie insegnate ; stava nel metodo 
che presiedeva a tutto, e che veniva adot- 
tato in im secolo nel quale molti erano 
dotti insegnanti, ma nessuno aveva pensato | 

che vi potesse essere un metodo scientifico, j 

fondato sopra una giusta conoscenza della i 

natura umana. I criterii da cui Vittorino 
parti, e su cui fond6 la sua scuola, furono 
molto semplici. ' 

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BEL SECOLO xv. 181 

I'' L' istriizioiie deve essere im mezzo, 

r educjizione deve essere il fine. Bisogna, 

nello stesso tempo, coltivare P intelligenza 

e formare il carattere. — Questa 6 divenuta 

o^ori una massima di senso comune. Essa fii 

X^ronunziata per6 e fu mcssa in pratica, la 

prima volta, come base d'una nuova peda- 

gogia, da un Italiano, in un secolo assai 

corrotto , nel quale tutti pensavano alia 

scienza , nessmio sembrava che pensasse 

pill al carattere. 

2' La scuola deve educare e svolgere 

contemporaneamente tutte quante le fa- 

colta . L'insegnante per6 deve conoscere 

Individ ualmente ciascuno de' suoi alunni , 

per lasciare che inognuno predomini quella 

o quelle facoltJi cni la natura, sempre varia, 

ha voluto dare forza maggiore. 

3"^ Siccome nell'alunno non possiamo 

mai separare Tanimo dal corpo, cosi 

dobbiamo nello stesse tempo fortificare, 

ingentilire I'uno e I'altro . Dobbiamo an- 

cora cominciare dal concreto per andare 

all' astratto , dalle sensazioni per andare 



alle idee. Quando possiamo accompagnare 
rinsegnamento orale, con la presentazione 
di oggeti visibili , piti ralunno e giovane, 
pid ne caverk vantp-ggio . 

4<» Scopo della scuola deve essere il 
fonnare Tuomo , perche imparl a vivere 
nel mondo quale esso b . Per questa ra^- 
gione, non occorre dividere le classi sociali ; 
ma giova invece riunirle nella scuola . I 
poveri che vogliono studiar lettere, ee n^ 
hanno V attitudine , staranno insieme coi 
ricchi. E per mettere in pratica questa 
massima, Vittorino, che aveva nella scuola 
i figli del Marchese Gonzaga, e Federico 
di Montefeltro, che fu poi il celebre Duca 
d'Urbino , accoglieva in essa anche i po- 
veri, e li manteneva a sue spese nel con- 
vitto, col proprio stipendio. 

Chi oggi legge quelle massime, sarebbe 
quasi indotto a credere, che Vittorino da 
Feltre non ebbe alcun merito, tanto esse 
sono entrate nella convinzione di tutti, 
tanto sono per se stesse divenute evidenti* 
Ma ci6 e appunto queUo che, dimostraa- 

DEL SECOLO xv- 183 

done la veritk, prova il merito grande di 
colui che le annanziava, quando non si 
pensava neppure che vi potesse essere una 
scienza pedagogica. I risultati che egli ot- 
tenne furono grandi, se si considera che 
visse in un secolo in cui Y Italia andava 
incontro alia sua rovina politica, in cm le 
liberta cadevano, i costumi rapid^^mente si 
corrompevano, e le nuove invasioui stra- 
niere erano per ricominciare . In mezzo a 
quellagenerale decadenza, piu volte last oria 
si fennaa notare in alcuni uomini, le quality, 
morali che essi dovevano all' insegnamento 
ricevuto nella Casa giocoaa. Federico duca 
d'Urbino, per citare un solo esempio , era 
un principe, jfrartutti gli altri, amato dal sue 
popolo ; aveva una dottrina varia, vasta ; un 
singolare amore a tutto quanto lo scibile, 
amava tutte 1© arti belle, e lavor6 sempre a 
fare del suo stato un piccolo Eden. Ma 
quelle che & piu, jegli, che era anche un ca- 
pitano di ventura assai celebrato, yeniya da 
tutti dichiarato il solo che non ayesse mai 
volute yiolare la fede e la parola data. 

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Ed in ci6 specialmente si riconosceva 
r effetto dellaeducazione ricevuta sotto il 
buon Vittorino. 

Del resto se le massime di Vlttorino 
da Feltre sono oggi troppo note e molto 
ripetute tra noi, si pu6 anche dire che sono 
assai poco seguite nella pratica. Noi ab- 
bianio fatto un gran progresso, non v'e 
diibbio, nei metodi secondo cui ciaseuna 
materia devc essere insegnata. Ma nella 
scuola qiieste materie non sono coordinate 
fra loro in modo che, come debbono essere 
tiitte assimilate da una sola intelligenza, si 
presentino ad essa, quasi direi, come una 
materia sola. Procedono invece separate, 
ciaseuna per la sua via , ingombrando 
la mente ; e cosi non possiamo cavare pro- 
fitto neppure dal progresso che abbiamo 
fatto. La formazione del carattere nella 
scuola e troppo spesso abbandonata a se 
stessa. La ginnastica per fortificare il cor- 
po, e ammessa piu come un utile passa- 
tempo, che come una parte essenziale della 

educaziohe nazionale, La grammatica, la 

_^ Googk 

DEL SECOLO xv. l^r, 

teoria, Tastrazione, in genere, prevalgono 
troppo, non solamente nella scuola elemen- 
tare, ma auche neirasilo infantile. E vi 
prevalgono a segno, che molte volte si po- 
trebbe dubitare se gli anni spesi in alcuni 
asili saranno a vantaggio o a danno della 
futui'a istruzione. 

Di uguaglianza parliamo anche troppo ; 
ma nelle scuolele elassi sociali sono invece 
troppo divise. II clero riceve la sua isti'u- 
zione nei seminarii, la gioventu laica va 
airuniversita , e sono educati ed istruiti 
come per due society diverse. Fin dalle 
elassi elementari abbiamo paura di avvici- 
nare i giovanetti alle giovanette; per la 
donna c' 6 in Italia poco piu della scuola 
elementare. L'avvocato, il medico deb- 
bono studiare greco e latino ; Tarchitetto, 
r ingegnere non sono obbligati neppure al 
latino. Le buone massime, i critterii pe- 
dagogici vi sono, ma suUa carta. 

Per queste ragloni si pu6 credere che 
non sia del tutto inutile, ricordare qualche 
volta il nome di colui che , non solo fi^ 

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primo a trovare le norme ed i principii 
della buona pedagogia ; ma invece di esporli 
in un trattato, li mostr6 applicati in una 

P. Villari. 



, I T H fog and mud and drizzling rain tlie town 
Was murk : the very gas-lights blurr*d with 
Thick heavy air : the sky hung like a pall [damp 
Above the houses dimly seen in rows 
Of shadowy height : A carriage stood before 
The portal of a stately mansion there, 
As ready for its mistresses : to take 
Them forth to some bright scene of dance 
Or festive music, ball or opera ; 
Where lights and luxury were things of course. 
As much a portion of the scene as were 
The mud and darkness of the streets that night. 

Upon the pavement, like a half-seen ghost. 
There loiter'd near, the figure of a girl, 
A woman ; something feminine of form, 

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But most unfeminine withal ; a creature 

With lost abandon'd look, a look 

Of bold defiance, yet a scared and dread 

Expression, as of a hunted-down wild beast. 

She stood with savage glance, half furtive, half 

Disdainful, reckless, impudent ; a glance 

Not good in any human face, still less ^ 

A woman's ; there she stood-and shrank and shiver*d, 

Thin wrapped in her old thread-bare shawl and gown, 

With gaunt wan cheeks, and restless sunken eyes. 

All youth and freshness seemed gone oat of her. 

Although but twenty autumns she had seen . 

And yet a touch of child-like fancy lurk'd 

In what she did, — to stand there gazing at 

The grand luxurious carriage, and to wait 

Until its mistresses came forth, that she 

Might see their dresses-that was all-their dresses ! 

To stand there, shivering in the wet and cold, 

That she might catch a glimpse of finery 

And rich attire I so potent is the taste 

For elegance and grace in girlish mind. 

It rather sees a handsome dress adorn 

Another, than see no good dress at all. 

And yet this girl half mocked herself for so 

pemaining there :— "Why should I stay? What Jfor? 

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**I know what I shall see ; some haughty minx 

"Step out, and trip across the pavement damp 

"In satin shoe ; like h sleek cat, that can't 

"Abide to wet its squeamish velvet paw. 

"Proud cat ! what right has she to be so fair 

"And fortunate, and I so foul and poor? 

"Forsooth, because she's born a lady, I 

"A nobody ; one doomed to be a drab, 

"An outcast, reftise of the pavement edge, 

"The gutter; filth that's only fit for drains 

"And sewers, made to drift away the orts 

* 'From cities . Ay, what better am I than 

"The dirt and offal swept along yon kennel? 

"While she," — by this, the mansion door was flung 

Wide open, and a burst of light appear'd 

Within the spacious hall, that showed where down 

The stairs came stepping with a stately pace 

A lady elderly and portly ; cloaked 

In furs and ample folds of costly silk. 

Two powder'd footmen waited her descent ; 

Two more attended to the carriage-door. 

And gave their aid, while she placed foot upon 

The step and made the light-hung carriage swerve 

And swing with her important weight, as in 

She. stepp ^d . Then down the stairs came gliding soft 


A grace ftil figure ; lithe and easy, quick 
In movement, yet composed, and fUll of that 
Possess 'd demeanour that belo\igs to those 
Brought up from childhood never to commit 
A single act of awkwardness or aught 
Ungain. The figure had a face that match'd 
In beauty and attraction : bright, and young, 
And very ftank ; beaming with kindliness ; 
Sweet violet eyes, and mouth like rose-bud fresh. 
A little hood of blue and swandown clos*d 
Around the winning face, and seemed to pet 
And fold it in with loving warmth, as if 
*Twere glad to nestle near and minister 
To so much loveliness : and on she came , 
This young bright lady beauty, and stepp'd out 
Into the night, where stood the outcast girl. 
From moment that she first caught sight of that 
Sweet lady face, the girl had flx'd a rapt 
And fascinated gaze upon its beauty : 
She seemed unable to withdraw her eyes, 
And made involuntary movement forward 
To look the more intently at the face 
That so enthralled her.— **Now, young woman," said 
The footman, "where are you a-coming to?, 
Standback, and don't block up the way j stand back !" 

_. Ogle 


**Take care, Nathaniel"; said the lady voice 
In gentle tone ; "take care, or you will throw 
The poor girl down ; don't push her off so roughly. 
"How pale and seared she looks I she totters, is 
"She ill?" —"No no, my lady; no, not she : 
"She's drunk I think.-" PoorthingI Poor girl!"-and 
A look compassionate, the lady young [with 

Moved slowly on and stepped into her coach. 

It rolled away ; and with it passed the fair 
Bright vision that had bless'd the eyes of her 
Who gazed, and left her haunted. Like as one 
That, after many dreary weeks of fast 
From seeing the green fields, has spent a day 
Amid their glories, still beholds a host 
Of leaves and boughs beneath his lids when'eer 
He shuts his eyes, so this girl's sight was fraught 
With images of the jQresh beauty she 
Had seen ; it seemed to fill her senses to 
Th'exclusion of aught else ; to take the place 
Of darkness, wet and mud ; to let her see 
No other than its radiant self, and flood 
Her eyes, her thoughts, with brightness, purity 
And beatific grace. She drew a deep 
Long sigh ; and turned to go, as if she walked 
In sleep, possess'd by some entrancing dream. — 

_.gitized by Google 


*'She look'd at me, — she pitied me, — she would 
**Notlet the fellow drive me off! Good heart! 
**It looks from out her face ! That bright young face !" 
Thus coursed her still-recurring thought as back 
She took her way through crowded thoroughfares 
And justling passers by. 

Night after night 
Tlie girl returned to linger in the square, 
Where she had seen the face that spell-bound her. 
It drew her there : it kept before her eyes 
All day, and flll'd her with the need to go 
At night and see its veritable self 
Again, and yet again. It came to be 
The object of her idolizing fancy, 
The one bright star-like point in all her grim 
And dingy life's horizon : something that 
Supplied the famine of her heart for goodness. 
For purity, for kindliness, and beauty, — 
All things that are instinctively a want 
To even natures most depraved by vice 
And vicious teaching; yeam'dfor, perhaps, un'wares ; 
But still they're yeam'd for, bent to, ay, and held 
In secret worship. So by her. She learn'd 
The name of her young lady cynosure. 
The rank, the whereabout, the dail^^ wont ; 

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She followed all her doings, knew her hours 
For driving out, for riding in the park, 
For visiting, for being at home ; and when 
She went to court— and what the dress she wore ; 
Spell'd out the newspaper that gave the account 
Of Lady Blanche de Lyle's costume at last 
Court-ball or drawing-room : and when the time 
Arrived for all the London world to flock 
Away from town, she read of how the Earl 
And Countess Chute, with Lady Blanche de Lyle 
Their daughter, had departed for their seat 
In Oxfordshire ; and then a blank seemed 
Fall'n on the City, which no longer held 
The bright young lady star of her adoring ; 
But still she search'd the columns of each old 
Stray paper that e'er chanced into her hands 
For news of where and what her charmer was 
And did ; would hang enchanted o'er the lines 
That told of how the Lady Blanche rode to 
The meet ; of how her ladyship was seen 
To follow with great spirit through the run ; 
And how her party came up with the hounds, 
And she was chosen County Beauty to 
Receive the fox's brush ; or how, at some 
Great archery affair, the prize was won 

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By Lady Blanche de Lyle ; or how the Earl 
And Countess Chute and family were soon 
Expected back to town : then leaped the heart 
Of her who read ; and felt she then as if 
A light, were shed around, and all things seemed 
The brighter. 

Spring was come : and e'en into 
The town came some reflection of the hues 
That flushed the vernal meads and skies away 
From smoke and grime ; soft slants of sunshine 
The tops of houses, fell upon the sides [touched 
And angles of the tall white mansions, or 
Upon the long brick ranges of the streets. 
And glorified them with effects of light -, 
Above the roofs, a line of tender blue 
Took place of that grey streak that mostly marks 
The ridge where house-tops meet the firmament 
In London ; waf ced scents of balmy air 
Come playing through the through-fares at dawn. 
And carry sense of open downs afar 
Where grass and thyme are swept by breezy gusts 
Of morning wind, that crisply dry the drops 
Left by some passing shower of the night ; 
The baskets of the primrose-sellers bring 
Sweet thoughts of turfy banks rich-cover'd with 



The dainty yellow blossoms pale ; the cry 

Of "Violets, sweet violets 1 Come buy 

My violets 1" recalls the shady lane 

Where neath the hedge lurk coyly the blue gems 

Of modest loveliness, like true and gentle eyes 

That lie in wait to bless the look which seeks 

To win them earnestly : the parks have lost 

Their brownest driest tint, and something like 

Green sward carpets their centre space ; their drives 

Are neat and smooth, and sprinkled duly by 

The dust-bedewing water-cart, that sends 

Its gush of wide-shed silvery jets adown 

In plenteous stream, and mimics well the fall 

Of mighty cataracts, cascades, that pour 

Their sheeted weight o'er rock, and fell, and gteep. 

The grand old elms of Hyde put forth their leaves ; 

St. James' and the Green Park wear a look 

Of urban-rural verdure ; while the trees 

Of gardens Kemjington rise massively 

Against the western sky , their emerald tuffcs 

Of tender shoots and budding leaflet-sheaths 

Soft woven into one broad velvet surface 

Bespreading all those swelling curves that look 

At distance like the domes of sylvan fanes , 

Green cupolas . Tall beeches with their large 

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Expansive branches, fS&n-llke stretchlDg out; 
The grace of drooping birches , silver-stemm'd , 
The stately growth of regal oak ; the boughs 
Of Spanish chestnut , horrent with Iheir spiked 
And taper leaves , the vividest of foliage ; 
The straight horse-chestnut, almost clamsy-shaped, 
So round and heavy is its outline , with 
Those formal rows of blossoms white and red 
Up-rising one by one, a pyramid 
Of girandoles ; and yet formality 
That has its handsomeness among the more 
Irregular design of neighbour growths. 
The spring had brought out early token of 
The summer promise by and by ; and town 
Was smUing with the sunny sheen of May 
When May is May indeed in dear old England. 

The girl had sauntered to the rails that skirt 
The level line of Rotten Row ; to watch 
For that gay cavalcade of riders , men 
And women , mounted on the finest beasts , 
Equipped in trimmest trim ; among them there 
She looked for one, the fairest in her eyes ; 
The slenderest of waist, the winsomest 
Of form ; the one whose habit fell in folds 
Of sweep most graceful, with the hat that had 



The feather most bewitching in its droop 

Against the rich dark hair and rosy cheek 

And throat of purest white. And hu:k; yes, hark I 

Now ! clatter-tramp, clatter-tramp, clatter-tramp ! 

On, on they come, pelting along, a throng 

Of gallopers, a crowd on horse-back, at 

Full speed ! a sound of rippling laughter light, 

A merry buz, ran pattering among 

The thump and clatter of the horses' hoofe, 

As on they raced. When suddenly a stop, 

A reining-up, a check confused of all 

The riders, as a wretched urchin boy 

Quick darted, close beneath the very feet 

Of the advancing throng, to cross the road. 

An oath of angry sympathy escaped 

The lips of sundry gentlemen ; a cry 

Of horror from the lady horsewomen : 

Bent down with pitying looks and eager voice 
The young sweet face, to ask how fared the lad ; 
If he were hurt,— if badly,— if twere much. 
They took him up and lifted him away ; 
And bore him to St. George's hospital 
Close by ; the girl still watching how her own 
Bright lady star, (as now she always called her 
Went sorrowing after him to hear 

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What said the surgeons to the case, and If 

They thought the boy would die, or whether they 

Deemed hopeflilly ; and rode away with sad 

Soft moumftil eyes, when the was toold there was 

But little chance for him. "Poor ragged Bill !" 

The girl low mutter'd to herself (she knew 

The boy, — a crossing-sweeper orphan lad, — 

A reckless daring chap, in fifty scrapes 

A day, — ) "Poor ragged Bill ! I wish it had 

Been me had been run over — ' stead of you 1 

I*d give my life to have her look like that 

For me ! her eyes were wet, ay really wet ; 

She has a feeling heart, a true friend heart. 

My own bright lady Star ! *'— And after that, 

She noted not a day pass*d by without 

The Lady Blanche's going to enquire 

How fared the boy : and when she heard he would 

Recover, went to see him, took him help. 

And sat beside his bed with kindly words ; 

And when he left the hospital, she put 

Him to a school, where he might learn to gain 

His bread, and be a steady honest lad. 

And now the girl's fond worship knew no bounds ; 

It interblent itself with all she thought 

And did ; she breathed it with her very breath ; 

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It was her vital air of moral good, 
The one sole element of purity- 
She lived in. . From it came to her a sense 
Of better things ; of beauty in good deeds, 
Of trust, of truth, of virtue, in their own 
Divines t essence ; abnegation and 
Disinterestedness ; benevolence, 
And pleasure in the gentle exercise 
Of charity and kindliness ; the joy 
And solace of indulging generous thoughts 
Of others ; and the comfort in mere trying 
To rise above the slough of selfishness ; 
Th'ineflTable delight of impulse to 
Be good for goodness* sake : all these became 
Unconsciously apparent to the soul 
Of her who consciously beheld the bright 
Young beauty of her lady star, and saw 
Its fair effulgence ,— visible reflection 
Of spiritual light within. The girl. 
With softened nature, fell into the way 
Of thinking over things that ne'er before 
Had struck her, while she leaned against 
The back of some park-bench , and watch'd the sun 
Sink slowly down behind the distant trees 
Of bosky Kensington. "How glad I am. . . 

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I've seen her, known her !** Thns her musings ran : 

**I*m better for my love of her; it makes 

Me feel the better, do the better,— try. 

At least. I can't be pure like her, of course ; 

I can't be good like her ; but I can give 

Up things I like to do, as she does ; I 

Can do things that I do not like to do. 

As she does. How she'd give up, day by day. 

Her rides and drives to go and see poor Bill I 

And how she'd sit and listen to his talk, 

Poor chap, and make him tell her how he felt, 

And what he did, and how he lived, and where I 

She couldn't much ha' liked all that o' course ; 

But she did it, ay, day after day. 

She did it, 'cause she know'd it did him good ; 

She did it,'cause she know'd 'twas right and kind. 

And how she used to look when out she come 

From sitting with him ! how her bright young face 

Was just as if the sun was on it, like ! 

Her eyes all sparkle, and her cheeks flush'd up 

As if she'd heard some joyful news, or had 

Some present given her, — my beauty bright ! 

How God must love her I how He must be pleased 

With her I— God help me ! I've heard tell of God : 

I wonder what he thinks of such as me. 

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I didn't make myself the thing I am ; 
Perhaps he knows all that, and wont be hard 
With me because of it. Perhaps he sent 
Me her, to make me better ; who can tell? 
Perhaps he sent me her to love and think 
About, that I might be more happy, and 
Have something, I can call my own that's good. 
Who knows? At any rate, I've got her, and 
I'm glad and thankful that she's mine, mine, mine : 
I've made her mine myself, by loving her 
And watching her, and calling her my own. 
And feeling somehow that God gave me her." 
And time went on : and still the outcast girl 
' Kept loving watch and worship, secretly. 
At lowly distance ; most content, nay, glad 
To know and be unknown, and make of that 
Pure lady bright, her own life's guiding star. 

One day, — a burning day, when the hot sun 
Came flaming out, and shone with tropic force, — 
A day when London pavements struck a glare 
Like Afric sands against the eyes, and walls 
Reflected oven heat, scorching the hands. 
Unwary laid upon them, casting o'er 
The shoulders an oppressive copper cloak, 
As walkers dared to skirt along their length ;— 

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A day when shade became necessity, 

And people cross'd the way to gain a strip 

Of darkly cool relief,— a day when dogs 

Where eyed askance and shrunk from with distrust, — 

A day when beggars crawled away from spots 

Where usually they bask'd, and sought instead 

Some friendly refuge from the glow and warmth 

Of afternoon, — a day when idlers most 

Complain of languor, weariness and bore 

Of having nothing upon earth to do ; 

While workers half incline to envy them 

Their power to sit at ease and lounge away 

The lazy hours, attempting to get rest, — 

A day when eating is a task and naught 

But ices seem a possible approach 

To food, — a day when broil and brazen dazzle 

Seem wholly to pervade the air, and make 

A furnace of the town, — on such a day 

As this, the girl beheld with beating heart, 

A carriage she well knew, draw up before 

The entrance to a fashionable shop, 

Its glittering front o'ershaded by a blind 

Of ponderous slope ; out stepp'd a youthftil form 

Of graceful buoyancy, and took its way across 

The flagstones at the very moment that 

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The iron uprights of the blind gave way, 
Made sudden slip fix)m some unwonted cause, 
And let the weight descend with crushing force . 
The girl, who saw the peril at a glance, 
Dashed forward, thrust the lady back, herself 
Receiving the whole brunt of the descent ; 
And dropp'd to earth, felled by the deadly blow. 

In that precedent particle of time 
Who knows what compensating flash of thought 
Was then vouchsafed? The brain perchance conceiv'd 
The consolating image,— "Death endured 
For her \ For her my own bright lady star I 
Thank God for letting my life purchase hers ! "-— 
And then there stood beside, the fallen girl 
The lady pure, with hallowing tears of ruth 
Shed o'er the bruis*d and bleeding form of one 
Who died to save, of one whose instinct taught 
'Twas blessedness to nobly sacrifice 
The erring self for innocent belov'd. 

Mary Cowden Ularke, 





iISS JONES was traveling in 
Italy, traveling quite unin- 
cumbered. She had but one 
trunk and she needed no more^ for she 
had left at home her music-books- and 
her gala- dresses, her flounces and her 
furbelows. In the thickest of thick cloth 
garments, not one yard too much in the 
suit, she was equipped for the occasion. 
She was emancipated; even her scruples 
and her fastidiousness and almost her 
conscience she had left behind her, far 

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over the water. Miss Jones could pass 
a beggar every tfen steps without a 
twinge of compassion. Even the blind 
man's hat won from her no coppers; 
She had learned to doubt his oft-urged 
plea, and fancied she saw a sly twinkle 
under his half-closed lid, as some unini- 
tiated stranger gave him a soldo for 
sweet charity's sake. She could recog- 
nize, half a block away, the ubiquitous 
woman with her mouth awry, who 
makes her ugliness a source of private 
income. Before her whine began, Miss 
Jones had the right expression ready 
for her, which needed not even the 
Italian shake of the fore finger to 
strengthen its negative. Perhaps there 
was a something settling over the fair 
features of our traveler, as unlovely in 
the eyes of the angels as that wonderful 
mouth and chin, so profitable to the 
persevering beggar. 

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Miss Jones could have passed out of 
the gate of the temple called Beautiful — 
without giving either silver or gold, 
copper or paper, or even a blessing to 
the lame man, who lay there expecting, 
like his Italian imitators , something 
from those who went in to worship. 
Not that worshiping formed any part of 
Miss Jones' well-ordered plan for her 
day's sight-seeing. She went into the 
churches to see pictures and statues , to 
wonder, admire, criticise, anything but 
to offer the pure incense that goes up 
froma devout spirit. She did not belong 
to that congregation . She was a pro- 
testant. She could look down with 
contempt on the kneeling figures about 
her, without once thinking of that con- 
tented visitor of the Jewish temple, who 
thanked Grod he was not as other men. 

Miss Jones never read the news-papers 
-we may except an occasional glance at 

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the Swiss Times . It was nothing to her 
that she walked among a people who 
were struggling towards life and liberty , 
like strong swimmers , who buflTet the 
wild waves where the great ship has 
gone down. She did not understand 
Italian politics . She preferred to read 
about those horrid old emperors , whr 
seem to have tainted the very ground 
they trod , so that excavations of their 
precincts fill the air with death, and no 
wonder ! 

Miss Jones liked to talk of the sunny 
skies , the stirring associations , the 
classical sanctity of dear Italy , the very 
thought of an old Roman , made her hold 
her own fair head more erect , and step 
as if she wore a toga ; but a modern 
dweller in Rome, he was unpoetical, 
uninteresting y he had no real existence 
for her ; she was in the clouds , in the 
golden-tinted past * 

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Miss Jones was not traveling alone. 
She was far too proper for that. She 
was duly escorted and accompanied by 
a select party of congenial souls, judi- 
cious tourists, who went their way, and 
let her go hers. Generally their paths 
lay in the same direction, fortunately 
for Miss Jones. She however was quite 
self-reliant in these days . She could 
argue with a cabman about half a franc , 
no matter how large the group that 
gathered about her, and call for what 
she wanted in a crowded restaurant, 
in bad French or worse Italian , without 
a blush . Miss Jones was the youngest 
of her party, yet she planned the cam- 
paigns, and led the van, Baedecker in 
one hand, and a white en-tout-cas in the 
other . With the aid of her inestimable 
knowledge of the modern languages 
they had secured a sunny suite of rooms, 
looking out upon a cheerful piazza. 

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Was it not quoted in the infallible red 
book , ^^dove non entra il sole , entra il 
medico"! There, when not sightseeing, our 
traveler wrote her journal, and "read 
up" in history and art . From those 
sunny rooms Miss Jones sallied out , 
with a sense of perfect freedom, a rest 
from the conventional shackles against 
which she had inwardly chafed at home. 
She was in a strange city, and a strange 
land. No one inew her, and she could 
do as she pleased . True, she had lost 
her personality; no one cared whether 
she were Smith or Jones, Douglas or 
Howard . Yet by an ind escribable some- 
thing, more than by her fair hair, her 
bearing, or the cut of her dress, her 
nationality was seen at a glance. On 
the Corso, and the Campagna, the shop 
and the cafe, she was representing her 
country , the country she dearly loved . 
That free , mannish deportment she 

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herself would have repudiated at home, 
was accepted as a mark of her origin . 
Miss Jones was making a shade deeper 
the portrait of her country-women , too 
often accepted in Italian cities, and 
criticised with scorching severity. 

There cannot always be sunshine even 
in Italy. The bright skies were slowly 
veiled, January ceased to be like May, 
and one morning Miss Jones awoke to 
find the air as piercing as a stiletto. Cold 
sleet was driving against the window, 
and our tourist reluctantly decided to 
spend the day at home. Not that she was 
to be diverted from her constant aim, self 
improvement, a kind of selfishness often 
as hard , cold , and unloving as any other 
form of the hydra-headed monster . 
She would give ihe day to the study of 
Italian . She had become suddenly 
interested in the language , not that she 
might come heartto heart with the living 

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yearning crowds around her . Miss 
Jones must assist in person at the 
Delivery of Jerusalem, and go down with 
Dante, to that bourne, from whence no 
traveler is said to return . 

Miss Jones had a fire made in her own 
room, she was in the mood for solitary 
study. Little Vittorio had begged to 
have the pleasure of putting on the 
fresh wood , and as he now blew with 
his mouth, and now with the bellows, 
Miss Jones thought him a pretty quaint 
little figure , worthy of the pencil of 
Sir Joshua Reynolds , or the more 
modern Frere. 

The young s tranger had a perfect charm 
for Vittorio . The few words she had 
spoken to him, when his black eyes 
greeted her , in answer to her ring at the 
door , had sunk deep into his heart . 
Miss Jones had never thought of his 
having a heart at all . She had only 

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wanted to bring to his lips the sudden 
smile which made his handsome face 
glow with an almost angelic brightness . • 
Now she had only to tell her sworn 
servitor, that she wanted a certain Italian 
book from the circulating library she 
frequented, when Vittoriowas ojBflike 
an arrow to do her bidding . The won- 
derful translations made that day by 
Miss Jones were never given to the 
public . Suffice it to say, — that sad face 
of Dante's might have relaxed into a 
grin smile , if he could have heard her 
rendering of his immortal verse . 

The storm swept swiftly by, like the 
tempest of passion on the face of an 
Italian beauty . The skies were again 
all sunshine . Miss Jones was arrayed 
for her morning excursion , when the 
sharp black eyes of little Assunta, 
Vittorio's mother, appeared in the passage. 

Would the signora just look in "for a 

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moment at Vittorio . He was in a 
fret about a book he was to get at the 

Miss Jones mechanically followed the 
speaker . It had never struck the dwel- 
ler in the bright apartments visited by 
the sun , that there was another side to 
the picture, but the moment she passed 
through the door on the landing, that 
led to the back part of the house , she 
seemed to be in another world . A sun- 
less , chilly , damp , sepulchral world it 
was, and tilled with congenial sounds. 
A hoarse cough, a gurgling struggling 
effort to breathe , greeted her ears . 

At the end of the dim passage was a 

small room , lighted only by a single 

window , which opened into a tiny court, 

a sort of well, or open space in the 

midst of the great building that fronted 

so pleasantly on the gay piazza. In 

this cheerless place on a high bed , lay 

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little Vittorio panting and gasping, with 
a bright fever spot on his cheek , and a 
wild light in his eyes . 

Miss Jones' late studies in Italian 
enabled her to understand that the child 
fancied he had lost the book , entrusted 
to his care, and she pacified him by her 
soothing manner far more than by her 
broken words . 

That sudden transition from the 
warmth of Miss Jones' bright fire to 
the cold sleet without, had changed the 
happy little boy into the tossing suffer- 
ing patient before her . 

The poor * little mother craved sym- 
pathy. She could not bear to see the 
fair stately young lady leave the dark 
room she seemed to brighten with her 
presence. Would the Signora just 
stay a moment while she dressed the 
blister, the doctor had ordered for 
Vittorio's arm . 

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Miss Jones was no weak woman, 
yet she would gladly have heen spared 
the sight. The boy stretched out his 
thin right arm, stiff and motionless as 
a marble statue, not once wincing while 
the scissors clipped and slipped, and 
slipped and clipped, in his mother's 
trembling hand. 

What ailed Miss Jones? She was 
not mannish now ! " Would Garibaldi 
like me to hold it like that?" said 
the child proudly, as he relaxed his 
compressed lips. *^Wont I do to be 
a soldier and fight for Italy ? " ^Yes ! 
yes ! said the mother, quickly, but her 
eyes filled up with tears, as she whis- 
pered to Miss Jones, "The Doctor thinks 
he'll die ! My darling boy !". She had 
found her heart, that heart dormant 
through long months of traveling. Her 
blue eyes welled over with loving 
sympathetic tears. How tenderly §he 

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spoke to the dear little patient I How 
she strove to soothe and comfort the 
stricken mother. 

Miss Jones remembered a scene far 
away, in her childhood, when her own 
young brother lay on his sickbed. The 
windows brought in the sweet air from 
the pleasant garden to his couch of pain; 
All that love could invent, or luxury 
furnish, was lavished for him, and yet 
he could not live. What hope was 
there for Vittorio, in that cold, damp 
room, with its bare stone floor, and utter 
absence of any shadow of comfort! 
She could not bear it. She must do 
something. There was a choking in her 
throat. She must have action. 

Miss Jones had faith in a certain 
physician who had won the affection of 
many strangers in Rome. She visited no 
galleries that day, she ganced round no 
churches, she sentimentalized among no 

21d MI3S joims. 

grand old ruins. She was mannish now, 
only in the business like promptness with 
which she sought Doctor Gr. and explained 
to him Vittorio's case. She brought him 
to the child's bed-side, and would gladly 
herself have carried out his orders for the 
little patient ; but no , his mother alone 
could minister to him now. In his delirium 
he shrank from the hand of a stranger. 

Miss Jones went to her cheerful room, 
to await the result of the new treatment. 
She had never thought of that beautiful 
boy as : 

" A being drawing thoughtful breath, 

A traveler 'twixt life and death." 

Indeed he had hardly seemed to her 

a human being at all , but an existence 

of something bright that crossed her path , 

to make her glad life the gladder. 

It came home to Miss Jones that this 
was not a mere world in which to see 
sights , write journals , and go to bed 

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tired, to wake to the same routine, every 
sunny morning . She felt that her life 
had touched other lives all along the road 
her wandering feet had traveled. She 
had left no silver wake of sunshine 
by kind deeds, and wise words, in the 
human hearts to which she had had 

Miss Jones had the joy of seeing the 
pale face of little Vittorio brighten with 
returning health . His was but a phy- 
sical recovery , she had passed through 
a better resurrection . 

Sight -seeing Sundays, morning read- 
ings omitted , hurried prayers, had had 
their natural result in a cold, heartless 
godless life, asleep almost unto death, but 
she was awake now, thoroughly awake . 

Miss Jones did not cease her journey- 
ings. She did not preach and distribute 
tracts right and left. She did not encour- 
age idle beggary, the curse from which 

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Italy is struggling to be free . She 
found a church she could love and help, 
and where she could worship devoutly , 
without contempt for the opinions or 
delusions of others. She interested 
herself heart and soul, hand and purse, 
in the children of the land of her 
pilgrimage. The money that would have 
been spent in cameos and mosaics, coral 
and shell-work, she devoted to the 
christian education of black-eyed boys 
and girls. She sowed her good seed 
quietly, and went on her way glad of 

When Miss Jones returned to her own 
far off country, it was not merely with 
the so-called polish of foreign travel , a 
superficial knowledge of many things, but 
with a deep, earnest purpose, to be in 
her day and generation, a loving, active, 
useful , christian woman. 

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f ! no arresting the vast wheel of time, [might, 
That round and round still turns with onward 
Stem, dragging thousands to the dreaded night 

Of an unknown hereafter. Paith to climb 

In thought to that supernal Force sublime, 

Who guides the circling of the wheel aright. 
Alone can steady our dismay at sight 

Of that huge radius imaged in my rhyme. 

Some swept resistless through a mire of sin. 

Some carried smoothly on in downy ease, 

Some whirled to swift destruction 'mid the din 

And crash of sudden end ! Oh, may it please 
The Guider mercilUl to will my course 
Shall be in peace and trust, devoid remorse. 

Charles Oowden Clarke. 

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ATE upon an evening eerie, I was sitting worn 

and weary, 
Pondering all forlorn and dreary, how to meet a 

tradesman's score ; 
Funds were low and spirits daunted, and I should 

have been enchanted 
Had kind fortune to me granted any increase of 

my store ; 
Had the fickle goddess given smallest increase of 

my store, 

Which was dwindling more and more. 

Vainly, vainly, to my sorrow, from my friends I'd 

tried to borrow, 
And again upon the morrow I might ask at eacli 

one's door } 

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They, no help, nor aid would proffer, save advice ; — 

that all would offer. 
But that cannot fill my coffer, standing empty as 

before ; 
Good advice will never fill, it ; it stands empty as 

before ;— 

Empty still for ever more ! 

Oh ! the hours I've spent in writing, lengthy manu- 
scripts inditing; 

To every London publisher Tve sent at least a 

Many editors retumed'em , some did 7iot , perhaps 
they burned'em. 

Many with contempt have spumed'em, and this 
answer o'er and o'er, 

Answer fraught with dreadful meaning, I*vehad sent 
me o'er and o'er^ 
* 'Declined with thanks", and nothing more ! 

Brooding thus, and almost napping, suddenly I heard i 

a tapping 
As of feeble fingers rapping gently at my chamber 

door ; ] 



*'Now" I said, **is this some letter to remind me I'm 

a debtor 
To my boot-maker or tailor, and must soon acquit 

the score? 
Or perchance it is my Landlord witli a still more 

heavy score," 

And I muttered '*what a bore !" 

*'Had I only just a rap in purse or pocket"— here the 

Louder grew, impatient rapping, and wide open flew 

the door; 
Was I waking, was I dreaming, was it real or was 

it seeming. 
The form that I saw standing there upon my study 

Imp-like, small, and dark, and grimy, standing on 

my study floor? 

Was it shadow, nothing more? 

Neither bow nor curtsey made he, not the slightest 

greeting said he, 
But with dirty boots still played he a tattoo upon 

the floor ; 




Fast my heart began to flutter, as these words I 

heard him utter, 
As he sulkily surveyed me from his station near the 

From a chair that he had taken just within my 

chamber door, 

*'Copy wanted," nothing more ! 

"Now" thought I *'this case most sad is, for he sure- 
ly drunk or mad is. 

Who would venture as this lad is, thus within a 
stranger's door. 

And at this Uiitimely season with no meaning one 
can seize on, 

Utter words devoid of reason, like a parrc»t o*er and 

How shall I resolve his meaning ?" Then he mut- 
tered as before, 

"Copy wanted," nothing more ! 

Then more closely as I eyed him, by a lamp which 

hung beside him 
I perceived some grimy^ inky sort of stains the 

urchin bore. 

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''Printer," cried I, "think no evil, though I call thee - 

printer's devil, 
From the office have they sent thee? Tell me, tell 

me I implore. 
My last paper is accepted ? Tell me quickly I 


Give me hope, if no thing more!" 

Said the imp his seat forsaking, "don't put yourself 
in such a taking, 

I believe I've been mistaking this room for an- 
other floor. 

Why for sure you ain't the author , who's been 
making such a bother 

For to get some proofs or other, and they've sent 
me 'ere afore, 

From the office I belongs to I've been often sent 

But we can't get nothing more I" 

"Printer," cried I, "thing of evil, printer still, if boy 

or devil ; 
Whether office sent, or whether by mistake thou'st 

sought my door, 

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Leave me, leave me to my sorrow I Never more I'll 

try to borrow, 
But right early on the morrow will I seek some 

distant shore ; 
Take that ink from off thy brow, take those boots 

from off my floor. 

Let me see thee— never more !" 

Jf. Laioless. 

Borne 1876. 



^AVE you ever visited the Sabine 
Mountains ? I do not mean 
with the hasty run of a tou- 
rist — just to Tivoli and back — ^but have 
you ever spiBut a few bright summer 
months there? Have you made yourself 
familiar with some of its less known nooks 
and recesses? Have you viewed the 
softened undulations of the Campagna 
from its hill terraces ? Do you know 
the delightful region where you may 
brood all day long under the thick 

leaves of ilex or olive groves : where 

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the Anio runs and revels and dances 
in the sun, tumbling from many a peaky 
rock or shelvy hollow , racing by broad 
meadows , carrying a delightful coolness 
with it, as it rushes beneath some tiny 
citadel or picturesque promontory, or 
laves the borders of some green vineyard, 
in which the vines hang in festoons from 
tree to tree, dropping with bloomy purple 
fruit : where white oxen draw the rude 
plough along through the furrow , or the 
rustic vehicle along the dusky road, their 
bells jingling dreamily: where the song of 
the shepherd is heard amongst the hills 
blent with the notes of the rejoicing 
nightingale : where the day dies , as the 
dolphin is said to do , with a thousand 
changing colors, and the night comes 
softly , laden with odours , lit by the 
unstinted beams of a whole heaven of 
glistering stars ? If you do not know 
this '^ happy land," you can hardly be 

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said to know Italy ; for this is its bank 
and treasure-house of beauty . 

Some years ago I spent the best part 
of a summer with some congenial friends 
in this pleasant region. After a stay at 
Tivoli , which is too well known to need 
dwelling upon here, we pushed our way 
to Subiaco, seated on the jingling dili- 
gence of the country, which was of the 
usual ramshackle order. We passed the 
broken ruins of the Claudian acqueduct; 
Vicovaro, pausing to examine its fine 
octagonal chapel ; the picturesque San 
Cosimato perched on its bold headland, 
and the still more lofty Saracinesco, 
looking as if it belonged to the clouds as 
much as the earth ; and so we reached 
Subiaco with its rumbling mills , tumble- 
down houses , and marvellous monastery 
on thie neighbouring hills. Do you 
know the quaint town ? — ^its narrow and 

crowded thoroughfares, its gabbling 

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bargain-makers, its scenic surroundings? 
If not, it would be worth a journey 
over the hot Campagna along the dusty 
road all the way from Rome , and it 
would repay you everything . But 
neither here will I detain my reader , 
except to narrate to him one little 
incident. I stood under a vaulted 
passage sketching. It was filled with a 
pervading gloom. Solemn spunds were 
heard approaching : tapers glimmered : 
a procession of monks and others entered 
the gallery. They were bearing a bier. 
On this bier lay a fair young girl ; her 
hands were crossed; a crucifix was 
placed in them. She was dressed in 
white; pale and beautiful; herunshrouded 
form strewn with flowers. As they 
passed by sadly , they seemed to leave 
a streak in the sunshine , bringing 
forcibly to my mind the words of good , 
old George Herbert : 

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" When youth Is IVank and free , 

And calls for music , while his veins do swell, 

All day exchanging mirth and breath 

In company ; 

That music summons to the knell 

Which shall befriend him at the house of death." 

So true is it that in the midst of life 
we are ia death ! 

One morning before daylight, we left 
the primitive town, left its clacking 
mills and babbling river for " fresh 
fields and pastures new . " Some hours 
steady tramping along unfrequented and 
half-formed roads, and we found our- 
selves at Olevano , still more remote in 
the heart of the mountains . Hot , 
dusty and tired , a pleasant meal soon 
refreshed us ; and doubly so , for here 
was a little band of congenial souls — all 
artists of divers nationalities. We soon 
fraternised and spent many delightful 

days together in the exercise of our 

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pencils . As I write this in busy Lond(m 
it all comes back, to me: the grey old 
castle rising in the midst , like a ghost 
of former days — -broken walls half-cloth- 
ed with sombre ivy ; the vast panorama 
of hills with their infinite variety passing 
through all hues and tints, crowned 
here and there with eerie-looking towns, 
in which we wondered who could live, 
or what they did there, perched so 
high above the rest of the world; the 
rustic shrine; the glimmering alley; 
the forlorn houses; and across the spread- 
ing valley, the deep blue Volscians, 
which lifted their jagged summits like a 
sea of rocky waves billowing into the 
far distance. Many a brilliant morning 
woke us to our pleasant toil, until the 
hot sun drove us indoors to. the pleasant 
mid-day meaL Many a delicious even- 
ing we watched the twilight steal over 
the scene with ever new delight. Many 

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a merry song , lively discussion , or 
interesting story went round , until 
the season of rest lulled all the world 
to sleep. 

But I must take may reader one 
stage further: thelast. It is toGenazzano, 
the strange hill-side town, with its tall 
towers, ancient castle, and crumbling 

It was the hottest season of the year, 
at the beginning of September, that we 
started soon after midnight on the 
morning of the day of the great annual 
festival in that town — the festa of /S'. 
Maria del Buon Consiglio. In silence,, 
and somewhat subdued by the solemn 
scenery, the stillness of the night, the 
vast heaven with its brilliant constellk- 
tions, we tramped mile after mile. The 
mountains seemed to be reposing, like 
mighty giants on every side, their hollows 
filled with darkness, and the curtain of 

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night half veiling their summits. Bro- 
ken masses of rock lay strewn about; 
there was little or no vegetation; the 
dreary landscape looked like the realm 
of disorder, huge fragments of rock 
lying tumbled around in the greatest 
confusion. We had thus pursued our 
way for some time, when a faint rosy 
tint showed itself over the summits of 
the eastern mountains. Presently it 
grew brighter and the stars paler. The 
sky was rippled and furrowed with 
crimson waves; whose crests were gold; 
a glow diffused itself in the horizon 
like a furnace, and then the sun rose, 
a burning fiery ball, shooting his rays 
far and wide, a flood of light, over the 

Whilst I was gazing at a spectacle so 
entrancing, faint musical sounds were 
heard in the distance, which approached 
as we proceeded. Presently a turn of the 

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road revealed a picturesque procession: 
men on the one side of the road,and women 
on the other. They were all dressed 
in the peasant costume of southern Italy; 
the men with low crowned hats, in which 
a little bouquet of artificial flowers was 
stuck, the badge of the occasion, short 
jackets, tights and sandals , the women 
wearing coloured skirts, laced boddices, 
and the usual white linen head-dress . 
Each of the latter bore on her head 
a white wicker basket, in which purcha- 
ses made in the town were carried. They 
were already returning from the town , 
where they had been since the preceed- 
ing day . As they walked in long 
files on the road they chaunted the 
litany of the Virgin : 

"Sancta Maria 
Ora pro nobis 1" 

rose and fell with varied intonation, 
first from the men and then from the 

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women . The chaunt was musical and 
plaintive. The sounds seemed to gather 
solemnity in the new day, as they floated 
from crag to precipice, and died away in 
faint echoes on the mountains. I shall 
not soon forget the efFect of this at such 
a moment, and in the midst of scenery 
so wild and desolate. There seemed to 
be a reality and fitness about it hardly 
to be conveyed by words. 

We were soon within sight of the town, 
which we entered by a quaint gateway, 
and immediately found ourselves in the 
midst of a dense mass of people standing 
gossiping, or chaffering, or sitting and 
lying, in every available comer. We 
crushed our way to the caff^ in the piazza, 
and sitting down, amused ourselves with 
watching the characteristic groupsaround 
us. Here a man with wild gesticulations 
and loud cries, flourished a knife over a 
pig roasted whole, and stuffed with herbs> 

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which he facetiously called "wna bella 
gaiUna^ ( a fine fowl), there the living 
animal, tied by the leg, increased the 
uproar, or escaping from the tether, added 
to the general confusion by running 
about wildly hither and thither. Ven- 
ders of bread, cheese, curds and other 
comestibles, proclaimed the virtues of 
their wares in the shrillest tones; dogs 
barked, bells rang, a band played. Pre- 
sently I crushed my way through the 
streets, and entered the church of S. 
Maria del Buon Consiglio, This church 
is a very celebrated one, more than 
locally; for it contains a famous shrine 
or picture to which are attributed mira- 
culous qualities. The picture is said 
originally to have belonged to a church of 
Scutari in Albania, from the walls of 
which it was removed by an invisible 
power,accompanied by a celestial melody, 
between two columns^ one of flame and 

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the other of bright cloud , the one to 
shelter it by day and the other to light 
it by night. First arriving at Rome, it 
passed in the same manner to Genazza- 
no, where it became fixed in the wall of 
the convent of St. Augustine , built by 
the blessed Petruecia, a religious sister, 
who afterwards built this church, to 
which it was transported by invisible 
hands, and immediately commenced to 
work miracles. 

However this story may have originat- 
ed, there is the picture, and its miracul- 
ous power is still believed in. 

Within the church I found a crowd of 
persons at their devotions. Picturesque 
groups of women and children, girls and 
peasants of all sorts knelt on the floor, 
chaunted the responses, or were occupied 
in silent prayer. As I stood by the 
shrine of the celebrated picture, I was 
aware of a slight stir near the door. A 

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hush pervaded the church, and then a 
loud cry rose which was echoed from 
side to side: ''Evviva Mana I " Presently 
the crowd separated, opening a lane or 
passage to the shrine, and I saw a man 
on his hands and knees, with his forehead, 
which he never lifted, brushing the floor 
as he approached the shrine. In order 
that he might be guided to the spot, he 
held in his hand the corner of a hand- 
kerchief, of which a peasant woman held 
another, and thus led him to the shrine. 
When close to the iron rails which 
separated the little chapel from the rest 
of the church , at a signal the man stood 
up . He had a strange, sad, wild look, 
as one might have who had suffered the 
tortures of the rack until his frame was 
numbed and dead, and he could suffer 
on more. Life had evidently not been 
good to him. Had he dwelt with the 
consuming fires of fever, had he been 

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afflicted with the pains of rheumatism, 
as the victim of epilepsy, or had birth 
denied him "il ben dell' intelletto" — 
the light of reason? I cannot tell. His 
face wore a wistful, bewildered expres- 
sion. He seemed to be only imperfectly 
aware of his position and the circum- 
stances by which he was surrounded. 
I do not know what was his age. He 
might have been of any age between 
twenty-five and fifty-five. Time was a 
blank page to him : its marks were 
obliterated by those of other and more 
powerful agencies. The peasant woman 
by whom he was accompanied, evidently 
his mother, with a countenance filled 
with much sorrow looked up at the 
picture. She burst into tears. She 
threw herself against the iron railings. 
Earnestly she implored the Madonna 
to help her son. She pointed to him 
in a passion of anguish. ^' Mother of 

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God," she cried, " help, help and heal 
him !" Still her passion of grief grew 
louder and wilder. Her sobs and cries 
filled the church. The whole congrega- 
tion took up the cry; '^ Evviva Maria!'' 
rang from roof to rafter once more and 
again and again. In the mean time the 
object of this demonstration stood im- 
moveable, bewildered, vacant. No tear 
dimmed his eye ; no sigh escaped him : 
but drooping and nerveless like a with- 
ered branch, he scarcely looked around. 
He of all the multitude was the only one 

It was infinitely touching: the an- 
guish of the mother, and the miserable 
condition of her son . Did they expect 
a miracle to be wrought for him on the 
spot ? I do not know. It would have 
been a miracle indeed to have restored 
health and vigour to that wasted frame; 
to have brought back the faded light to 

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that dim eye; to have touched the 
slumbering and paralysed energies once 
more into life and action, so crushed 
and quenched in their shattered tene- 
ment . 

With a sad heart I left the church , 
deeply moved by so extraordinary a 
spectacle — extraordinary to me , but 
perhaps not so to others . The priest 
who was officiating at the altar beneath 
the picture — the picture a blurred and 
blackened form upon which I could 
barely trace a design — having his back 
to the congregation, never once turned 
or appeared to be in any way moved or 
surprised . 

Rejoining my friends, we went to the 
principal trattoria of the town to refresh 
ourselves. We entered by some des*- 
cending steps a large room filled with a 
gabbling multitude . Long tables were 
spread from end to end. Every avail- 
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g,ble corner was occupied, whilst the 
waiters, distracted, ran hither and thither 
almost beside themselves. The heat was 
intense, the closeness unbearable . 

We passed through the apartment 
into a . terrace garden . It faced the 
arid valley, from whose heated stones 
and the opposite mountains, the fiercest 
blaze of the noon-day sun was reflected 
upon us, whilst his hot rays were poured 
on our heads from above, like a fiery 
rain . A few orange trees w«re all the 
shelter. In vain we sought to enter 
some of the alcoves or sheds which had' 
been erected. They were all crammed 
full of hungry crowds, and we had to 
wait — to wait until the life was almost 
baked out of us — before we could find 
accommodation. Then a merry meal 
amply repaid us, for the jest and story 
went round, with really good wine, and 
we were happy. 

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Once more assembled in the Piazza , 
the usual tombolaor lottery began. The 
screeching, the trumpeting, the shouting 
which invariably accompany this part of 
every festa day in Italy are well known 
to the traveller in that country . The 
evening hour was approaching and We 
prepared for our return . 

Much as has been said and written 
of the evening hour of the southern 
clime , it is always fresh and new ; 
the fading of the colour from earth 
and its revival in the sky ; the pale stars 
glimmering out , first with shy glances , 
then bright as the eyes of angels ; the 
cool and solemn stillness which calls up 
an answering calm in the soul ; the beau- 
tiful harmony which reigns over the 
inner and outward world — all conspire 
to make the approaches of evening wel- 
come and soothing, after the heat of a 
southern day : and so we now found it. 



When the sun had set, we descended the 
hill. There was no moon, but a soft 
diffused light was spread over the land- 
scape, throwing a glamour of mystery 
upon the prospect. For some part of 
the distance I lagged behind the little 
band of gossipers who made night merry 
with their laughter . A deep silence 
brooded over the world, save that now 
and then an owl went by with his 
melancholy cry, or a bat flickered 
through the gloom. The mountains 
rose around with weird and ghostly 
outlines ; gentle airs of night flitted to 
and fro; everything was hushed to a 
solemn repose. 

The night was far advanced when, 
nearing our destination, the mouldering 
walls of the old castle of Olevano once 
more rose before us on their rocky ele- 
vation. When we entered the cheerful 

little inn an abundant supper was pro- 

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vided, to which we did full justice, and 
then we retired to bed, weary, but 
delighted with our pleasant visit to 
Genazzano . 

W. Davies. 


February, 1875. 



ULL- STARRED the fragrant night, tranquilly 

[ bine- 
Long I sat dreaming 

Sadly, half deeming 
In my deep weariness, Life all untrue ; 
Rhineland was round me, its broad river flew 

Fast, in its daring. 

Heedless, uncaring. 

Here shaded , there moonlit , then lost to the-view. j 

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Spectral old castles crowned shadowy heights 

Up which were twining 

Full vines ; and shining 
In far away sparkles were red village lights. 
These are the seasons when memory smites 

To silvery ringing, 

Like Angels' soft singing, 
All the sad heart-bells that toll past delights. 

** Where are my early-loved 1" musing I said, 

"Are they world ranging, 

'fading and changing, 
"Where are my distant ones, where are my dead! 
' 'They at least change not— none stand in their stead : 

"Life floateth past, 

"Hope faileth fast, 
"Riseth no light on the path that I tread." 

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A soft sudden music came borne on the breeze, 

A wild and sweet wailing, 

Gently prevailing 
Over the waters' rush, over the trees 
As they mimicked the murmur of midsummer seas ; 

It wakened to gladness, 

Then deepened to sadness 
Those vague prisoned yearnings that Melody frees. 

Though never that measure had reached me before. 

Now it seemed known to me. 

Longed for — alone to me 
Sent, for it stirred buried memories of yore ; 
Moved by a strange charm, I sped to the shore : 

Whence it was passing — too plainly, 

I followed — how vainly ; 
From that summer night I have heard \t no napre. 



Wearily taming, I sighed, "Even so 

**The heart's best meetings 

"Are but the greetings 
"Of casual music, that grows faint and low 
"E'en while we listen; yet wilM we go 

"Forth, blindly groping 

"With sudden wild hoping, 
"And on some vain quest all our best years bestow.' 

Often I muse alone, marvelling whose 
Was that magic singing, 
Which to my heart bringing 

A record for life— passed— withdrawing all clues ; 

Is It wasting on those who know not how to use 
High gifcs? Ah that pleading 
Told suffering, told needing ! 

Did my sought one seek me, and thus find bj^t to lose ? 

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Still smiles the Hhineland, the glorious, the gay ; 

Lightly the hours 

Touch its fair towers, 

Nor ftides the romance from its fortresses gray 

Though long years have passed ; Still, still, night 

[and day 
Rusheth that river. 

As heedless as ever : 

As evcr^ I still tread my desolate way. 

A. r. 




( By the Author of the Hose Garden. ) 

VERY now and then in Eng- 
'""iljjjj^ land you come upon certain 
nooks which seem to gather 
into themselves all the sweet kindliness, 
all the delicate fragrance, all the repose 
and warmth and freshness which an Eng- 
lish summer can give. The house, 
for there is always a house, lies mellow- 
ing in the sunshine, the creepers which 
cover it shelter an infinite number of 
small birds to chirp and twitter in the 
early morningj flowers are embedded in 
nests of soft turf, little insects dance, so 

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253 AT LAST. 

that there is a continual murmur or 
rather movement in the air, and in the 
very heart of what seems like stillness, 
life, glowing, radiant and ecstatic. 

Shut your eyes and allow yourself to 
be persuaded that you see such a spot. 

The old parsonage house at Allering 
lay deep in one of those Sussex combes 
which are as it were scooped out of the 
long line of softly swelling downs, where 
every flying cloud casts its answering 
shadow, and the colouring has a quiet 
beauty of its own. The house itself 
was of stone, squarely and solidly built, 
so as to withstand the fierce gales which 
in winter time came rushing up from the 
south-west, but losing all its sternness 
in a manner, under a greenery of banksia 
roses, jessamine, and the great glossy 
leaves of the magnolia. 

On the particular morning of which I 
write, the grass had but just been mown, 

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AT LAST. 257 

and lay tossed about in fresh, sweetly 
smelling heaps; the flowers still glistened 
with the heavy dew of the past night ; 
the sun shone out, touching everything 
with pure warm light, every now and 
then children's laughter sounded from 
the road bordering the garden, along 
which they were making their way to 
the school just visible between the trees; 
pigeons were wheeling round and round 
the roof, bees were humming, a great 
dog had lazily stretched his whole 
length outside a window ; — ^you, simply 
looking on, would have found yourself 
in spite of all experience, thinking that 
life in such a spot must be all peace and 
tranquillity. And yet, no further than 
the drawing-room, there was something 
very different. 

" Frank ," a woman's voice was saying 
angrily, " you ought to understand that 
you have duties to your wife and child." 

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258 AT LAST. 

'' I know it well, Joanna ." 
" Then do not begin that horrid argu- 
ment over again . If it is necessary 
that any one should go to these unfortu- 
nate people, which I do not for a 
moment believe , what on earth is the 
use of an unmarried curate , unless he 
can take this sort of thing in hand ? If 
the fever is so infectious and dreadful, 
the person to do them good is the doctor, 
and I have told you already that I am 
ready to order as much beef-tea and 
milk as they can want, to be sent to the 
turn-pike for them. The children can 
fetch it from there, for I certainly should 
not allow them to come to this house ; 
and I will not hear of your going 
there ." 

With the tenderest forbearance he 
listened and looked at her, with the 
tenderest forbearalnce still he answered 

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AT LAST. 259 

"My poor Joanna, surely when you be- 
came a clergyman's wife, you counted 
the cost?" 

" Of course I counted it. You have 
no right to say that as if you were the 
first clergyman I had ever met ; my fa- 
ther was one and he would never, never 
have thought of such nonsense. I am 
sure I have never objected to anything 
reasonable, and you know I have never 
made such a stand before, although it 
was not considerate of you to go to the 
Allen's and Davis' when the children had 
the measles. However, the measles 
were not like this fever, and I will say 
you are most wrong ever to have thought 
of such a thing. Besides, you know 
very well that it is not as if you were 
a great preacher, and could do them any 
good; nobody will think anything of 
your going there. Tour first duty is to 
your wife and child" — 

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"No", he interrupted gently but very 
gravely, "my first duty is to my God, 
and His ministry." 

Something in his tone checked the pas- 
sionate upbraidings and awed her for a 
moment. But it did not last; there was 
a querulous selfishness about the poor 
woman , which would not permit her to 
measure anything except by its relation 
to herself. She broke out again in com- 
plaining words, and Mr. Martin put his 
hand wearily to his head. 

"Joanna, do not say any more, I must 
go," he said, when she stopped at last 
from want of breath: "I wish you did 
not feel it so, my poor wife." 

And he went up to her, and would 
have kissed her, forgetting her words in 
his love, but she turned from him 
speechless with anger, until he was at 
the door. There her voice pursued 
him — 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 

AT LAST. 261 

"If you go, and baby catches the fever 
and dies, I shall always say that it was 
your doing." 

" Joanna ! " he said appealingly , 

"Always, always !" she cried ; "I give 
you warning;" and putting her hands to 
her ears, she ran out of the window 
and into the warm soft sunshine, where 
a little child was being tossed in the 
nurse's arms. 

Was there no struggle in his heart do 
you think? She was very loveable when 
she was pleased, and it would have been 
easy to have gone after her into that 
smiling sunshine, and kissed and been 
forgiven ; very easy and very much pleas- 
anter than what he saw before him, the 
hot fever rooms and her ill-humour. Be- 
sides this, her words had cut him cruelly. 
If indeed, he brought back with him the 
Jerrible infection could he ever forgive 

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262 AT LAST. 

himself or ever endure the self reproach 
which would pursue him ? And he ac- 
knowledged very humbly that those 
other words of hers were quite true. 
He had no especial gift for attracting or 
or for teaching souls: he was a common- 
place preacher. Looking round upon 
other men's works, he had often reproach- 
ed himself that his shewed so little out- 
ward fruit ; it was not very likely that 
by going that day to the Sluice cottages 
anything very satisfactory would result 
from the effort. As for any one think- 
ing the better of him for it, that never 
entered his head; the poor, such poor as 
his, quiet hard working folk, are slow to 
blame , and slow to praise ; if he had 
stayed away, the milk and the beef-tea 
would have atoned for a great deal, and 
now that he was on his road, nobody 
would say any more than, "there's the 
parson going down to see after poor 

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AT LAST. 263 

Lizzie Parker." There was no human 
look or word to which he could turn for 
the help for which his whole soul was 
crying out . 

He went, nevertheless. And will any 
dare to accuse this man of cowardice, 
because all the time that he paid his 
visit and led dying souls gently as far 
as his voice and touch could lead them, 
there was a fear lurking in his heart? 
That his faith was faltering, it may have 
proved ; I do not deny it ; but which 
among us could be his judge in this 
matter ? And if his faith faltered , his 
love had stood firm . His wife's words 
had been grievous words and had tried 
him very hardly. '^ Not that, Lord, 
only not that !" was the unspoken prayer 
which his heart's anguish sent up all 
that day and the next . He kept away 
from his child, he met his wife's re^ 
preaches with a silence she despised for 

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l.'C4 AT LAST. 

its gentleness. People often said that 
Mr. Martin was not a man of strong 
character ; that he yielded too readily 
to his wife ; that he was easily entreated 
and hard to rouse. They liked him 
generally, but what he said or did was 
little noticed in the neighborhood where 
he made so little stir. It is so over 
and over 'again, and we acknowledge 
sometimes when it is too late, that 
the greatest heroes do not always 
fall in the visible glory of battle, nor the 
noblest martyrs where they are known 
and praised. Frank Martin would have 
laughed in the face of any one who had 
called him a hero. 

And yet — ? 

The third day the baby was taken ill ; 
then came three more days of watching 
and hoping , and at last the giving up 
of all hope and the end . And his wife, 
as he put his arm round her to lead her 

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AT LAST. 265 

away from the little cot , looked up with 
hard dry eyes , and said , 

"Frank, this is your doing." 
Perhaps she was past understanding 
what she was saying , perhaps grief had 
blinded her , for I do not think that any 
woman could have seen the look in his 
face at that moment without melting at 
once into loving comfort. He did not 
answer or even turn from her , he took 
her to her room , and only when she hid 
her face, refusing to see him, did he go 
slowly away, walking along the passages 
g^nd into the garden where the sun was 
still shining, and the pigeons wheeling 
against the blue sky. 

He put his hands before his eyes to 
shut out these things which seemed to 
mock his anguish. His doing. Had God 
indeed made use of the father to slay 
the child ? Must he carry this intoler- 
able thought all his life long? In his 

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bitterness lie asked himself these ques- 
tions^ and that other which lurked behind 
them — ^had it been of any use? He 
could not honestly tell himself that those 
two at the Sluice had died differently 
from what they had lived; no special 
sign had been granted; for aught he 
knew, he might as well have stayed 
away. I do not say that even in this 
moment of agony he repented, or that 
if the alternative had been placed before 
him again,he would have done differently. , 
But it all looked hopeless to him, and 

People who saw Mr. Martin during the 
next week, were not astonished after- 
wards when it was said that he had the 
fever; by-and-bye as the accounts grew 
worse, an amount of sympathy began 
to be manifested which perhaps aston- 
ished the givers. His life among them 

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AT LAST. 267 

had been so quiet and unobtrusive, that 
no one knew how much he was to them, 
how many kind words and actions had 
come from him, until now that this 
sudden check stopped their course. If 
he could have heard of them, the warm 
expressions of sympathy and friendship 
which poured in would have inexpress- 
ibly gladdened his heart. But he did 
not hear. He lay in a state of torpor 
broken onlj'' by an occasional fitful 
gleam of consciousness; and as the days 
passed by it grew only the more apparent 
to those who watched that the end was 
near. Then, day by day, there came a 
little quiet sorrowful crowd, whom no 
one had the heart to send away, a crowd 
that hung about the house, and waited 
hours, if need were, for a word ; old and 
young, children and middle-aged, people 
whom he had loved and prayed for, never 

looking for a return. It had come now, 

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208 AT LAST. 

too late, somebody said crying, the good 
measure, heaped up and running over . 
Was it too late, do you think? Or is it 
not that we talk of the beginning as if 
it were the end, and where God gives us 
an illimitable horizon, set up our own 
boundaries and will not look beyond ? It 
was true that he never saw' his wife's 
grief, when she flung herself on her knees 
by his side, and implored him to forgive 
her, that he never heard how the most 
hardened man at the Sluice, came up and 
begged and prayed that he might be let 
in to look on his face once more ; — but 
none of those who were by him in those 
last hours, could any more think of those 
words , too late, for him. There came 
such a look of satisfaction, of infinite 
peace, that it seemed to hush all their 

"Now I know, even as also I am 

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AT LAST. 260 

These were his last words. 

It seemed to them afterwards, think- 
ing of his broken sentences, that he 
had been trying before to frame them, 
and had failed. Only Death itself had 
brought them forth, clear and triumphant. 

And perhaps it was like the story of 
his life ; like many stories which we do 
not recognise now, though they are 
round about us, struggles, failures, even 
what, to our dull eyes, looks like defeat, 
until a mere perfect light shines upon 
it and us, and at last, — we know. 

F. M. Peard. 




^ N C E more thy hand in mine. 
Forgotten now the years of fear and doubt 
That held my struggling heart within, without ;— 
At length I clasp the sign 

Of life's most perfect whole. 
Through coming time shall breathe but one sweet 
"Never to part", its infinite refrain [strain, 

To bind us soul to soul. 

No language meet I find 
To tell the love-thoughts crowding sense and sight, 
And filling this glad hour with perfumed light ; 

Joy leaves all speech behind. 

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27:-' UNITED. 

For aye thy hand in mine ! 
Yon silver track that on the water lies, 
And links this lower world to starry skies 

With moonlit rays divine, 

Is where thou leadest me. 
I could not reach the high, pure heavens alone ; 
'T is this sweet hand must guide me surely on 

Across Time's fitful sea. 

O endless bliss in store— 
Thy years below, thy long above to share ! 
Love folds us close : and newly chrismed with prayer 

Life glides through Eden's door. 

E. T. II. 



IFE, dear life , precious life, oh what will you 

give for your life? 
Gold, and other men's lives, and labour, and sorrow 

and strife. 
Nothing we deem too great or too costly our 

treasure to save. 
For what shall we be worth when we lay it down 

in the grave? 
Folly J Oh have you not learnt that it has been lent 

you to use it? 
If you shut It up and save it for nought, you will 

but lose it, 
If you grudge the wear and tear, the pain and tears 

and the cost. 
Your death remorse will be that your time and your 

life were lost ; 

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Time lost flrom j'ou for ever, and eteraity not 

Oh ! better wear yourself out, body and mind over- 

Spending your treasure for others, now while you 
have it to spend. 

For though you hoard it, O miser, Death claims it 
all at the end. 

But is this life? this anguish, this painful and fitful 

This knotted and tangled tissue, this shadow of 

things that seem? 
Did the flower live in the seed-pod, before it saw 

the sun. 
And in the crawling worm had the butterfly's life 

Or the bird's in its prison shell, ere he spread his 

wings in flying, 
And is a man's life this, which is not living, but 

Life, true life cannot die ; but the seed which our 

God has sown 
In this earthly field shall blossom in Heaven's pure 

air alone. 



Use, then, unto some profit this that you have to 

Render back to humanity all of it that you may ; 
For you, men live and have died, and the fruit of 

their works you reap, 
Their wealth and knowledge and power are your's, 

but not your's to keep. 

"Every man for himself, and God for us all," have 

men cried ; 
Nay— every man live for all, for Christ for us aU 

has died. 
For country, for truth and right, for knowledge 

will true men fall. 
And they are heroic because their lives are laid down 

for all, 
While some only wear out their strength in silence 

out of sight. 
In the weary daily troubles that cloud the blessed 

But is the sacrifice less if offered up in the dark, 
Less deax the wrung-out life-blood, because there is 

none to mark? 
Will the ransom paid be worthless if only a 

woman's life. 

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The conftlct won, less noble, if a child has borne the 

If a deed of self-surrender and of suffering must 

be done, 
Does it matter if it be for a hundred or for one? 

Yet every man for himself must prove him true in 

his trial, 
Bear his own burden of work, and sorrow and self 

Aye ! every man for Wmself must give his own life 

to men. 
But O with what sm increase shall he have it 

back again I 
For the precious fleeting hours he has given every 

He shall have all eternity, when time has passed 

For the labours that have cost him such bitter tears 

and sighs. 
The strength that knows not weakness, and the 

life that never dies. 
For the heart-wealth he has lavished, receiving 

nought again— 



More than he ever dreamed of love, from angels and 

from men. 
And he shall count as dross the richest treasures he 

has given, 
Beside the golden glory of the Love of God in 


Elizabeth M. Farmar. 

\i FINIS '[\ 

Rome: Italo-American School Press. 

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