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J>^^?3^3o
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I
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|| ||eWh Q](|t]IIt||W](JI
TO THE MEMORY
OP
EMILY BLISS GOULD
oh: 31s< Aug. 1875.
B M E :
ITALO- AMERICAN SCHOOL PRESS, 106 VIA IN ARCiONE.
MDCCOLXXV .
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i. 2. Y ? 3 .• 3
HARVARD COLLE65 UBRARY
FROM
f THE BEQUEST OF
ftVSHT MNSEN WENDELL
1918
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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,
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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
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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
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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.
h&^£^
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1
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\K MEMORIAM
I ^mi\ 4 f^rn |<a»<i8'
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®^^^i^s,
Page
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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C025TENTS.
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
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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,
HOUGHTOK.
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PRiiF^^i.
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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XX PREFACE.
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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PREFACE. XXI
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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XXii PREFACE.
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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PREFACE. XXlll
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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THE PRAYER
OF THE
CHILDREN.
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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XXYl TlIK PRAYER OF THE CHILDREN.
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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THE PBAYER OF THE CHILDREN, XX^'ii
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
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XXViii THE PRAYER OF THE CHILDREN.
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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THOUGHTS MD AFHOBJSMS
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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2 THOUaHTS AKD APHORISMS
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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THOUGHTS AND APHORISMS 3
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
expect.
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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4 THOUGHTS AND APHORISMS
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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THOUOHTS A^D APHORISMS 5
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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6 THOUGHTS AND APHORISMS
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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THOUGHTS AND APHORISMS 7
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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CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.
'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.
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10 CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS
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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CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. II
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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BEENAEDO NOSTEO,
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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U BERNARDO KOSTRO
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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BERKAKDO NOSTRO. 15
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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16 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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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BERNARDO N08TR0. 17
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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18 BERNARDO NOSTRQ.
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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BEKNARDO NOSTRO. 10
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
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
20 BERNARDO KOSTR^
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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BERNARDO NOSTRO. 21
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
22 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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
Rome.
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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BEllXARDO NOSTRO. 23
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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24 BEBNARDO NOSTRa
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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20 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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
BERNARDO NOSTRO. 27
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
grape-juice".
" 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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28 BERNARDO NOSTRA
"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
jitized by Google
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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30 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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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BERNARDO NOSTRO. 31
^^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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82 BERNARDO KOSTRO.
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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BERNARDO NOSTRO. 38
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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34 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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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BERNARDO NOSTRO. '35
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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86 BEBNAKDO NOSTlWSfe
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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BERNARDO NOSTRO. S7
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
celebrating.
**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?"
Digitized by VjOOQIC
38 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
"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*
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
BEKNARDO NOSTRO. 39
"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.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
40 BERNARDO NOSTRO-
"Nay; it is not my wont, or my place
to be censorious, " says Colocci, with a
tolerant shrug, and raising of the eye-
brows.
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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BEKNARBO NOSTRO. 41
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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42 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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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BERNARDO NOSTRO. 4.4
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
Bernardo.
"Perhaps His Eminence of Florence
"the Cardinal of Medici, (*) returns
Colocci, with a sly smile.
(♦) Who afterwards in 1523, became Pope
Glement the seventh.
dbyGoOgk
44 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
^'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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BfiBNARDO NOSTRO. 4«
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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40 BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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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BERNARDO NOSTRO. 47
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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4« BERNARDO NOSTRO.
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.
dbyGoogk
ROME-SICKNESS.
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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50 ROME-SICKNESS.
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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ROME-SICKNESS. 61
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.
dbyGoogk
dbyGoogk
PEOGRESSIVE STEPS OF
POPULAR EDUCATION.
A PIONEER WORKING SCHOOL,
by WILLIAM HO WITT.
||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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54 PROGRESSIVE STEPS OF
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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POPULAR EDUCATION ETC. 55
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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r,6 PROGRESSIVE STEPS OF
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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58 rHOGRESSlVE STEPS OF
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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fiO PllOGRESSIVE STEPS OP
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
Scriptures.
Much and warm controversy arose
betwixt the respective adherents of
Bell and Lancaster, as to the priority
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POrULAR EDUCATION ETC. (il
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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02 PROGRESSIVE STEPS OF
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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POPULAR EDUCATION ETC. 63
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'
letters.
Admiral Baine, therefore, opened a
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POPULAR EDUCATION ETC. 05
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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HG PROGRESSIVE STEPS OF
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-
formation.
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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POPULAR EDUCATION ETC. C7
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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G8 PROGRESSIVE STEPS OF
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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POPULAR EDUCATION EtC. GI>
^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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70 ' PROGKESSIVE STEPS OF
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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POPULAR EDUCATION ETC. 71
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
end.
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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72 PROGRESSIVE STEPS OF
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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74 PKOGKESSIVE STEPS OF
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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78 1»R0GRESSIVE STEPS OF
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
F
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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-
ledge.
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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
beings.
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,
dbyGoogk
IN SEVEN DIALS.
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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SG IN SEVEN DIALS. ♦
"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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IN SEVEN DIALS. 87
*'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,
dbyGoogk
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THE HECTOIIT HOUSE.
|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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X>0 THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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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THE RECTORY HOUSE. 91
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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02 THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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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THE KECTORY HOtJiSE. 93
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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94 THE RECTOKY HOUSE.
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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THE HECTORY IIOCSE. 95
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
household.
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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9G THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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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THE RECTORY HOUSE. 1)7
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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98 THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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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THE RECTORY HOUSE, 99
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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100 THE KECTORY HOUSE.
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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THE RECTORY HOUSE. 101
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
_.ditizedbyG00gk
102 THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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
THE RECTORY HOUSE. 103
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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104 THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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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106 THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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
TDE RECTORY HOUSE. 107
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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108 THE BECTORY HOUSE.
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 RECTORY HOUSE. 1(W
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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no THE RECTORY HOUSE.
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 liECTORY HOUSE. lU
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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112 THE nECTORY HOUSE.
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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THE RECTORY HOUSE. 113
wiping his forehead on which the per-
spiration stood thickly, said hoarsely
'- Helen , what was that ? "
"Ah! "I cried, "Then you saw it
too?"
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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114 THE RECTORY HOUSlf.
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.
dbyGoogk
SONG.
' 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.
dbyGoogk
UG SONG.
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.
dbyGoogk
SOMETHING NEW!
[A little hcturefor lively ladies."]
I.
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!"
II.
Yet many novelties, I ween ,
Diversify this lower scene ,
gnjerging on the view t
dbyGoogk
118 SOMETHING NEW.
While ever, o*er each earthly things,
A languor spreads its dusky wing,
We sigh for ^^ Something New ! "
III.
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.
dbyGoogk
TREASURES OF AUT
LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME.
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
gk
120 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 121
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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122 TREASUKES OF ABT
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 12S
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
aware,
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124 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND EECOVERED IN ROME. I2<J
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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126 TBEASUBES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 12f
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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128 TREASURES OJ* ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 120
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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180 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME, m
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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132 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 133
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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134 TBEASURES OF ABT
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 135
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
130 TREASURES OF ART'
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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LOST ATH) RECOVERED IN ROME, l^
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.
dbyGoOgk
188 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 139
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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140 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IK ROME. 141
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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142 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 14^
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
Corinth
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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IW TREASUSES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 145
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-
dite.
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
14G TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 147
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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148 TREASURES OF ART
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.)
dbyGoOgk
LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 149
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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150 TREASURES OF ART
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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LOST AND RECOVERED IN ROME. 151
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.
dbyGoogk
dbyGoogk
ODE
TO MY PIPE.
I.
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
II.
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 !
III.
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.
dbyGoogk
MA CHE!
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.
dbyGoogk
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*
dbyGoogk
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THE ST0R7 OP HIM WHO
WORE THE WREATH .
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,
ditized by Google
^l60 THE StOKY OF EftM WHO
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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WORE THE WREATH. 161
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
Digitized by feOOglC
162 THE STOKY OF HIM WHO
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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WORE THE WREATH. 163
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-
ditized by Google
164 THE SYORY OF mM WHO
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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WORE THE WREATH. 165
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
166 THfi STORY OS HIM WHO
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
jitized by Google
WORE THE WREATH. 167
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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168 THE STORY OF HIM WHO
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
ditized by Google
WORE THE WREATH 169
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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170 THE STORY OF filM WHO
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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WORE THE WREATH. 171
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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172 THE STORY OF HIM WHO
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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WORE THE WREATH. 17JJ
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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154 THE STORY OF HIM WHO
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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WORE THE WREATH. 175
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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dbyGoogk
UN EDITCATORE ITALIANO
DEL SECOLO XV.
I
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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178 UK EBtCATOKE ITALIANO
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
DEL SECOLO xV. 179
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
1»0 UN EDUCATORE ITALIAXO
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
^gl^
182 UN EDUCATORE ITALIANO
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.
_ditized by Google
184 UN EDUCATORE ITALIANO
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^
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
186 UN EDUCATORE ITALIANO etc.
primo a trovare le norme ed i principii
della buona pedagogia ; ma invece di esporli
in un trattato, li mostr6 applicati in una
scuola.
P. Villari.
dbyGoogk
AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS.
, 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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188 AX IDYL OF LONDON STREETS.
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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AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. ISO
**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
lyo AN IBTL OP LONDON STREETS.
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
AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 191
**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
192 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS.
*'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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AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. lUiJ
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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1U4 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS.
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
dbyGoogk
AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 195
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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196 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS.
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
dbyGoogk
AN IDYL OF LONDON STBEETS. 197
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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198 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS.
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 ;
_.ditized by Google
AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 199.
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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200 AN IDYL OF LONDON STBEETS.
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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AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 201
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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202 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS.
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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AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 203
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,
dbyGoogk
dbyGoogk
MISS JONES
By AUNT FRIENDLY.
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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206 MISS JONES.
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. 207
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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208 MISS JONES.
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. 209
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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210 MISS JOKES.
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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MISS JONES. 211
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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212 MISS JONES.
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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MISS JONES, 213
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
ditized by Google
2U MISS JONES.
moment at Vittorio . He was in a
fret about a book he was to get at the
library.
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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MISS JONES. 215
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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216 MISS JONES:
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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MISS JONES: 217
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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MISS JONES. 21d
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
access.
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
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
220 MISS JONES.
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
heart.
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.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
THE COURSE OF TIME,
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.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
dbyGoogk
NOTHING MORE.
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 }
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
224 NOTHING MORE.
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
score.
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 ; ]
dbyGoogk
NOTHING MORE. 225
*'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
tapping
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
floor,
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 ;
^o
dbyGoogk
22(; NOTHING MORE.
Fast my heart began to flutter, as these words I
heard him utter,
As he sulkily surveyed me from his station near the
door,
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
o'er.
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.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
NOTHING MORE. 227
''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
implore,
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
afore.
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,
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
228 NOTHING MORE.
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.
dbyGoogk
A VISIT TO GENAZZANO
^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
jitized by Google
280 A VISIT TO GENAZZANO.
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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A VISIT TO GENAZZANO. 231
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
_^ Google
232 A VISIT TO GENAZZAXO.
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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A VISIT TO GENAZZANO. 233
" 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
ditized by Google
2»4 A VISIT TO GENAZZANO.
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 VISIT TO GENAZZAKO. 235
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
aqueduct.
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
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
236 A VISIT TO GENAZZANO.
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
world.
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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A VISIT TO GENAZZANO. 237
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
jitized by Google
238 A VISIT TO GENA2ZAN0.
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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A VISIT TO GENAZZANO. 23^
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
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
240 A VISIT TO GENA2ZAN0.
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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A VISIT TO QENAZZANO. 241
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
Digitized by VjCJOQ IC
242 A VISIT TO GENAZZANO.
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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A VISIT TO GENAZZANO. 248
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
unmoved.
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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244 A VISIT TO GENAZZANO.
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-
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
A VISIT TO GENAZZANO. 246
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.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
246 A VISIT TO GENAZZANO.
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.
_.ditizedbyG00gk
A VISIT TO GENAZZANO. 247
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-
ditized by Google
'Jin A VISIT TO GENAZZANO.
vided, to which we did full justice, and
then we retired to bed, weary, but
delighted with our pleasant visit to
Genazzano .
W. Davies.
London.
February, 1875.
dbyGoOgk
THE OPEN CASEMENT.
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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260 THE OPEN CASEMENT.
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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THE OPEN CASEMEI^T. 251
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.
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252 THE OPEN CASEMENT.
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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THE OPEN CASEMENT. 253
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.
dbyGoogk
dbyGoogk
AT LAST.
( 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
her.
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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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2G0 AT LAST.
"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 —
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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 ,
"Joanna!"
"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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2GG AT LAST.
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
dreary.
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
regrets.
"Now I know, even as also I am
known."
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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.
dbyGoogk
dbyGoogk
UNITED.
^ 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.
dbyGoogk
THIS LIFE.
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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274 THIS LIFE.
Time lost flrom j'ou for ever, and eteraity not
gained—
Oh ! better wear yourself out, body and mind over-
strained.
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
dream,
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
begun?
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
dying?
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.
dbyGoogk
THIS LIFE. 275
Use, then, unto some profit this that you have to
day,
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
light;
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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276 THIS LIFE.
The conftlct won, less noble, if a child has borne the
strife?
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
denial.
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
day,
He shall have all eternity, when time has passed
away.
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—
dbyGoogk
THIS LIFE. 277
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
Heaven.
Elizabeth M. Farmar.
\i FINIS '[\
Rome: Italo-American School Press.
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dbyGoogk
dbyGoogk
20
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